book xiii

. l. 337.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this edition (1840). See p. 37.--Ed.[Footnote D of 'Descriptive Sketches', the preceding poem in this text.]]

[Footnote C: From a short MS. poem read to me when an under-graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young.--W. W. 1842.

Charles Farish was the author of 'The Minstrels of Winandermere'.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Compare Milton's "grinding sword," 'Paradise Lost', vi. l. 329.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE

[Sub-Footnote i: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.--W. W. 1798.]

* * * * *

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING [A] A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT

Composed 1795.--Published 1798

[Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks above the peninsula on which the Ferry House [B] stands. This property afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr. Curwen. The site was long ago pointed out by Mr. West, in his 'Guide', as the pride of the Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station." So much used I to be delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these notes.--I. F.]

* * * * *

From 1815 to 1843 these 'Lines' were placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." In 1845, they were classed among "Poems written in Youth."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? [1] Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 5 That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged Tree [2] 10 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, [3] I well remember.--He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 15 A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,--against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20 Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, [4] And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25 His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: [5] And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, [6] Fixing his downcast [7] eye, he many an hour 30 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,--how lovely 'tis Thou seest,--and he would gaze till it became 35 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, When nature had subdued him to herself, [8] Would he forget those Beings to whose minds Warm from the labours of benevolence 40 The world, and human life, [9] appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think [10] that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! On visionary views would fancy feed, 45 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died,--this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 50 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55 Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60 True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.

* * * * *

The place where this Yew-tree stood may be found without difficulty. It was about three-quarters of a mile from Hawkshead, on the eastern shore of the lake, a little to the left above the present highway, as one goes towards Sawrey. Mr. Bowman, the son of Wordsworth's last teacher at the grammar-school of Hawkshead, told me that it stood about forty yards nearer the village than the yew which is now on the roadside, and is sometimes called "Wordsworth's Yew." In the poet's school-days the road passed right through the unenclosed common, and the tree was a conspicuous object. It was removed, he says, owing to the popular belief that its leaves were poisonous, and might injure the cattle grazing in the common. The present tree is erroneously called "Wordsworth's Yew." Its proximity to the place where the tree of the poem stood has given rise to the local tradition.--Ed.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1832.

What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1800.

Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1802.

... In youth, by genius nurs'd, And big with lofty views, he to the world Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped At once, with rash disdain he turned away, 1798.

... The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service: he was like a plant Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds, But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by, Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once, With indignation did he turn away 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1798.

The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird Piping along the margin of the lake; 1815.

The text of 1820 returned to that of 1798. [i]]

[Variant 6:

1820.

And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er. 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1800.

... downward [ii] ... 1798.]

[Variant 8: This line was added by S. T. C. in the edition of 1800.]

[Variant 9:

1827.

... and man himself, ... 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1836.

With mournful joy, to think ... 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Yet commanding, 1798-1805.]

[Footnote B: The Ferry on Windermere.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTES TO THE VARIANTS

[Sub-Footnote i: The final retention of the reading of 1798 was probably due to a remark of Charles Lamb's, in 1815, in which he objected to the loss of the "admirable line" in the first edition, "a line quite alive," he called it. Future generations may doubt whether the reading of 1798, or that of 1815, is the better.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote ii: An emendation by S. T. C.--Ed.]

* * * * *

THE BORDERERS

A TRAGEDY

Composed 1795-6.--Published 1842

Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, [A] which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.

February 28, 1842. [B]

This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of 'The Borderers' was composed. [C]

* * * * *

[Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read Redpath's 'History of the Borders', but found there nothing to my purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of 'Remorse'; and it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr. Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays, and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself, I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no disappointment when the piece was _judiciously_ returned as not calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as is well known, brought forward several years after, through the kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the apparently 'motiveless' actions of bad men intelligible to careful observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of the changes through which the French Revolution passed.--I. F.]

'The Borderers' was first published in the 1842 edition of "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years." In 1845, it was placed in the class of "Poems written in Youth."--Ed.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

MARMADUKE. \ OSWALD. | WALLACE. |- Of the Band of LACY. | Borderers. LENNOX. | HERBERT. /

WILFRED, Servant to MARMADUKE. Host. Forester. ELDRED, a Peasant. Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.

IDONEA. Female Beggar. ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED.

SCENE--Borders of England and Scotland

TIME--The Reign of Henry III.

## ACT I

SCENE--Road in a Wood

WALLACE and LACY

LACY The Troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. ---Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service.

WALLACE Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, Companionship with One of crooked ways, From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.

LACY True; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain.

WALLACE I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him--then a Voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine?

LACY Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; Let us begone--the Band may else be foiled.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED]

WILFRED Be cautious, my dear Master!

MARMADUKE I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm.

WILFRED Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is--

MARMADUKE Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?

WILFRED You know that you have saved his life.

MARMADUKE I know it.

WILFRED And that he hates you!--Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty.

MARMADUKE Fy! no more of it.

WILFRED Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul.--Nobody loves this Oswald-- Yourself, you do not love him.

MARMADUKE I do more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience Has given him power to teach: and then for courage And enterprise--what perils hath he shunned? What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest.

WILFRED Oh, Sir!

MARMADUKE Peace, my good Wilfred; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.

WILFRED May He whose eye is over all protect you!

[Exit.]

[Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand)]

OSWALD This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.

MARMADUKE (looking at them) The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: Which is your favorite, Oswald?

OSWALD That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal-- [Looking forward.] Not yet in sight!--We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.

MARMADUKE (a letter in his hand) It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald; 'Tis a strange letter this!--You saw her write it?

OSWALD And saw the tears with which she blotted it.

MARMADUKE And nothing less would satisfy him?

OSWALD No less; For that another in his Child's affection Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours, Which you've collected for the noblest ends, Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the Innocent--he calls us "Outlaws"; And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed.

MARMADUKE Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is.

OSWALD Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed.

MARMADUKE This day will suffice To end her wrongs.

OSWALD But if the blind Man's tale Should _yet_ be true?

MARMADUKE Would it were possible! Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, And others who survived the wreck, beheld The Baron Herbert perish in the waves Upon the coast of Cyprus?

OSWALD Yes, even so, And I had heard the like before: in sooth The tale of this his quondam Barony Is cunningly devised; and, on the back Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail To make the proud and vain his tributaries, And stir the pulse of lazy charity. The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much The Arch-Impostor--

MARMADUKE Treat him gently, Oswald: Though I have never seen his face, methinks, There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a Boy Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, Till all the band of play-mates wept together; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years, An image of this old Man still was present, When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken.

OSWALD See, they come, Two Travellers!

MARMADUKE (points) The woman [1] is Idonea.

OSWALD And leading Herbert.

MARMADUKE We must let them pass-- This thicket will conceal us.

[They step aside.]

[Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind.]

IDONEA Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled.

HERBERT Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine.

IDONEA That dismal Moor-- In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily _You_ paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!-- I thought the Convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us: and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods-- A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,-- That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength;--come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There--indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank.

[He sits down.]

HERBERT (after some time) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause.

IDONEA Do not reproach me: I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, Those eyeballs dark--dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give.

HERBERT Nay, be composed: Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate--my grave, And thee, my Child!

IDONEA Believe me, honoured Sire! 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature--

HERBERT I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning.--The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone?

IDONEA Is he not strong? Is he not valiant?

HERBERT Am I then so soon Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child; Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed-- This Marmaduke--

IDONEA O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul, Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.

HERBERT Unhappy Woman!

IDONEA Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak; but think not I forget-- Dear Father! how _could_ I forget and live-- You and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.

HERBERT Thy Mother too!--scarce had I gained the door, I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms; She saw my blasted face--a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.

IDONEA Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.

HERBERT Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time-- For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted us to Rossland,--there, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger To take thee to her home--and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell.--For many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion. I did not think that, during that long absence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both.

IDONEA Oh, could you hear his voice! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.

[Enter a Peasant]

PEASANT Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you!

IDONEA My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome.

PEASANT Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with travel--shall I support you?

HERBERT I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you.

PEASANT God speed you both.

[Exit Peasant.]

HERBERT Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed-- 'Tis but for a few days--a thought has struck me.

IDONEA That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.

[Exit HERBERT supported by IDONEA.]

[Re-enter MARMADUKE and OSWALD]

MARMADUKE This instant will we stop him--

OSWALD Be not hasty, For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, He tempted me to think the Story true; 'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said That savoured of aversion to thy name Appeared the genuine colour of his soul-- Anxiety lest mischief should befal her After his death.

MARMADUKE I have been much deceived.

OSWALD But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, Thus to torment her with _inventions!_--death-- There must be truth in this.

MARMADUKE Truth in his story! He must have felt it then, known what it was, And in such wise to rack her gentle heart Had been a tenfold cruelty.

OSWALD Strange pleasures Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves! To see him thus provoke her tenderness With tales of weakness and infirmity! I'd wager on his life for twenty years.

MARMADUKE We will not waste an hour in such a cause.

OSWALD Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.

MARMADUKE Her virtues are his instruments.--A Man Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child--what! leave her thus, A prey to a deceiver?--no--no--no-- 'Tis but a word and then--

OSWALD Something is here More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales Have reached his ear--you have had enemies.

MARMADUKE Enemies!--of his own coinage.

OSWALD That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.-- I am perplexed.

MARMADUKE What hast thou heard or seen?

OSWALD No--no--the thing stands clear of mystery; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With which he taints her ear;--for a plain reason; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain: It cannot be--

MARMADUKE What cannot be?

OSWALD Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child--

MARMADUKE Nay, you abuse my friendship!

OSWALD Heaven forbid!-- There was a circumstance, trifling indeed-- It struck me at the time--yet I believe I never should have thought of it again But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed.

MARMADUKE What is your meaning?

OSWALD Two days gone I saw, Though at a distance and he was disguised, Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure Resembled much that cold voluptuary, The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest.

MARMADUKE Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door-- It could not be.

OSWALD And yet I now remember, That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, And the blind Man was told how you had rescued A maiden from the ruffian violence Of this same Clifford, he became impatient And would not hear me.

MARMADUKE No--it cannot be-- I dare not trust myself with such a thought-- Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man Not used to rash conjectures--

OSWALD If you deem it A thing worth further notice, we must act With caution, sift the matter artfully.

[Exeunt MARMADUKE and OSWALD.]

SCENE--The door of the Hostel

HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host

HERBERT (seated) As I am dear to you, remember, Child! This last request.

IDONEA You know me, Sire; farewell!

HERBERT And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part,--I have measured many a league When these old limbs had need of rest,--and now I will not play the sluggard.

IDONEA Nay, sit down. [Turning to Host. Good Host, such tendance as you would expect From your own Children, if yourself were sick, Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader, [_Looking at the dog_. We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!--Look, The little fool is loth to stay behind. Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy, Take care of him, and feed the truant well.

HOST Fear not, I will obey you;--but One so young, And One so fair, it goes against my heart That you should travel unattended, Lady!-- I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?) And for less fee than I would let him run For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.

IDONEA You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, A look of mine would send him scouring back, Unless I differ from the thing I am When you are by my side.

HERBERT Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears.

IDONEA No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back--protect him, Saints--farewell!

[Exit IDONEA.]

HOST 'Tis never drought with us--St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort: Pity the Maiden did not wait awhile; She could not, Sir, have failed of company.

HERBERT Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.

HOST (calling) Holla!

HERBERT No, no, the business must be done.-- What means this riotous noise?

HOST The villagers Are flocking in--a wedding festival-- That's all--God save you, Sir.

[Enter OSWALD]

OSWALD Ha! as I live, The Baron Herbert.

HOST Mercy, the Baron Herbert!

OSWALD So far into your journey! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you?

HERBERT Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir?

OSWALD I do not see Idonea.

HERBERT Dutiful Girl, She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither?

OSWALD A slight affair, That will be soon despatched.

HERBERT Did Marmaduke Receive that letter?

OSWALD Be at peace.--The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of _him_.

HERBERT This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times!-- That noise!--would I had gone with her as far As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard That, in his milder moods, he has expressed Compassion for me. His influence is great With Henry, our good King;--the Baron might Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. No matter--he's a dangerous Man.--That noise!-- 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. Idonea would have fears for me,--the Convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host, And he must lead me back.

OSWALD You are most lucky; I have been waiting in the wood hard by For a companion--here he comes; our journey [Enter MARMADUKE] Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.

HERBERT Alas! I creep so slowly.

OSWALD Never fear; We'll not complain of that.

HERBERT My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour?

OSWALD Most willingly!--Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm.

[Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE.]

[Enter Villagers]

OSWALD (to himself, coming out of the Hostel) I have prepared a most apt Instrument-- The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled, By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires.

[Exit OSWALD.]

[Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them]

HOST (to them) Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, Are here, to send the sun into the west More speedily than you belike would wish.

## SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel--

[MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering]

MARMADUKE I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: When first I saw him sitting there, alone, It struck upon my heart I know not how.

OSWALD To-day will clear up all.--You marked a Cottage, That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock By the brook-side: it is the abode of One, A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas! What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, Nor moves her hands to any needful work: She eats her food which every day the peasants Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice; But every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one-- She paces round and round an Infant's grave, And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep-- Ah! [1] what is here?

[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep--a Child in her arms.]

BEGGAR O Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature.--My poor Babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him; whereupon, I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: When, into one of those same spotted bells A bee came darting, which the Child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, And suddenly grew black, as he would die.

MARMADUKE We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip; Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money.]

BEGGAR The Saints reward you For this good deed!--Well, Sirs, this passed away; And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, Trotting alone along the beaten road, Came to my child as by my side he slept And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head: But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have been a dream.

OSWALD When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, And put your head, good Woman, under cover.

BEGGAR Oh, Sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew What life is this of ours, how sleep will master The weary-worn.--You gentlefolk have got Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be A stone than what I am.--But two nights gone, The darkness overtook me--wind and rain Beat hard upon my head--and yet I saw A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: At which I half accused the God in Heaven.-- You must forgive me.

OSWALD Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint--no matter--this good day Has made amends.

BEGGAR Thanks to you both; but, Oh Sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust.

MARMADUKE This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes?

BEGGAR Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one--it cuts me to the heart-- Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: This they can do, and look upon my face-- But you, Sir, should be kinder.

MARMADUKE Come hither, Fathers, And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch!

BEGGAR Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. Why now--but yesterday I overtook A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass He should have used me better!--Charity! If you can melt a rock, he is your man; But I'll be even with him--here again Have I been waiting for him.

OSWALD Well, but softly, Who is it that hath wronged you?

BEGGAR Mark you me; I'll point him out;--a Maiden is his guide, Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog, Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur, I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth He does his Master credit.

MARMADUKE As I live, 'Tis Herbert and no other!

BEGGAR 'Tis a feast to see him, Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, And long beard white with age--yet evermore, As if he were the only Saint on earth, He turns his face to heaven.

OSWALD But why so violent Against this venerable Man?

BEGGAR I'll tell you: He has the very hardest heart on earth; I had as lief turn to the Friar's school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday.

MARMADUKE But to your story.

BEGGAR I was saying, Sir-- Well!--he has often spurned me like a toad, But yesterday was worse than all;--at last I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, And begged a little aid for charity: But he was snappish as a cottage cur. Well then, says I--I'll out with it; at which I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt As if my heart would burst; and so I left him.

OSWALD I think, good Woman, you are the very person Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert's door.

BEGGAR Ay; and if truth were known I have good business there.

OSWALD I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry.

BEGGAR Angry! well he might; And long as I can stir I'll dog him.--Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes The best of all he has to me and mine. But 'tis all over now.--That good old Lady Has left a power of riches; and I say it, If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half.

OSWALD What's this?--I fear, good Woman, You have been insolent.

BEGGAR And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress.

OSWALD How say you? in disguise?--

MARMADUKE But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter?

BEGGAR Daughter! truly-- But how's the day?--I fear, my little Boy, We've overslept ourselves.--Sirs, have you seen him? [Offers to go.]

MARMADUKE I must have more of this;--you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert?

BEGGAR You are provoked, And will misuse me, Sir!

MARMADUKE No trifling, Woman!--

OSWALD You are as safe as in a sanctuary; Speak.

MARMADUKE Speak!

BEGGAR He is a most hard-hearted Man.

MARMADUKE Your life is at my mercy.

BEGGAR Do not harm me, And I will tell you all!--You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor.

OSWALD Speak out.

BEGGAR O Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.

OSWALD Nay, but speak out!

BEGGAR He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both; and so, I parted with the Child.

MARMADUKE Parted with whom? [3]

BEGGAR Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl Is mine.

MARMADUKE Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife?

BEGGAR Wife, Sir! his wife--not I; my husband, Sir, Was of Kirkoswald--many a snowy winter We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred! He has been two years in his grave.

MARMADUKE Enough.

OSWALD We've solved the riddle--Miscreant!

MARMADUKE Do you, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait For my return; be sure you shall have justice.

OSWALD A lucky woman!--go, you have done good service. [Aside.]

MARMADUKE (to himself) Eternal praises on the power that saved her!--

OSWALD (gives her money) Here's for your little boy--and when you christen him I'll be his Godfather.

BEGGAR O Sir, you are merry with me. In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns A dog that does not know me.--These good Folks, For love of God, I must not pass their doors; But I'll be back with my best speed: for you-- God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters.

[Exit Beggar.]

MARMADUKE (to himself) The cruel Viper!--Poor devoted Maid, Now I _do_ love thee.

OSWALD I am thunderstruck.

MARMADUKE Where is she--holla! [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.] You are Idonea's Mother?-- Nay, be not terrified--it does me good To look upon you.

OSWALD (interrupting) In a peasant's dress You saw, who was it?

BEGGAR Nay, I dare not speak; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more.

OSWALD Lord Clifford?

BEGGAR What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter.

OSWALD Lord Clifford--did you see him talk with Herbert?

BEGGAR Yes, to my sorrow--under the great oak At Herbert's door--and when he stood beside The blind Man--at the silent Girl he looked With such a look--it makes me tremble, Sir, To think of it.

OSWALD Enough! you may depart.

MARMADUKE (to himself) Father!--to God himself we cannot give A holier name; and, under such a mask, To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, To that abhorrèd den of brutish vice!-- Oswald, the firm foundation of my life Is going from under me; these strange discoveries-- Looked at from every point of fear or hope, Duty, or love--involve, I feel, my ruin.

## ACT II

SCENE--A Chamber in the Hostel--OSWALD alone, rising from a Table on which he had been writing.

OSWALD They chose _him_ for their Chief!--what covert part He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take, I neither know nor care. The insult bred More of contempt than hatred; both are flown; That either e'er existed is my shame: 'Twas a dull spark--a most unnatural fire That died the moment the air breathed upon it. --These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter That haunt some barren island of the north, Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand, They think it is to feed them. I have left him To solitary meditation;--now For a few swelling phrases, and a flash Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, And he is mine for ever--here he comes.

[Enter MARMADUKE.]

MARMADUKE These ten years she has moved her lips all day And never speaks!

OSWALD Who is it?

MARMADUKE I have seen her.

OSWALD Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness.

MARMADUKE I met a peasant near the spot; he told me, These ten years she had sate all day alone Within those empty walls.

OSWALD I too have seen her; Chancing to pass this way some six months gone, At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard: The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round Upon the self-same spot, still round and round, Her lips for ever moving.

MARMADUKE At her door Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman, I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea.

OSWALD But the pretended Father--

MARMADUKE Earthly law Measures not crimes like his.

OSWALD _We_ rank not, happily, With those who take the spirit of their rule From that soft class of devotees who feel Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea Were present, to the end that we might hear What she can urge in his defence; she loves him.

MARMADUKE Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that multiplies His guilt a thousand-fold.

OSWALD 'Tis most perplexing: What must be done?

MARMADUKE We will conduct her hither; These walls shall witness it--from first to last He shall reveal himself.

OSWALD Happy are we, Who live in these disputed tracts, that own No law but what each man makes for himself; Here justice has indeed a field of triumph.

MARMADUKE Let us begone and bring her hither;--here The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved Before her face. The rest be left to me.

OSWALD You will be firm: but though we well may trust The issue to the justice of the cause, Caution must not be flung aside; remember, Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here, Upon these savage confines, we have seen you Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy seas That oft have checked their fury at your bidding. 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy waste, Your single virtue has transformed a Band Of fierce barbarians into Ministers Of peace and order. Aged men with tears Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire For shelter to their banners. But it is, As you must needs have deeply felt, it is In darkness and in tempest that we seek The majesty of Him who rules the world. Benevolence, that has not heart to use The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, Becomes at last weak and contemptible. Your generous qualities have won due praise, But vigorous Spirits look for something more Than Youth's spontaneous products; and to-day You will not disappoint them; and hereafter--

MARMADUKE You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all: You are a Man--and therefore, if compassion, Which to our kind is natural as life, Be known unto you, you will love this Woman, Even as I do; but I should loathe the light, If I could think one weak or partial feeling--

OSWALD You will forgive me--

MARMADUKE If I ever knew My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 'Tis at this moment.--Oswald, I have loved To be the friend and father of the oppressed, A comforter of sorrow;--there is something Which looks like a transition in my soul, And yet it is not.--Let us lead him hither.

OSWALD Stoop for a moment; 'tis an act of justice; And where's the triumph if the delegate Must fall in the execution of his office? The deed is done--if you will have it so-- Here where we stand--that tribe of vulgar wretches (You saw them gathering for the festival) Rush in--the villains seize us--

MARMADUKE Seize!

OSWALD Yes, they-- Men who are little given to sift and weigh-- Would wreak on us the passion of the moment.

MARMADUKE The cloud will soon disperse--farewell--but stay, Thou wilt relate the story.

OSWALD Am I neither To bear a part in this Man's punishment, Nor be its witness?

MARMADUKE I had many hopes That were most dear to me, and some will bear To be transferred to thee.

OSWALD When I'm dishonoured!

MARMADUKE I would preserve thee. How may this be done?

OSWALD By showing that you look beyond the instant. A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, And nowhere upon earth is place so fit To look upon the deed. Before we enter The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft Has held infernal orgies--with the gloom, And very superstition of the place, Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits Of this mock Father's guilt.

[Enter Host conducting HERBERT.]

HOST The Baron Herbert Attends your pleasure.

OSWALD (to Host) We are ready-- (to HERBERT) Sir! I hope you are refreshed.--I have just written A notice for your Daughter, that she may know What is become of you.--You'll sit down and sign it; 'Twill glad her heart to see her father's signature. [Gives the letter he had written.]

HERBERT Thanks for your care.

[Sits down and writes. Exit Host.]

OSWALD (aside to MARMADUKE) Perhaps it would be useful That you too should subscribe your name. [MARMADUKE overlooks HERBERT--then writes--examines the letter eagerly.]

MARMADUKE I cannot leave this paper.

[He puts it up, agitated.]

OSWALD (aside) Dastard! Come.

[MARMADUKE goes towards HERBERT and supports him--MARMADUKE tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take his place.]

MARMADUKE (as he quits HERBERT) There is a palsy in his limbs--he shakes.

[Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT--MARMADUKE following.]

## SCENE changes to a Wood--a Group of Pilgrims, and IDONEA with them.

FIRST PILGRIM A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw.

SECOND PILGRIM The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves.

OLD PILGRIM This news! It made my heart leap up with joy.

IDONEA I scarcely can believe it.

OLD PILGRIM Myself, I heard The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter Which purported it was the royal pleasure The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady, Filled my dim eyes with tears.--When I returned From Palestine, and brought with me a heart, Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort, I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast: He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy; but grieved He was that One so young should pass his youth In such sad service; and he parted with him. We joined our tales of wretchedness together, And begged our daily bread from door to door. I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady! For once you loved me.

IDONEA You shall back with me And see your Friend again. The good old Man Will be rejoiced to greet you.

OLD PILGRIM It seems but yesterday That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with travel, In a deep wood remote from any town. A cave that opened to the road presented A friendly shelter, and we entered in.

IDONEA And I was with you?

OLD PILGRIM If indeed 'twas you-- But you were then a tottering Little-one-- We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker: I struck my flint, and built up a small fire With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds Of many autumns in the cave had piled. Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods; Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth And we were comforted, and talked of comfort; But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads The thunder rolled in peals that would have made A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. O Lady, you have need to love your Father. His voice--methinks I hear it now, his voice When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, He said to me, that he had seen his Child, A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) Revealed by lustre brought with it from heaven; And it was you, dear Lady!

IDONEA God be praised, That I have been his comforter till now! And will be so through every change of fortune And every sacrifice his peace requires.-- Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear These joyful tidings from no lips but mine.

[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.]

SCENE--The Area of a half-ruined Castle--on one side the entrance to a dungeon--OSWALD and MARMADUKE pacing backwards and forwards.

MARMADUKE 'Tis a wild night.

OSWALD I'd give my cloak and bonnet For sight of a warm fire.

MARMADUKE The wind blows keen; My hands are numb.

OSWALD Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. [Blowing his fingers.] I long for news of our brave Comrades; Lacy Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed.

MARMADUKE I think I see a second range of Towers; This castle has another Area--come, Let us examine it.

OSWALD 'Tis a bitter night; I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman, Who at full speed swept by us where the wood Roared in the tempest, was within an ace Of sending to his grave our precious Charge: That would have been a vile mischance.

MARMADUKE It would.

OSWALD Justice had been most cruelly defrauded.

MARMADUKE Most cruelly.

OSWALD As up the steep we clomb, I saw a distant fire in the north-east; I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon: With proper speed our quarters may be gained To-morrow evening.

[He looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.]

MARMADUKE When, upon the plank, I had led him 'cross [4] the torrent, his voice blessed me: You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks With deafening noise,--the benediction fell Back on himself; but changed into a curse.

OSWALD As well indeed it might.

MARMADUKE And this you deem The fittest place?

OSWALD (aside) He is growing pitiful.

MARMADUKE (listening) What an odd moaning that is!--

OSWALD. Mighty odd The wind should pipe a little, while we stand Cooling our heels in this way!--I'll begin And count the stars.

MARMADUKE (still listening) That dog of his, you are sure, Could not come after us--he _must_ have perished; The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. You said you did not like his looks--that he Would trouble us; if he were here again, I swear the sight of him would quail me more Than twenty armies.

OSWALD How?

MARMADUKE The old blind Man, When you had told him the mischance, was troubled Even to the shedding of some natural tears Into the torrent over which he hung, Listening in vain.

OSWALD He has a tender heart!

[OSWALD offers to go down into the dungeon.]

MARMADUKE How now, what mean you?

OSWALD Truly, I was going To waken our stray Baron. Were there not A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, Three good round years, for playing the fool here In such a night as this.

MARMADUKE Stop, stop.

OSWALD Perhaps, You'd better like we should descend together, And lie down by his side--what say you to it? Three of us--we should keep each other warm: I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend Shall not disturb us; further I'll not engage; Come, come, for manhood's sake!

MARMADUKE These drowsy shiverings, This mortal stupor which is creeping over me, What do they mean? were this my single body Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble: Why do I tremble now?--Is not the depth Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought? And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment, Something I strike upon which turns my mind Back on herself, I think, again--my breast Concentres all the terrors of the Universe: I look at him and tremble like a child.

OSWALD Is it possible?

MARMADUKE One thing you noticed not: Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder; But there's a Providence for them who walk In helplessness, when innocence is with them. At this audacious blasphemy, I thought The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air.

OSWALD Why are you not the man you were that moment?

[He draws MARMADUKE to the dungeon.]

MARMADUKE You say he was asleep,--look at this arm, And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. Oswald, Oswald! [Leans upon OSWALD.]

OSWALD This is some sudden seizure!

MARMADUKE A most strange faintness,--will you hunt me out A draught of water?

OSWALD Nay, to see you thus Moves me beyond my bearing.--I will try To gain the torrent's brink.

[Exit OSWALD.]

MARMADUKE (after a pause) It seems an age Since that Man left me.--No, I am not lost.

HERBERT (at the mouth of the dungeon) Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me How goes the night.

MARMADUKE 'Tis hard to measure time, In such a weary night, and such a place.

HERBERT I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald.

MARMADUKE A minute past, he went to fetch a draught Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, A cheerless beverage.

HERBERT How good it was in you To stay behind!--Hearing at first no answer, I was alarmed.

MARMADUKE No wonder; this is a place That well may put some fears into _your_ heart.

HERBERT Why so? a roofless rock had been a comfort, Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were; And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks To make a bed for me!--My Girl will weep When she is told of it.

MARMADUKE This Daughter of yours Is very dear to you.

HERBERT Oh! but you are young; Over your head twice twenty years must roll, With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, Ere can be known to you how much a Father May love his Child.

MARMADUKE Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside.]

HERBERT Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man; Kindly have you protected me to-night, And no return have I to make but prayers; May you in age be blest with such a daughter!-- When from the Holy Land I had returned Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, A wretched Outcast--but this strain of thought Would lead me to talk fondly.

MARMADUKE Do not fear; Your words are precious to my ears; go on.

HERBERT You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. When my old Leader slipped into the flood And perished, what a piercing outcry you Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. You start--where are we?

MARMADUKE Oh, there is no danger; The cold blast struck me.

HERBERT 'Twas a foolish question.

MARMADUKE But when you were an Outcast?--Heaven is just; Your piety would not miss its due reward; The little Orphan then would be your succour, And do good service, though she knew it not.

HERBERT I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers, Where none but those who trampled on my rights Seemed to remember me. To the wide world I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity; She was my Raven in the wilderness, And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her?

MARMADUKE Yes.

HERBERT More than ever Parent loved a Child?

MARMADUKE Yes, yes.

HERBERT I will not murmur, merciful God! I will not murmur; blasted as I have been, Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice, And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith.

[Enter OSWALD.]

OSWALD Herbert!--confusion! (aside). Here it is, my Friend, [Presents the Horn.] A charming beverage for you to carouse, This bitter night.

HERBERT Ha! Oswald! ten bright crosses I would have given, not many minutes gone, To have heard your voice.

OSWALD Your couch, I fear, good Baron, Has been but comfortless; and yet that place, When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd better turn And under covert rest till break of day, Or till the storm abate. (To MARMADUKE aside.) He has restored you. No doubt you have been nobly entertained? But soft!--how came he forth? The Night-mare Conscience Has driven him out of harbour?

MARMADUKE I believe You have guessed right.

HERBERT The trees renew their murmur: Come, let us house together.

[OSWALD conducts him to the dungeon.]

OSWALD (returns) Had I not Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair To its most fit conclusion, do you think I would so long have struggled with my Nature, And smothered all that's man in me?--away!-- [Looking towards the dungeon.] This man's the property of him who best Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege; It now becomes my duty to resume it.

MARMADUKE Touch not a finger--

OSWALD What then must be done?

MARMADUKE Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed.

OSWALD Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts Did not admit of stronger evidence; Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right; Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples.

MARMADUKE Weak! I am weak--there does my torment lie, Feeding itself.

OSWALD Verily, when he said How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's.

MARMADUKE And never heard a sound so terrible.

OSWALD Perchance you think so now?

MARMADUKE I cannot do it: Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat, When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, I could have dropped asleep upon his breast.

OSWALD Justice--is there not thunder in the word? Shall it be law to stab the petty robber Who aims but at our purse; and shall this Parricide-- Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature Whom he to more than filial love and duty Hath falsely trained--shall he fulfil his purpose? But you are fallen.

MARMADUKE Fallen should I be indeed-- Murder--perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow-- Away! away!--

[Flings away his sword.]

OSWALD Nay, I have done with you: We'll lead him to the Convent. He shall live, And she shall love him. With unquestioned title He shall be seated in his Barony, And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. I now perceive we do mistake our masters, And most despise the men who best can teach us: Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old Man Is brave. [Taking MARMADUKE'S sword and giving it to him.] To Clifford's arms he would have led His Victim--haply to this desolate house.

MARMADUKE (advancing to the dungeon) It must be ended!--

OSWALD Softly; do not rouse him; He will deny it to the last. He lies Within the Vault, a spear's length to the left. [MARMADUKE descends to the dungeon.] (Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy me; I could have quelled the Cowards, but this Stripling Must needs step in, and save my life. The look With which he gave the boon--I see it now! The same that tempted me to loathe the gift.-- For this old venerable Grey-beard--faith 'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face Which doth play tricks with them that look on it: 'Twas this that put it in my thoughts--that countenance-- His staff--his figure--Murder!--what, of whom? We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women Sigh at the deed? Hew down a withered tree, And none look grave but dotards. He may live To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches, Highways of dreaming passion, have too long, Young as he is, diverted wish and hope From the unpretending ground we mortals tread;-- Then shatter the delusion, break it up And set him free. What follows? I have learned That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world Do never dream of. I _have_ been what he-- This Boy--when he comes forth with bloody hands-- Might envy, and am now,--but he shall know What I am now-- [Goes and listens at the dungeon.] Praying or parleying?--tut! Is he not eyeless? He has been half-dead These fifteen years--

[Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions.]

(Turning abruptly.) Ha! speak--what Thing art thou? (Recognises her.) Heavens! my good friend! [To her.]

BEGGAR Forgive me, gracious Sir!--

OSWALD (to her companions) Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. [They retire affrighted.]

BEGGAR Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge sometimes In this deserted Castle--_I repent me._

[OSWALD goes to the dungeon--listens--returns to the Beggar.]

OSWALD Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant--keep Thy secret for its sake, or verily That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit.

BEGGAR I _do_ repent me, Sir; I fear the curse Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, Sir,--

OSWALD Begone!

BEGGAR (going) There is some wicked deed in hand: [Aside.] Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter.

[Exit Beggar.]

[MARMADUKE re-enters from the dungeon]

OSWALD It is all over then;--your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is.

MARMADUKE Why came you down? And when I felt your hand upon my arm And spake to you, why did you give no answer? Feared you to waken him? he must have been In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. There are the strangest echoes in that place!

OSWALD Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom.

MARMADUKE Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the Spot, When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight, As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at it.

OSWALD But after that?

MARMADUKE The features of Idonea Lurked in his face--

OSWALD Psha! Never to these eyes Will retribution show itself again With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me To share your triumph?

MARMADUKE Yes, her very look, Smiling in sleep--

OSWALD A pretty feat of Fancy!

MARMADUKE Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers.

OSWALD Is he alive?

MARMADUKE What mean you? who alive?

OSWALD Herbert! since you will have it, Baron Herbert; He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea Hath become Clifford's harlot--is _he_ living?

MARMADUKE The old Man in that dungeon _is_ alive.

OSWALD Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all shall hear it. You a protector of humanity! Avenger you of outraged innocence!

MARMADUKE 'Twas dark--dark as the grave; yet did I see, Saw him--his face turned toward me; and I tell thee Idonea's filial countenance was there To baffle me--it put me to my prayers. Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, Beheld a star twinkling above my head, And, by the living God, I could not do it. [Sinks exhausted.]

OSWALD (to himself) Now may I perish if this turn do more Than make me change my course. (To MARMADUKE.) Dear Marmaduke, My words were rashly spoken; I recal them: I feel my error; shedding human blood Is a most serious thing.

MARMADUKE Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt.

OSWALD We have indeed Been most presumptuous. There _is_ guilt in this, Else could so strong a mind have ever known These trepidations? Plain it is that Heaven Has marked out this foul Wretch as one whose crimes Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat, Or be chastised by mortal instruments.

MARMADUKE A thought that's worth a thousand worlds!

[Goes towards the dungeon.]

OSWALD I grieve That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain.

MARMADUKE Think not of that! 'tis over--we are safe.

OSWALD (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud) The truth is hideous, but how stifle it? [Turning to MARMADUKE.] Give me your sword--nay, here are stones and fragments, The least of which would beat out a man's brains; Or you might drive your head against that wall. No! this is not the place to hear the tale: It should be told you pinioned in your bed, Or on some vast and solitary plain Blown to you from a trumpet.

MARMADUKE Why talk thus? Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast I care not: fear I have none, and cannot fear-- [The sound of a horn is heard.] That horn again--'Tis some one of our Troop; What do they here? Listen!

OSWALD What! dogged like thieves!

[Enter WALLACE and LACY, etc.]

LACY You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop For not misleading us.

OSWALD (looking at WALLACE) That subtle Greybeard-- I'd rather see my father's ghost.

LACY (to MARMADUKE) My Captain, We come by order of the Band. Belike You have not heard that Henry has at last Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent abroad His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies As, in these long commotions, have been seized. His Power is this way tending. It befits us To stand upon our guard, and with our swords Defend the innocent.

MARMADUKE Lacy! we look But at the surfaces of things; we hear Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old Driven out in troops to want and nakedness; Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure That flatters us, because it asks not thought: The deeper malady is better hid; The world is poisoned at the heart.

LACY What mean you?

WALLACE (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon OSWALD) Ay, what is it you mean?

MARMADUKE Hark'ee, my Friends;-- [Appearing gay.] Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father--

LACY Why, if his heart be tender, that offence I could forgive him.

MARMADUKE (going on) And should he make the Child An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light Of infant playfulness with piteous looks Of misery that was not--

LACY Troth, 'tis hard-- But in a world like ours--

MARMADUKE (changing his tone) This self-same Man-- Even while he printed kisses on the cheek Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue To lisp the name of Father--could he look To the unnatural harvest of that time When he should give her up, a Woman grown, To him who bid the highest in the market Of foul pollution--

LACY The whole visible world Contains not such a Monster!

MARMADUKE For this purpose Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them; Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron, Work on her nature, and so turn compassion And gratitude to ministers of vice, And make the spotless spirit of filial love Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim Both soul and body--

WALLACE 'Tis too horrible; Oswald, what say you to it?

LACY Hew him down, And fling him to the ravens.

MARMADUKE But his aspect It is so meek, his countenance so venerable.

WALLACE (with an appearance of mistrust) But how, what say you, Oswald?

LACY (at the same moment) Stab him, were it Before the Altar.

MARMADUKE What, if he were sick, Tottering upon the very verge of life, And old, and blind--

LACY Blind, say you?

OSWALD (coming forward) Are we Men, Or own we baby Spirits? Genuine courage Is not an accidental quality, A thing dependent for its casual birth On opposition and impediment. Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down The giant's strength; and, at the voice of Justice, Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm-- She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman, And craft of age, seducing reason, first Made weakness a protection, and obscured The moral shapes of things. His tender cries And helpless innocence--do they protect The infant lamb? and shall the infirmities, Which have enabled this enormous Culprit To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanctuary To cover him from punishment? Shame!--Justice, Admitting no resistance, bends alike The feeble and the strong. She needs not here Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. --We recognise in this old Man a victim Prepared already for the sacrifice.

LACY By heaven, his words are reason!

OSWALD Yes, my Friends, His countenance is meek and venerable; And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers!-- I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish When my heart does not ache to think of it!-- Poor Victim! not a virtue under heaven But what was made an engine to ensnare thee; But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe.

LACY Idonea!

WALLACE How! What? your Idonea? [To MARMADUKE.]

MARMADUKE _Mine;_ But now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford; He is the Man to whom the Maiden--pure As beautiful, and gentle and benign, And in her ample heart loving even me-- Was to be yielded up.

LACY Now, by the head Of my own child, this Man must die; my hand, A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine In his grey hairs!--

MARMADUKE (to LACY) I love the Father in thee. You know me, Friends; I have a heart to feel, And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me Or duty sanctions.

LACY We will have ample justice. Who are we, Friends? Do we not live on ground Where Souls are self-defended, free to grow Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy wind? Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed This monstrous crime to be laid open--_here,_ Where Reason has an eye that she can use, And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp He shall be led, and there, the Country round All gathered to the spot, in open day Shall Nature be avenged.

OSWALD 'Tis nobly thought; His death will be a monument for ages.

MARMADUKE (to LACY) I thank you for that hint. He shall be brought Before the Camp, and would that best and wisest Of every country might be present. There, His crime shall be proclaimed; and for the rest It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide: Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see That all is well prepared.

WALLACE We will obey you. (Aside.) But softly! we must look a little nearer.

MARMADUKE Tell where you found us. At some future time I will explain the cause.

[Exeunt.]

## ACT III

SCENE--The door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as before; IDONEA and the Host among them

HOST Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent As I have told you: He left us yesterday With two Companions; one of them, as seemed, His most familiar Friend. (Going.) There was a letter Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy Has been forgotten.

IDONEA (to Host) Farewell!

HOST Gentle pilgrims, St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand.

[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.]

[SCENE--A desolate Moor]

[OSWALD (alone)]

OSWALD Carry him to the Camp! Yes, to the Camp. Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then, That half a word should blow it to the winds! This last device must end my work.--Methinks It were a pleasant pastime to construct A scale and table of belief--as thus-- Two columns, one for passion, one for proof; Each rises as the other falls: and first, Passion a unit and _against_ us--proof-- Nay, we must travel in another path, Or we're stuck fast for ever;--passion, then, Shall be a unit _for_ us; proof--no, passion! We'll not insult thy majesty by time, Person, and place--the where, the when, the how, And all particulars that dull brains require To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. A whipping to the Moralists who preach That misery is a sacred thing: for me, I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface; And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, He talks of a transition in his Soul, And dreams that he is happy. We dissect The senseless body, and why not the mind?-- These are strange sights--the mind of man, upturned, Is in all natures a strange spectacle; In some a hideous one--hem! shall I stop? No.--Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes, And something shall be done which Memory May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work.

[Enter MARMADUKE, from behind]

OSWALD (turning to meet him) But listen, for my peace--

MARMADUKE Why, I _believe_ you.

OSWALD But hear the proofs--

MARMADUKE Ay, prove that when two peas Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then Be larger than the peas--prove this--'twere matter Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream It ever could be otherwise!

OSWALD Last night When I returned with water from the brook, I overheard the Villains--every word Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. Said one, "It is agreed on. The blind Man Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, Who on her journey must proceed alone, Under pretence of violence, be seized. She is," continued the detested Slave, "She is right willing--strange if she were not!-- They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man; But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid That could withstand it. True," continued he, "When we arranged the affair, she wept a little (Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) And said, 'My Father he will have it so.'"

MARMADUKE I am your hearer.

OSWALD This I caught, and more That may not be retold to any ear. The obstinate bolt of a small iron door Detained them near the gateway of the Castle. By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed For festive decoration; and they said, With brutal laughter and most foul allusion, That they should share the banquet with their Lord And his new Favorite.

MARMADUKE Misery!--

OSWALD I knew How you would be disturbed by this dire news, And therefore chose this solitary Moor, Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades, Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us.

MARMADUKE Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel, I did believe all things were shadows--yea, Living or dead all things were bodiless, Or but the mutual mockeries of body, Till that same star summoned me back again. Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Fool! To let a creed, built in the heart of things, Dissolve before a twinkling atom!--Oswald, I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, And you should see how deeply I could reason Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; Of actions, and their laws and tendencies.

OSWALD You take it as it merits--

MARMADUKE One a King, General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground With carcases, in lineament and shape And substance, nothing differing from his own, But that they cannot stand up of themselves; Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour Floats kingcups in the brook--a Hero one We call, and scorn the other as Time's spendthrift; But have they not a world of common ground To occupy--both fools, or wise alike, Each in his way?

OSWALD Troth, I begin to think so.

MARMADUKE Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy: I would not give a denier for the man Who, on such provocation as this earth Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin, And send it with a fillip to its grave.

OSWALD Nay, you leave me behind.

MARMADUKE That such a One, So pious in demeanour! in his look So saintly and so pure!--Hark'ee, my Friend, I'll plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle, A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley Most tunable.

OSWALD In faith, a pleasant scheme; But take your sword along with you, for that Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use.-- But first, how wash our hands of this old Man?

MARMADUKE Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path; Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten.

OSWALD You know we left him sitting--see him yonder.

MARMADUKE Ha! ha!--

OSWALD As 'twill be but a moment's work, I will stroll on; you follow when 'tis done.

[Exeunt.]

## SCENE changes to another part of the Moor at a short distance--HERBERT

is discovered seated on a stone

HERBERT A sound of laughter, too!--'tis well--I feared, The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow Pressing upon his solitary heart. Hush!--'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. Alas! 'tis cold--I shiver in the sunshine-- What can this mean? There is a psalm that speaks Of God's parental mercies--with Idonea I used to sing it.--Listen!--what foot is there?

[Enter MARMADUKE]

MARMADUKE (aside--looking at HERBERT) And I have loved this Man! and _she_ hath loved him! And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford! And there it ends;--if this be not enough To make mankind merry for evermore, Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made For a wise purpose--verily to weep with! [Looking round.] A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece Of Nature, finished with most curious skill! (To HERBERT.) Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage? Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre?

HERBERT How glad I am to hear your voice! I know not Wherein I have offended you;--last night I found in you the kindest of Protectors; This morning, when I spoke of weariness, You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it About your own; but for these two hours past Once only have you spoken, when the lark Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, And I, no coward in my better days, Was almost terrified.

MARMADUKE That's excellent!-- So, you bethought you of the many ways In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes Have roused all Nature up against him--pshaw!--

HERBERT For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight? No traveller, peasant, herdsman?

MARMADUKE Not a soul: Here is a tree, raggèd, and bent, and bare, That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea-green moss From the stern breathing of the rough sea-wind; This have we, but no other company: Commend me to the place. If a man should die And leave his body here, it were all one As he were twenty fathoms underground.

HERBERT Where is our common Friend?

MARMADUKE A ghost, methinks-- The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance-- Might have fine room to ramble about here, A grand domain to squeak and gibber in.

HERBERT Lost Man! if thou have any close-pent guilt Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour Of visitation--

MARMADUKE A bold word from _you_!

HERBERT Restore him, Heaven!

MARMADUKE The desperate Wretch!--A Flower, Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now They have snapped her from the stem--Poh! let her lie Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail Feed on her leaves. You knew her well--ay, there, Old Man! you were a very Lynx, you knew The worm was in her--

HERBERT Mercy! Sir, what mean you?

MARMADUKE You have a Daughter!

HERBERT Oh that she were here!-- She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, And if I have in aught offended you, Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us.

MARMADUKE (aside) I do believe he weeps--I could weep too-- There is a vein of her voice that runs through his: Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth From the first moment that I loved the Maid; And for his sake I loved her more: these tears-- I did not think that aught was left in me Of what I have been--yes, I thank thee, Heaven! One happy thought has passed across my mind. --It may not be--I am cut off from man; No more shall I be man--no more shall I Have human feelings!-- (To HERBERT) --Now, for a little more About your Daughter!

HERBERT Troops of armed men, Met in the roads, would bless us; little children, Rushing along in the full tide of play, Stood silent as we passed them! I have heard The boisterous carman, in the miry road, Check his loud whip and hail us with mild voice, And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts.

MARMADUKE And whither were you going?

HERBERT Learn, young Man,-- To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, Whether too much for patience, or, like mine, Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy.

MARMADUKE Now, this is as it should be!

HERBERT I am weak!-- My Daughter does not know how weak I am; And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, By the good God, our common Father, doomed!-- But I had once a spirit and an arm--

MARMADUKE Now, for a word about your Barony: I fancy when you left the Holy Land, And came to--what's your title--eh? your claims Were undisputed!

HERBERT Like a mendicant, Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone;-- I murmured--but, remembering Him who feeds The pelican and ostrich of the desert, From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. So, from the court I passed, and down the brook, Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, I sate me down, and cannot but believe-- While in my lap I held my little Babe And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached More with delight than grief--I heard a voice Such as by Cherith on Elijah called; It said, "I will be with thee." A little boy, A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone, Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven, And said, with tears, that he would be our guide: I had a better guide--that innocent Babe-- Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm, From cold, from hunger, penury, and death; To whom I owe the best of all the good I have, or wish for, upon earth--and more And higher far than lies within earth's bounds: Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man, I bless her with sad spirit,--when of God, I bless her in the fulness of my joy!

MARMADUKE The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays! With nerves so steady, that the very flies Sit unmolested on his staff.--Innocent!-- If he were innocent--then he would tremble And be disturbed, as I am. (Turning aside.) I have read In Story, what men now alive have witnessed, How, when the People's mind was racked with doubt, Appeal was made to the great Judge: the Accused With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared For a like trial, but more merciful. Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste? Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. Here will I leave him--here--All-seeing God! Such as _he_ is, and sore perplexed as I am, I will commit him to this final _Ordeal!_-- He heard a voice--a shepherd-lad came to him And was his guide; if once, why not again, And in this desert? If never--then the whole Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is, Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here To cold and hunger!--Pain is of the heart, And what are a few throes of bodily suffering If they can waken one pang of remorse? [Goes up to HERBERT.] Old Man! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here Led by my hand to save thee from perdition: Thou wilt have time to breathe and think--

HERBERT Oh, Mercy!

MARMADUKE I know the need that all men have of mercy, And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment.

HERBERT My Child, my blessèd Child!

MARMADUKE No more of that; Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent; Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee. [He pauses and looks at HERBERT'S staff.] Ha! what is here? and carved by her own hand! [Reads upon the staff.] "I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. He that puts his trust in me shall not fail!" Yes, be it so;--repent and be forgiven-- God and that staff are now thy only guides. [He leaves HERBERT on the Moor.]

SCENE--An eminence, a Beacon on the summit

LACY, WALLACE, LENNOX, etc. etc.

SEVERAL OF THE BAND (confusedly) But patience!

ONE OF THE BAND Curses on that Traitor, Oswald!-- Our Captain made a prey to foul device!--

LENNOX (to WALLACE) His tool, the wandering Beggar, made last night A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt, Knowing what otherwise we know too well, That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now; For rather would I have a nest of vipers Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make Oswald my special enemy, if you Deny me your support.

LACY We have been fooled-- But for the motive?

WALLACE Natures such as his Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy! I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. I know him well; there needs no other motive Than that most strange incontinence in crime Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him And breath and being; where he cannot govern, He will destroy.

LACY To have been trapped like moles!-- Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives: There is no crime from which this man would shrink; He recks not human law; and I have noticed That often when the name of God is uttered, A sudden blankness overspreads his face.

LENNOX Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built Some uncouth superstition of its own.

WALLACE I have seen traces of it.

LENNOX Once he headed A band of Pirates in the Norway seas; And when the King of Denmark summoned him To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 'Twas a strange answer that he made; he said, "I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven."

LACY He is no madman.

WALLACE A most subtle doctor Were that man, who could draw the line that parts Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness, That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless Minds, Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men No heart that loves them, none that they can love, Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy In dim relation to imagined Beings.

ONE OF THE BAND What if he mean to offer up our Captain An expiation and a sacrifice To those infernal fiends!

WALLACE Now, if the event Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear, My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds As there are daggers here.

LACY What need of swearing!

ONE OF THE BAND Let us away!

ANOTHER Away!

A THIRD Hark! how the horns Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale.

LACY Stay you behind; and when the sun is down, Light up this beacon.

ONE OF THE BAND You shall be obeyed.

[They go out together.]

SCENE--The Wood on the edge of the Moor.

MARMADUKE (alone)

MARMADUKE Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought, Yet calm.--I could believe, that there was here The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, Remembered terror, there is peace and rest.

[Enter OSWALD]

OSWALD Ha! my dear Captain.

MARMADUKE A later meeting, Oswald, Would have been better timed.

OSWALD Alone, I see; You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now I feel that you will justify.

MARMADUKE I had fears, From which I have freed myself--but 'tis my wish To be alone, and therefore we must part.

OSWALD Nay, then--I am mistaken. There's a weakness About you still; you talk of solitude-- I am your friend.

MARMADUKE What need of this assurance At any time? and why given now?

OSWALD Because You are now in truth my Master; you have taught me What there is not another living man Had strength to teach;--and therefore gratitude Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise.

MARMADUKE Wherefore press this on me?

OSWALD Because I feel That you have shown, and by a signal instance, How they who would be just must seek the rule By diving for it into their own bosoms. To-day you have thrown off a tyranny That lives but in the torpid acquiescence Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny Of the world's masters, with the musty rules By which they uphold their craft from age to age: You have obeyed the only law that sense Submits to recognise; the immediate law, From the clear light of circumstances, flashed Upon an independent Intellect. Henceforth new prospects open on your path; Your faculties should grow with the demand; I still will be your friend, will cleave to you Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, Oft as they dare to follow on your steps.

MARMADUKE I would be left alone.

OSWALD (exultingly) I know your motives! I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, Who damn where they can neither see nor feel, With a hard-hearted ignorance; your struggles I witness'd, and now hail your victory.

MARMADUKE Spare me awhile that greeting.

OSWALD It may be, That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards, Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer, And you will walk in solitude among them. A mighty evil for a strong-built mind!-- Join twenty tapers of unequal height And light them joined, and you will see the less How 'twill burn down the taller; and they all Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude!-- The Eagle lives in Solitude!

MARMADUKE Even so, The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I, The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved To abide the issue of my act, alone.

OSWALD _Now_ would you? and for ever?--My young Friend, As time advances either we become The prey or masters of our own past deeds. Fellowship we _must_ have, willing or no; And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, Are still forthcoming; some which, though they bear Ill names, can render no ill services, In recompense for what themselves required. So meet extremes in this mysterious world, And opposites thus melt into each other.

MARMADUKE Time, since Man first drew breath, has never moved With such a weight upon his wings as now; But they will soon be lightened.

OSWALD Ay, look up-- Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: Great actions move our admiration, chiefly Because they carry in themselves an earnest That we can suffer greatly.

MARMADUKE Very true.

OSWALD Action is transitory--a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle--this way or that-- 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

MARMADUKE Truth--and I feel it.

OSWALD What! if you had bid Eternal farewell to unmingled joy And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart; It is the toy of fools, and little fit For such a world as this. The wise abjure All thoughts whose idle composition lives In the entire forgetfulness of pain. --I see I have disturbed you.

MARMADUKE By no means.

OSWALD Compassion!--pity!--pride can do without them; And what if you should never know them more!-- He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, Finds ease because another feels it too. If e'er I open out this heart of mine It shall be for a nobler end--to teach And not to purchase puling sympathy. --Nay, you are pale.

MARMADUKE It may be so.

OSWALD Remorse-- It cannot live with thought; think on, think on, And it will die. What! in this universe, Where the least things control the greatest, where The faintest breath that breathes can move a world; What! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals.

MARMADUKE Now, whither are you wandering? That a man So used to suit his language to the time, Should thus so widely differ from himself-- It is most strange.

OSWALD Murder!--what's in the word!-- I have no cases by me ready made To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp!-- A shallow project;--you of late have seen More deeply, taught us that the institutes Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation Banished from human intercourse, exist Only in our relations to the brutes That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask A license to destroy him: our good governors Hedge in the life of every pest and plague That bears the shape of man; and for what purpose, But to protect themselves from extirpation?-- This flimsy barrier you have overleaped.

MARMADUKE My Office is fulfilled--the Man is now Delivered to the Judge of all things.

OSWALD Dead!

MARMADUKE I have borne my burthen to its destined end.

OSWALD This instant we'll return to our Companions-- Oh how I long to see their faces again!

[Enter IDONEA with Pilgrims who continue their journey.]

IDONEA (after some time) What, Marmaduke! now thou art mine for ever. And Oswald, too! (To MARMADUKE.) On will we to my Father With the glad tidings which this day hath brought; We'll go together, and, such proof received Of his own rights restored, his gratitude To God above will make him feel for ours.

OSWALD I interrupt you?

IDONEA Think not so.

MARMADUKE Idonea, That I should ever live to see this moment!

IDONEA Forgive me.--Oswald knows it all--he knows, Each word of that unhappy letter fell As a blood drop from my heart.

OSWALD 'Twas even so.

MARMADUKE I have much to say, but for whose ear?--not thine.

IDONEA Ill can I bear that look--Plead for me, Oswald! You are my Father's Friend. (To MARMADUKE.) Alas, you know not, And never _can_ you know, how much he loved me. Twice had he been to me a father, twice Had given me breath, and was I not to be His daughter, once his daughter? could I withstand His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms, And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him In his old age-- [Hides her face.]

MARMADUKE Patience--Heaven grant me patience!-- She weeps, she weeps--_my_ brain shall burn for hours Ere _I_ can shed a tear.

IDONEA I was a woman; And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest To womankind with duty to my Father, I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought On earth could else have wrested from me;--if erring, Oh let me be forgiven!

MARMADUKE I _do_ forgive thee.

IDONEA But take me to your arms--this breast, alas! It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it.

MARMADUKE (exultingly) She is innocent. [He embraces her.]

OSWALD (aside) Were I a Moralist, I should make wondrous revolution here; It were a quaint experiment to show The beauty of truth-- [Addressing them.] I see I interrupt you; I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; Follow me to the Hostel.

[Exit OSWALD.]

IDONEA Marmaduke, This is a happy day. My Father soon Shall sun himself before his native doors; The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. No more shall he complain of wasted strength, Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart; His good works will be balm and life to him.

MARMADUKE This is most strange!--I know not what it was, But there was something which most plainly said, That thou wert innocent.

IDONEA How innocent!-- Oh heavens! you've been deceived.

MARMADUKE Thou art a Woman To bring perdition on the universe.

IDONEA Already I've been punished to the height Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately.] I see you love me still, The labours of my hand are still your joy; Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder I hung this belt. [Pointing to the belt on which was suspended HERBERT'S scrip.]

MARMADUKE Mercy of Heaven! [Sinks.]

IDONEA What ails you? [Distractedly.]

MARMADUKE The scrip that held his food, and I forgot To give it back again!

IDONEA What mean your words?

MARMADUKE I know not what I said--all may be well.

IDONEA That smile hath life in it!

MARMADUKE This road is perilous; I will attend you to a Hut that stands Near the wood's edge--rest there to-night, I pray you: For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald, But will return to you by break of day.

[Exeunt.]

## ACT IV

SCENE--A desolate prospect--a ridge of rocks--a Chapel on the summit of one--Moon behind the rocks--night stormy--irregular sound of a bell--HERBERT enters exhausted.

HERBERT That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me, But now it mocks my steps; its fitful stroke Can scarcely be the work of human hands. Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such There be who pray nightly before the Altar. Oh that I had but strength to reach the place! My Child--my Child--dark--dark--I faint--this wind-- These stifling blasts--God help me!

[Enter ELDRED.]

ELDRED Better this bare rock, Though it were tottering over a man's head, Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter From such rough dealing. [A moaning voice is heard.] Ha! what sound is that? Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) Send forth such noises--and that weary bell! Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night Is ringing it--'twould stop a Saint in prayer, And that--what is it? never was sound so like A human groan. Ha! what is here? Poor Man-- Murdered! alas! speak--speak, I am your friend: No answer--hush--lost wretch, he lifts his hand And lays it to his heart-- (Kneels to him.) I pray you speak! What has befallen you?

HERBERT (feebly) A stranger has done this, And in the arms of a stranger I must die.

ELDRED Nay, think not so: come, let me raise you up: [Raises him.] This is a dismal place--well--that is well-- I was too fearful--take me for your guide And your support--my hut is not far off. [Draws him gently off the stage.]

SCENE--A room in the Hostel--MARMADUKE and OSWALD

MARMADUKE But for Idonea!--I have cause to think That she is innocent.

OSWALD Leave that thought awhile, As one of those beliefs which in their hearts Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better Than feathers clinging to their points of passion. This day's event has laid on me the duty Of opening out my story; you must hear it, And without further preface.--In my youth, Except for that abatement which is paid By envy as a tribute to desert, I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling Of every tongue--as you are now. You've heard That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy Against my honour, in the which our Captain Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell; We lay becalmed week after week, until The water of the vessel was exhausted; I felt a double fever in my veins, Yet rage suppressed itself;--to a deep stillness Did my pride tame my pride;--for many days, On a dead sea under a burning sky, I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted By man and nature;--if a breeze had blown, It might have found its way into my heart, And I had been--no matter--do you mark me?

MARMADUKE Quick--to the point--if any untold crime Doth haunt your memory.

OSWALD Patience, hear me further!-- One day in silence did we drift at noon By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare; No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form Inanimate large as the body of man, Nor any living thing whose lot of life Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon. To dig for water on the spot, the Captain Landed with a small troop, myself being one: There I reproached him with his treachery. Imperious at all times, his temper rose; He struck me; and that instant had I killed him, And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades Rushed in between us: then did I insist (All hated him, and I was stung to madness) That we should leave him there, alive!--we did so.

MARMADUKE And he was famished?

OSWALD Naked was the spot; Methinks I see it now--how in the sun Its stony surface glittered like a shield; And in that miserable place we left him, Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures Not one of which could help him while alive, Or mourn him dead.

MARMADUKE A man by men cast off, Left without burial! nay, not dead nor dying, But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms, In all things like ourselves, but in the agony With which he called for mercy; and--even so-- He was forsaken?

OSWALD There is a power in sounds: The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat That bore us through the water--

MARMADUKE You returned Upon that dismal hearing--did you not?

OSWALD Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery, And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea Did from some distant region echo us.

MARMADUKE We all are of one blood, our veins are filled At the same poisonous fountain!

OSWALD 'Twas an island Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, Which with their foam could cover it at will. I know not how he perished; but the calm, The same dead calm, continued many days.

MARMADUKE But his own crime had brought on him this doom, His wickedness prepared it; these expedients Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault.

OSWALD The man was famished, and was innocent!

MARMADUKE Impossible!

OSWALD The man had never wronged me.

MARMADUKE Banish the thought, crush it, and be at peace. His guilt was marked--these things could never be Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, Where ours are baffled.

OSWALD I had been deceived.

MARMADUKE And from that hour the miserable man No more was heard of?

OSWALD I had been betrayed.

MARMADUKE And he found no deliverance!

OSWALD The Crew Gave me a hearty welcome; they had laid The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. So we pursued our voyage: when we landed, The tale was spread abroad; my power at once Shrunk from me; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes-- All vanished. I gave way--do you attend?

MARMADUKE The Crew deceived you?

OSWALD Nay, command yourself.

MARMADUKE It is a dismal night--how the wind howls!

OSWALD I hid my head within a Convent, there Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. That was no life for me--I was o'erthrown But not destroyed.

MARMADUKE The proofs--you ought to have seen The guilt--have touched it--felt it at your heart-- As I have done.

OSWALD A fresh tide of Crusaders Drove by the place of my retreat: three nights Did constant meditation dry my blood; Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way; And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld A slavery compared to which the dungeon And clanking chains are perfect liberty. You understand me--I was comforted; I saw that every possible shape of action Might lead to good--I saw it and burst forth Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. [Marking MARMADUKE'S countenance.] Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity Subsided in a moment, like a wind That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. And yet I had within me evermore A salient spring of energy; I mounted From action up to action with a mind That never rested--without meat or drink Have I lived many days--my sleep was bound To purposes of reason--not a dream But had a continuity and substance That waking life had never power to give.

MARMADUKE O wretched Human-kind!--Until the mystery Of all this world is solved, well may we envy The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight Would crush the lion's paw with mortal anguish, Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors?

OSWALD Give not to them a thought. From Palestine We marched to Syria: oft I left the Camp, When all that multitude of hearts was still, And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams; Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea: In these my lonely wanderings I perceived What mighty objects do impress their forms To elevate our intellectual being; And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms A thing so great to perish self-consumed. --So much for my remorse!

MARMADUKE Unhappy Man!

OSWALD When from these forms I turned to contemplate The World's opinions and her usages, I seemed a Being who had passed alone Into a region of futurity, Whose natural element was freedom--

MARMADUKE Stop-- I may not, cannot, follow thee.

OSWALD You must. I had been nourished by the sickly food Of popular applause. I now perceived That we are praised, only as men in us Do recognise some image of themselves, An abject counterpart of what they are, Or the empty thing that they would wish to be. I felt that merit has no surer test Than obloquy; that, if we wish to serve The world in substance, not deceive by show, We must become obnoxious to its hate, Or fear disguised in simulated scorn.

MARMADUKE I pity, can forgive, you; but those wretches-- That monstrous perfidy!

OSWALD Keep down your wrath. False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised, Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin Their veil, but not for me--'twas in fit place Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, And in that dream had left my native land, One of Love's simple bondsmen--the soft chain Was off for ever; and the men, from whom This liberation came, you would destroy: Join me in thanks for their blind services.

MARMADUKE 'Tis a strange aching that, when we would curse And cannot.--You have betrayed me--I have done-- I am content--I know that he is guiltless-- That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man! And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst Her who from very infancy had been Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood!--Together [Turning to OSWALD.] We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both.

OSWALD Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant; Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge Man's intellectual empire. We subsist In slavery; all is slavery; we receive Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come; We need an inward sting to goad us on.

MARMADUKE Have you betrayed me? Speak to that.

OSWALD The mask, Which for a season I have stooped to wear, Must be cast off.--Know then that I was urged, (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, To seek for sympathy, because I saw In you a mirror of my youthful self; I would have made us equal once again, But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, With a few drops of blood cut short the business; Therein for ever you must yield to me. But what is done will save you from the blank Of living without knowledge that you live: Now you are suffering--for the future day, 'Tis his who will command it.--Think of my story-- Herbert is _innocent_.

MARMADUKE (in a faint voice, and doubtingly) You do but echo My own wild words?

OSWALD Young Man, the seed must lie Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest; 'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness I will avow before the face of day. Herbert _is_ innocent.

MARMADUKE What fiend could prompt This action? Innocent!--oh, breaking heart!-- Alive or dead, I'll find him.

[Exit.]

OSWALD Alive--perdition!

[Exit.]

SCENE--The inside of a poor Cottage

ELEANOR and IDONEA seated

IDONEA The storm beats hard--Mercy for poor or rich, Whose heads are shelterless in such a night!

A VOICE WITHOUT Holla! to bed, good Folks, within!

ELEANOR O save us!

IDONEA What can this mean?

ELEANOR Alas, for my poor husband!-- We'll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow; The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights: Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers [The voices die away in the distance.] Returning from their Feast--my heart beats so-- A noise at midnight does _so_ frighten me.

IDONEA Hush! [Listening.]

ELEANOR They are gone. On such a night, my husband, Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon, Where, hid from me, he counted many years, A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs-- Not even in theirs--whose brutal violence So dealt with him.

IDONEA I have a noble Friend First among youths of knightly breeding, One Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. There again! [Listening.]

ELEANOR 'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment Has made him fearful, and he'll never be The man he was.

IDONEA I will retire;--good night! [She goes within.]

[Enter ELDRED (hides a bundle)]

ELDRED Not yet in bed, Eleanor!--there are stains in that frock which must be washed out.

ELEANOR What has befallen you?

ELDRED I am belated, and you must know the cause-- (speaking low) that is the blood of an unhappy Man.

ELEANOR Oh! we are undone for ever.

ELDRED Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to think of it.

ELEANOR Where, where is he?

ELDRED I have done him no harm, but----it will be forgiven me; it would not have been so once.

ELEANOR You have not _buried_ anything? You are no richer than when you left me?

ELDRED Be at peace; I am innocent.

ELEANOR Then God be thanked--

[A short pause; she falls upon his neck.]

ELDRED Tonight I met with an old Man lying stretched upon the ground--a sad spectacle: I raised him up with a hope that we might shelter and restore him.

ELEANOR (as if ready to run) Where is he? You were not able to bring him _all_ the way with you; let us return, I can help you.

[ELDRED shakes his head.]

ELDRED He did not seem to wish for life: as I was struggling on, by the light of the moon I saw the stains of blood upon my clothes--he waved his hand, as if it were all useless; and I let him sink again to the ground.

ELEANOR Oh that I had been by your side!

ELDRED I tell you his hands and his body were cold--how could I disturb his last moments? he strove to turn from me as if he wished to settle into sleep.

ELEANOR But, for the stains of blood--

ELDRED He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head was cut; but I think his malady was cold and hunger.

ELEANOR Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall tremble.

ELDRED Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept me abroad to-night till this hour? I come home, and this is my comfort!

ELEANOR But did he say nothing which might have set you at ease?

ELDRED I thought he grasped my hand while he was muttering something about his Child--his Daughter-- (starting as if he heard a noise). What is that?

ELEANOR Eldred, you are a father.

ELDRED God knows what was in my heart, and will not curse my son for my sake.

ELEANOR But you prayed by him? you waited the hour of his release?

ELDRED The night was wasting fast; I have no friend; I am spited by the world--his wound terrified me--if I had brought him along with me, and he had died in my arms!----I am sure I heard something breathing--and this chair!

ELEANOR Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will have nobody to close your eyes--no hand to grasp your dying hand--I shall be in my grave. A curse will attend us all.

ELDRED Have you forgot your own troubles when I was in the dungeon?

ELEANOR And you left him alive?

ELDRED Alive!--the damps of death were upon him--he could not have survived an hour.

ELEANOR In the cold, cold night.

ELDRED (in a savage tone) Ay, and his head was bare; I suppose you would have had me lend my bonnet to cover it.--You will never rest till I am brought to a felon's end.

ELEANOR Is there nothing to be done? cannot we go to the Convent?

ELDRED Ay, and say at once that I murdered him!

ELEANOR Eldred, I know that ours is the only house upon the Waste; let us take heart; this Man may be rich; and could he be saved by our means, his gratitude may reward us.

ELDRED 'Tis all in vain.

ELEANOR But let us make the attempt. This old Man may have a wife, and he may have children--let us return to the spot; we may restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon those that love him.

ELDRED He will never open them more; even when he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as if he had been blind.

IDONEA (rushing out) It is, it is, my Father--

ELDRED We are betrayed (looking at IDONEA).

ELEANOR His Daughter!--God have mercy! (turning to IDONEA)

IDONEA (sinking down) Oh! lift me up and carry me to the place. You are safe; the whole world shall not harm you.

ELEANOR This Lady is his Daughter.

ELDRED (moved) I'll lead you to the spot.

IDONEA (springing up) Alive!--you heard him breathe? quick, quick--

[Exeunt.]

## ACT V

SCENE--A wood on the edge of the Waste

Enter OSWALD and a Forester.

FORESTER He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen, And down into the bottom cast his eye, That fastened there, as it would check the current.

OSWALD He listened too; did you not say he listened?

FORESTER As if there came such moaning from the flood As is heard often after stormy nights.

OSWALD But did he utter nothing?

FORESTER See him there!

[MARMADUKE appearing.]

MARMADUKE Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters; That is no substance which ye settle on!

FORESTER His senses play him false; and see, his arms Outspread, as if to save himself from falling!-- Some terrible phantom I believe is now Passing before him, such as God will not Permit to visit any but a man Who has been guilty of some horrid crime.

[MARMADUKE disappears.]

OSWALD The game is up!--

FORESTER If it be needful, Sir, I will assist you to lay hands upon him.

OSWALD No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business-- 'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, Who has a trick of straying from his keepers; We must be gentle. Leave him to my care. [Exit Forester.] If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine; The goal is reached. My Master shall become A shadow of myself--made by myself.

SCENE--The edge of the Moor.

MARMADUKE and ELDRED enter from opposite sides.

MARMADUKE (raising his eyes and perceiving ELDRED) In any corner of this savage Waste, Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man?

ELDRED I heard--

MARMADUKE You heard him, where? when heard him?

ELDRED As you know The first hours of last night were rough with storm: I had been out in search of a stray heifer; Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, I hurried on, when straight a second moan, A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. So guided, distant a few steps, I found An aged Man, and such as you describe.

MARMADUKE You heard!--he called you to him? Of all men The best and kindest!--but where is he? guide me, That I may see him.

ELDRED On a ridge of rocks A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now: The bell is left, which no one dares remove; And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak, It rings, as if a human hand were there To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it; And it had led him towards the precipice, To climb up to the spot whence the sound came; But he had failed through weakness. From his hand His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink Of a small pool of water he was laid, As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained Without the strength to rise.

MARMADUKE Well, well, he lives, And all is safe: what said he?

ELDRED But few words: He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, Who, so he feared, would never see him more; And of a Stranger to him, One by whom He had been sore misused; but he forgave The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled-- Perhaps you are his son?

MARMADUKE The All-seeing knows, I did not think he had a living Child.-- But whither did you carry him?

ELDRED He was torn, His head was bruised, and there was blood about him--

MARMADUKE That was no work of mine.

ELDRED Nor was it mine.

MARMADUKE But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him A thousand miles.

ELDRED I am in poverty, And know how busy are the tongues of men; My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light; And, though it smote me more than words can tell, I left him.

MARMADUKE I believe that there are phantoms, That in the shape of man do cross our path On evil instigation, to make sport Of our distress--and thou art one of them! But things substantial have so pressed on me--

ELDRED My wife and children came into my mind.

MARMADUKE Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us, And we shall howl together. [After a pause and in a feeble voice.] I am deserted At my worst need, my crimes have in a net (Pointing to ELDRED) Entangled this poor man.-- Where was it? where? [Dragging him along.]

ELDRED 'Tis needless; spare your violence. His Daughter--

MARMADUKE Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge: This old man _had_ a Daughter.

ELDRED To the spot I hurried back with her.--Oh save me, Sir, From such a journey!--there was a black tree, A single tree; she thought it was her Father.-- Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now-- Nay; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it-- As we approached, a solitary crow Rose from the spot;--the Daughter clapped her hands, And then I heard a shriek so terrible [MARMADUKE shrinks back.] The startled bird quivered upon the wing.

MARMADUKE Dead, dead!--

ELDRED (after a pause) A dismal matter, Sir, for me, And seems the like for you; if 'tis your wish, I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 'twere best That she should be prepared; I'll go before.

MARMADUKE There will be need of preparation.

[ELDRED goes off.]

ELEANOR (enters) Master! Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you?

MARMADUKE (taking her arm) Woman, I've lent my body to the service Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was.

ELEANOR Oh, why have I to do with things like these?

[Exeunt.]

## SCENE changes to the door of ELDRED'S cottage--IDONEA seated--enter

ELDRED.

ELDRED Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me, And you remember such was my report: From what has just befallen me I have cause To fear the very worst.

IDONEA My Father is dead; Why dost thou come to me with words like these?

ELDRED A wicked Man should answer for his crimes.

IDONEA Thou seest me what I am.

ELDRED It was most heinous, And doth call out for vengeance.

IDONEA Do not add, I prith'ee, to the harm thou'st done already.

ELDRED Hereafter you will thank me for this service. Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were You should prepare to meet him.

IDONEA I have nothing To do with others; help me to my Father-- [She turns and sees MARMADUKE leaning on ELEANOR--throws herself upon his neck, and after some time,] In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; And thus we meet again; one human stay Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so.

MARMADUKE In such a wilderness--to see no thing, No, not the pitying moon!

IDONEA And perish so.

MARMADUKE Without a dog to moan for him.

IDONEA Think not of it, But enter there and see him how he sleeps, Tranquil as he had died in his own bed.

MARMADUKE Tranquil--why not?

IDONEA Oh, peace!

MARMADUKE He is at peace; His body is at rest: there was a plot, A hideous plot, against the soul of man: It took effect--and yet I baffled it, In _some_ degree.

IDONEA Between us stood, I thought, A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence, Alone partake of it?--Beloved Marmaduke!

MARMADUKE Give me a reason why the wisest thing That the earth owns shall never choose to die, But some one must be near to count his groans. The wounded deer retires to solitude, And dies in solitude: all things but man, All die in solitude. [Moving towards the cottage door.] Mysterious God, If she had never lived I had not done it!--

IDONEA Alas! the thought of such a cruel death Has overwhelmed him.--I must follow.

ELDRED Lady! You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion may Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering, The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side Uplift his hand--that would be evidence.

ELEANOR Shame! Eldred, shame!

MARMADUKE (both returning) The dead have but one face. (To himself.) And such a Man--so meek and unoffending-- Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man, By obvious signal to the world's protection, Solemnly dedicated--to decoy him!--

IDONEA Oh, had you seen him living!--

MARMADUKE I (so filled With horror is this world) am unto thee The thing most precious, that it now contains: Therefore through me alone must be revealed By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea! I have the proofs!--

IDONEA O miserable Father! Thou didst command me to bless all mankind; Nor to this moment, have I ever wished Evil to any living thing; but hear me, Hear me, ye Heavens!-- (kneeling) --may vengeance haunt the fiend For this most cruel murder: let him live And move in terror of the elements; The thunder send him on his knees to prayer In the open streets, and let him think he sees, If e'er he entereth the house of God, The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head; And let him, when he would lie down at night, Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow!

MARMADUKE My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee.

IDONEA (leaning on MARMADUKE) Left to the mercy of that savage Man! How could he call upon his Child!--O Friend! [Turns to MARMADUKE.] My faithful true and only Comforter.

MARMADUKE Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.) (To ELDRED.) Yes, Varlet, look, The devils at such sights do clap their hands. [ELDRED retires alarmed.]

IDONEA Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale; Hast thou pursued the monster?

MARMADUKE I have found him.-- Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames!

IDONEA Here art thou, then can I be desolate?--

MARMADUKE There was a time, when this protecting hand Availed against the mighty; never more Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine.

IDONEA Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan, Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven; And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine For closer care;--here, is no malady. [Taking his arm.]

MARMADUKE There, _is_ a malady-- (Striking his heart and forehead.) And here, and here, A mortal malady.--I am accurst: All nature curses me, and in my heart _Thy_ curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare. It must be told, and borne. I am the man, (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me, Thy Father perished.

IDONEA Perished--by what mischance?

MARMADUKE Belovèd!--if I dared, so would I call thee-- Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. [He gives her a letter.]

IDONEA (reads) "Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judgment has befallen the man who calls himself your father; he is now with me, as his signature will shew: abstain from conjecture till you see me. "HERBERT. "MARMADUKE." The writing Oswald's; the signature my Father's: (Looks steadily at the paper.) And here is yours,--or do my eyes deceive me? You have then seen my Father?

MARMADUKE He has leaned Upon this arm.

IDONEA You led him towards the Convent?

MARMADUKE That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither We were his guides. I on that night resolved That he should wait thy coming till the day Of resurrection.

IDONEA Miserable Woman, Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, I put denial on thy suit, and hence, With the disastrous issue of last night, Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. Be calm, I pray thee!

MARMADUKE Oswald--

IDONEA Name him not.

[Enter Female Beggar.]

BEGGAR And he is dead!--that Moor--how shall I cross it? By night, by day, never shall I be able To travel half a mile alone.--Good Lady! Forgive me!--Saints forgive me. Had I thought It would have come to this!--

IDONEA What brings you hither? speak!

BEGGAR (pointing to MARMADUKE) This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told him Such tales of your dead Father!--God is my judge, I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man, He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. Mercy! I said I know not what--oh pity me-- I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter-- Pity me, I am haunted;--thrice this day My conscience made me wish to be struck blind; And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.

IDONEA (to MARMADUKE) Was it my Father?--no, no, no, for he Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life --But hear me. For _one_ question, I have a heart That will sustain me. Did you murder him?

MARMADUKE No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process: Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth And innocence, embodied in his looks, His words and tones and gestures, did but serve With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. Then pity crossed the path of my resolve: Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal Of the bleak Waste--left him--and so he died!--

[IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar, ELEANOR, etc., crowd round, and bear her off.]

Why may we speak these things, and do no more; Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power, And words that tell these things be heard in vain? _She_ is not dead. Why!--if I loved this Woman, I would take care she never woke again; But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me, And say, no blame was mine--and so, poor fool, Will waste her curses on another name.

[He walks about distractedly.]

[Enter OSWALD.]

OSWALD (to himself) Strong to o'erturn, strong also to build up. [To MARMADUKE.] The starts and sallies of our last encounter Were natural enough; but that, I trust, Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains That fettered your nobility of mind-- Delivered heart and head! Let us to Palestine; This is a paltry field for enterprise.

MARMADUKE Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue-- 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness, And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!-- Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. (ironically) Start not!--Here is another face hard by; Come, let us take a peep at both together, And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, Resound the praise of your morality-- Of this too much. [Drawing OSWALD towards the Cottage--stops short at the door.] Men are there, millions, Oswald, Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised Above, or sunk below, all further sense Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. Coward I have been; know, there lies not now Within the compass of a mortal thought, A deed that I would shrink from;--but to endure, That is my destiny. May it be thine: Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth To feed remorse, to welcome every sting Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. When seas and continents shall lie between us-- The wider space the better--we may find In such a course fit links of sympathy, An incommunicable rivalship Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. [Confused voices--several of the Band enter--rush upon OSWALD and seize him.]

ONE OF THEM I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell--

OSWALD Ha! is it so!--That vagrant Hag!--this comes Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside.]

SEVERAL VOICES Despatch him!

OSWALD If I pass beneath a rock And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, A Fool and Coward blended to my wish! [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE.]

WALLACE 'Tis done! (Stabs him.)

ANOTHER OF THE BAND The ruthless traitor!

MARMADUKE A rash deed!-- With that reproof I do resign a station Of which I have been proud.

WILFRED (approaching MARMADUKE) O my poor Master!

MARMADUKE Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred, Why art thou here? [Turning to WALLACE.] Wallace, upon these Borders, Many there be whose eyes will not want cause To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms! Raise on that dreary Waste a monument That may record my story: nor let words-- Few must they be, and delicate in their touch As light itself--be there withheld from Her Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan By One who would have died a thousand times, To shield her from a moment's harm. To you, Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, By lowly nature reared, as if to make her In all things worthier of that noble birth, Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve Of restoration: with your tenderest care Watch over her, I pray--sustain her--

SEVERAL OF THE BAND (eagerly) Captain!

MARMADUKE No more of that; in silence hear my doom: A hermitage has furnished fit relief To some offenders; other penitents, Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point. They had their choice: a wanderer _must I_ go, The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide. No human ear shall ever hear me speak; No human dwelling ever give me food, Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild, In search of nothing, that this earth can give, But expiation, will I wander on-- A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life--till anger is appeased In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.

* * * * *

In June 1797 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle:

"W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity, and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four times in the 'Robbers' of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W. there are no inequalities."

On August 6, 1800, Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge:

"I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W.'s tragedy, of which I have heard so much and seen so little." Shortly afterwards, August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection that somebody, I think _you_, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess, is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison, or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off, with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family; but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices."--Ed.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

... female ... 1842.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

Ha! ... 1842.]

[Variant 3:

1849.

With whom you parted? 1842.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

... o'er ... 1842.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: He doubtless refers to the lines (Act iii. l. 405) "Action is transitory--a step, a blow," etc., which followed the Dedication of 'The White Doe of Rylstone' in the edition of 1836.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Note prefixed to the edition of 1842.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Note appended to the edition of 1842.--Ed.]

* * * * *

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

Composed 1797.--Published 1800.

[Written 1801 or 1802. This arose out of my observations of the affecting music of these birds, hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning.--I. F.]

Placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

The preceding Fenwick note to this poem is manifestly inaccurate as to date, since the poem is printed in the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800. In the edition of 1836 the date of composition is given as 1797, and this date is followed by Mr. Carter, the editor of 1857. Miss Wordsworth's Journal gives no date; and, as the Fenwick note is certainly incorrect--and the poem must have been written before the edition of 1800 came out--it seems best to trust to the date sanctioned by Wordsworth himself in 1836, and followed by his literary executor in 1857. I think it probable that the poem was written during the short visit which Wordsworth and his sister paid to their brother Richard in London in 1797, when he tried to get his tragedy, 'The Borderers', brought on the stage. The title of the poem from 1800 to 1805 was 'Poor Susan'.--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush [1] that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 5 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views [A] in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 10 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only [2] dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! [3]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

There's a Thrush ... 1800.]

[Variant 2:

1802.

The only one ... 1800.]

[Variant 3: The following stanza, in the edition of 1800, was omitted in subsequent ones:

Poor Outcast! return--to receive thee once more The house of thy Father will open its door, And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. [i]]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Wordsworth originally wrote "sees." S.T.C. suggested "views."--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON VARIANT 3

[Sub-Footnote i:

"Susan stood for the representative of poor '_Rus in urbe_.' There was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten; 'bright volumes of vapour,' etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got rid of, at all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral conduct. Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her mop, and contemplating the whirling phenomenon through blurred optics; but to term her 'a poor outcast' seems as much as to say that poor Susan was no better than she should be, which I trust was not what you meant to express."

Charles Lamb to Wordsworth. See 'The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i., p. 287.--Ed.]

* * * * *

1798

A NIGHT PIECE

Composed 1798.--Published 1815.

[Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described,--'He looks up, the clouds are split,' etc.--I. F.]

Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

* * * * *

--The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 5 So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while [1] he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 10 Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 15 And sharp, and bright, [A] along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;--still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 20 Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 25 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

* * * * *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827

... as ... 1815.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The indebtedness of the Poet to his Sister is nowhere more conspicuous than in this Poem. In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal the following occurs, under date 25th January 1798:

"Went to Poole's after tea. The sky spread over with one continuous cloud, whitened by the light of the moon, which, though her dim shape was seen, did not throw forth so strong a light as to chequer the earth with shadows. At once the clouds seemed to cleave asunder, and lift her in the centre of a black-blue vault. She sailed along, followed by multitudes of stars, small, and bright, and sharp; their brightness seemed concentrated."

Ed.]

* * * * *

WE ARE SEVEN

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, under circumstances somewhat remarkable. The little girl who is the heroine, I met within the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left the Isle of Wight, and crost Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to 'Guilt and Sorrow', I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to N. Wales to the Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer under the roof of the father of my friend, Robert Jones.

In reference to this poem, I will here mention one of the most remarkable facts in my own poetic history, and that of Mr. Coleridge. In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near it; and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem, to be sent to the 'New Monthly Magazine', set up by Philips, the bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet; and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of 'The Ancient Mariner', founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain parts I myself suggested: for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime, and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's 'Voyages', a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. 'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us at the time; at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought. We began the composition together, on that to me memorable evening: I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular--

And listen'd like a three years' child; The Mariner had his will.

These trifling contributions, all but one (which Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded), slipt out of his mind, as well they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respective manners proved so widely different, that it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. We returned after a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have many pleasant, and some of them droll enough, recollections. We returned by Dulverton to Alfoxden. 'The Ancient Mariner' grew and grew till it became too important for our first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to talk of a volume which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of Poems chiefly on natural subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as much as might be, through an imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote 'The Idiot Boy', 'Her eyes are wild', etc., 'We are Seven', 'The Thorn', and some others. To return to 'We are Seven', the piece that called forth this note, I composed it while walking in the grove at Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, that while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having begun with the last line. When it was all but finished, I came in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, "A prefatory stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal with greater pleasure if my task was finished." I mentioned in substance what I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge immediately threw off the stanza, thus;

A little child, dear brother Jem,

I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous; but we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend James Tobin's name, who was familiarly called Jem. He was the brother of the dramatist; and this reminds me of an anecdote which it may be worth while here to notice. The said Jem got a sight of the "Lyrical Ballads" as it was going through the press at Bristol, during which time I was residing in that city. One evening he came to me with a grave face, and said, "Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that Coleridge and you are about to publish. There is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you will cancel, for, if published, it will make you everlastingly ridiculous." I answered, that I felt much obliged by the interest he took in my good name as a writer, and begged to know what was the unfortunate piece he alluded to. He said, 'It is called 'We are Seven'.' 'Nay,' said I, 'that shall take its chance, however'; and he left me in despair. I have only to add, that in the spring [A] of 1841, I revisited Goodrich Castle, not having seen that part of the Wye since I met the little girl there in 1793. It would have given me greater pleasure to have found in the neighbouring hamlet traces of one who had interested me so much, but that was impossible, as unfortunately I did not even know her name. The ruin, from its position and features, is a most impressive object. I could not but deeply regret that its solemnity was impaired by a fantastic new Castle set up on a projection of the same ridge, as if to show how far modern art can go in surpassing all that could be done by antiquity and nature with their united graces, remembrances, and associations. I could have almost wished for power, so much the contrast vexed me, to blow away Sir----Meyrick's impertinent structure and all the fopperies it contains.--I. F.]

* * * * *

The "structure" referred to is Goodrich Court, built in 1828 by Sir Samuel Rush Meyrick--a collector of ancient armour, and a great authority on the subject--mainly to receive his extensive private collection. The armour has been removed from Goodrich to the South Kensington Museum. 'We are Seven' was placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

--A simple Child, [1] That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? [B]

I met a little cottage Girl: 5 She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: 10 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, 15 And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. 20

"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, 25 And two are gone to sea, Yet ye [2] are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; 30 Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, 35 Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. 40

"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. [3]

"And often after sun-set, Sir, 45 When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane; [4] In bed she moaning lay, 50 Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, [5] Together round her grave we played, 55 My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." 60

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, [6] "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! 65 Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

A simple child, dear brother Jim, 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

I sit and sing to them. 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

... little Jane; 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1827.

And all the summer dry, 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1836.

The little Maiden did reply, 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It was in June, after leaving Alfoxden finally.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: The whole of this stanza was written by Coleridge. In a MS. copy of the poem, transcribed by him, after 1806, Wordsworth gave it the title 'We are Seven, or Death', but afterwards restored the original title.--Ed.]

* * * * *

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

'Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.'

EUSEBIUS. [A]

* * * * *

[This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. The boy was a son of my friend, Basil Montagu, who had been two or three years under our care. The name of Kilve is from a village on the Bristol Channel, about a mile from Alfoxden; and the name of Liswyn Farm was taken from a beautiful spot on the Wye, where Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and I had been visiting the famous John Thelwall, who had taken refuge from politics, after a trial for high treason, with a view to bring up his family by the profits of agriculture, which proved as unfortunate a speculation as that he had fled from. Coleridge and he had both been public lecturers; Coleridge mingling, with his politics, Theology, from which the other elocutionist abstained, unless it was for the sake of a sneer. This quondam community of public employment induced Thelwall to visit Coleridge at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my way. He really was a man of extraordinary talent, an affectionate husband, and a good father. Though brought up in the city, on a tailor's board, he was truly sensible of the beauty of natural objects. I remember once, when Coleridge, he, and I were seated together upon the turf, on the brink of a stream in the most beautiful part of the most beautiful glen of Alfoxden, Coleridge exclaimed, 'This is a place to reconcile one to all the jarrings and conflicts of the wide world.' 'Nay,' said Thelwall, 'to make one forget them altogether.' The visit of this man to Coleridge was, as I believe Coleridge has related, the occasion of a spy being sent by Government to watch our proceedings; which were, I can say with truth, such as the world at large would have thought ludicrously harmless.--I. F.]

* * * * *

In the editions 1798 to 1843 the title of this poem is 'Anecdote for Fathers, showing how the practice [1] of lying may be taught'. It was placed among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

I have a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 5 Our quiet home [2] all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 10 Our [3] pleasant home when spring began, A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear Some fond regrets to entertain; [4] With so much happiness to spare, 15 I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade.[5] 20

Birds warbled round me--and each trace Of inward sadness had its charm; Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,[6] And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim 25 And graceful in his rustic dress! And, as we talked, I questioned him, [7] In very idleness.

"Now tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm, 30 "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" [8]

In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be 35 Than here at Liswyn farm."

"Now, little Edward, say why so: My little Edward, tell me why."-- "I cannot tell, I do not know."-- "Why, this is strange," said I; 40

"For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: [9] There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea."

At this, my boy hung down his head, 45 He blushed with shame, nor made reply; [10] And three times to the child I said, [11] "Why, Edward, tell me why?"

His head he raised--there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain-- 50 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And eased his mind with this reply: [12] "At Kilve there was no weather-cock; 55 And that's the reason why."

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. [B] 60

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

the art ... 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1802.

... house ... 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1802.

My ... 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1827.

To think, and think, and think again; 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1827.

The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, And so is Liswyn farm." 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1836.

...--every trace Of inward sadness had its charm; "Kilve," said I, ... 1827.

This verse was introduced in 1827.]

[Variant 7: 1836.

My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him, 1798.

This was stanza v. from 1798 to 1820.

And, as we talked, I questioned him, 1827.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

"My little boy, which like you more," I said and took him by the arm-- "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, Or here at Liswyn farm?"

"And tell me, had you rather be," I said and held him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" 1798.

These two stanzas were compressed into one in 1827.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

For, here are woods and green-hills warm; 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1800.

At this, my boy, so fair and slim, Hung down his head, nor made reply; 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1845.

And five times did I say to him, 1798.

And five times to the child I said, 1800.]

[Variant 12:

1836.

And thus to me he made reply; 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Appendix IV.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Mr. Ernest H. Coleridge writes to me of this poem:

"The Fenwick note is most puzzling.

1. If Coleridge went to visit Thelwall, with Wordsworth and Dorothy in July 1798, this is the only record; but I suppose that he did.

2. How could the poem have been suggested in front of Alfoxden? The visit to Liswyn took place after the Wordsworths had left Alfoxden never to return. If little Montagu ever did compare Kilve and Liswyn Farm, he must have done so after he left Alfoxden. The scene is laid at Liswyn, and if the poem was written at Alfoxden, before the party visited Liswyn, the supposed reply was invented to a supposed question which might be put to the child when he got to Liswyn. How unlike Wordsworth.

3. Thelwall came to Alfoxden at the commencement of Wordsworth's tenancy; and the visit to Wales took place when the tenancy was over, July 3-10."

Ed.]

* * * * *

"A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL"

Composed March 18, 1798.--Published 1800.

[Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were written in the spring of 1799. [A] I had the pleasure of again seeing, with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years after. [B]--I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Then--all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, 5 I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, 10 [1] And all the year the bower is green. [C] But see! where'er the hailstones drop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There's not a breeze--no breath of air-- Yet here, and there, and every where 15 Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 20 And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy. [2] [3] [D]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

You could not lay a hair between:

Inserted in the editions 1800-1815.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

And all those leaves, that jump and spring, Were each a joyous, living thing. 1800.]

[Variant 3: The following additional lines occur in the editions 1800 to 1805:

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease That I may never cease to find, Even in appearances like these Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date 1798, and in the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths were not at Alfoxden but in Germany.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: The friends were Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, Edward and Dora Quillinan, and William Wordsworth (the poet's son). The date was May 13, 1841.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Compare a letter from Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont, written in November 1806, and one to Lady Beaumont in December 1806.--Ed.]

[Footnote D:

"March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William wrote a description of the storm"

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

* * * * *

THE THORN

Composed March 19, 1798.--Published 1798.

In the editions of 1800-1805, Wordsworth added the following note to this poem:

"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a mood when it was probable that I should write it well.--The character which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small independent income to some village or country town of which he was not a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and by accumulated imagery.

"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly; yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly. The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full effect.

"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words closely connected with 'The Thorn' and many other Poems in these Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more

## particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not

measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers, or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as symbols of the passion, but as 'things', active and efficient, which are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every nation.

Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.

At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.

Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his Chariot?

(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th.)

See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem."

"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the story."

W. W. Advertisement to "Lyrical Ballads," 1798.

* * * * *

[Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?" I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to paint the same subject over again.' The sky in this picture is nobly done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however, of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.--I. F.]

* * * * *

'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

I "There is a Thorn--it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child 5 It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone 10 With lichens is it overgrown. [2]

II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: 15 Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; 20 And all have [4] joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

III "High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25 It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond 30 Of water--never dry Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]

IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35 A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, 40 As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye.

V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45 Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50 So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. 55

VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap 60 So like [6] an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! 65 Oh woe is me! oh misery!'

VII "At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; 70 And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still And to herself she cries, 75 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80 Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky, Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, 85 And wherefore does she cry?-- O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?"

IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: 90 But would you [7] gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like [8] an infant's grave, The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- 95 And, if you see her in her hut-- Then to the spot away! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there."

X "But wherefore to the mountain-top 100 Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" [9] "Full twenty years are past and gone [10] Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 105 Gave with a maiden's true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. [11] 110

XI "And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And, with this other Maid, to church 115 Unthinking Stephen went-- Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A fire was kindled in her breast, 121 Which might not burn itself to rest. [12]

XII "They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, 125 And there was often seen. What could she seek?--or wish to hide? Her state to any eye was plain; [13] She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130 From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father--would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15]

XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! 135 Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140 About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again: And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, 145 And it should all be told to you; [17] For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; [18] Nay--if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150 And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said; [20] But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. 155

XV "And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek: For many a time and oft were heard 160 Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate'er they say, 165 They had to do with Martha Ray.

XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described [21] to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I will be sworn is true. 170 For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height:-- 175 A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee.

XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in sooth, [22] it was 180 A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag,--and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; 185 And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground.

XVIII "I did not speak--I saw her face; Her face!--it was [23] enough for me: 190 I turned about and heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And, when the little breezes make 195 The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!'"

XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? 200 And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes [24] The little pond to stir?" "I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree; 205 Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 210

XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red [25] With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, 215 And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 220 The baby looks at you again.

XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. 225 But instantly the hill of moss [26] Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass--it shook upon the ground! Yet [27] all do still aver 230 The little Babe lies [28] buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXII "I cannot tell how this may be But plain it is the Thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss that strive 235 To drag it to the ground; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, 240 That I have heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

* * * * *

Compare 'The Heart of Midlothian' (vol. iii. chap. v. edition of 1818):

"Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?" said Jeanie, who began to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods, and more remote from the highroad.

"Do I ken the road? Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them try it as muckle as they like."

By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland. The trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the poet of Grasmere has described in the motto to our chapter. So soon as she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her hands above her head, with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at once upon the spot, and remained there lying motionless.

Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With an effort, which, in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and tried to raise up the forlorn creature. She effected this with difficulty, and as she placed her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise, that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger, Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude.

"Let me alane!--let me alane!" said the poor young woman, as her paroxysm of sorrow began to abate. "Let me alane; it does me good to weep. I canna shed tears but maybe anes or twice a-year, and I aye come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and the grass may be green."

"But what is the matter with you?" said Jeanie. "Why do you weep so bitterly?"

"There's matter enow," replied the lunatic; "mair than ae puir mind can bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I like ye, Jeanie Deans; a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the Pleasaunts. And I mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when I had been on Arthur's Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the ship that somebody was sailing in."

Ed.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

... thorny ... 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

... it is overgrown. 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

... were ... 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

... had ... 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1820.

I've measured it from side to side: 'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide. 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

That's like ... 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1827.

But if you'd ... 1798.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

The heap that's like ... 1798.]

[Variant 9: In the editions 1798 to 1815.

Nay rack your brain--'tis all in vain, I'll tell you every thing I know; But to the thorn, and to the pond Which is a little step beyond, I wish that you would go: Perhaps when you are at the place You something of her tale may trace.

XI I'll give you the best help I can: Before you up the mountain go, Up to the dreary mountain-top, I'll tell you all I know.]

[Variant 10:

1845.

'Tis now some two and twenty years, 1798.

'Tis known, that twenty years are passed 1820.]

[Variant 11:

1820.

And she was happy, happy still Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 1798.]

[Variant 12:

1815.

... on that woful day A cruel, cruel fire, they say, Into her bones was sent: It dried her body like a cinder, And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 1798.]

[Variant 13:

1836.

'Tis said, a child was in her womb, As now to any eye was plain; 1798.

'Tis said, her lamentable state Even to a careless eye was plain; 1820.

Alas! her lamentable state 1827.]

[Variant 14:

1836.

... she was... 1798.]

[Variant 15:

1820.

Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather That he had died, that cruel father! 1798.]

[Variant 16:

1820.

Last Christmas when we talked of this, Old Farmer Simpson did maintain, That in her womb the infant wrought 1798.]

[Variant 17:

1827.

No more I know, I wish I did, And I would tell it all to you; 1798.]

[Variant 18:

1827.

There's none that ever knew: 1798.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

And if a child was born or no, There's no one that could ever tell; 1798.]

[Variant 20:

1827.

There's no one knows, as I have said, 1798.]

[Variant 21:

1827.

... I've described ... 1798.]

[Variant 22:

1845.

... in faith, ... 1798.]

[Variant 23:

1798.

In truth, it was ... 1800.

The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1798.]

[Variant 24:

1827.

... and what's the pond? And what's the hill of moss to her? And what's the ... 1798.]

[Variant 25:

1800.

I've heard the scarlet moss is red 1798.]

[Variant 26:

1845.

But then the beauteous hill of moss 1798.

It might not be--the Hill of moss 1827.

But then the beauteous Hill of moss 1832. (Returning to the text of 1798.)

But then the speckled hill of moss 1836.]

[Variant 27:

1827.

But ... 1798.]

[Variant 28:

1845.

... is buried ... 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted Thorn" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed.

"April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes. Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT

[Sub-Footnote i: Compare in Bürger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter', "drei Spannen lang," and see Appendix V.--Ed.]

* * * * *

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

A TRUE STORY

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zoönomia'.--I. F.]

See Erasmus Darwin's 'Zoönomia', vol. iv. pp. 68-69, ed. 1801. It is the story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signer L. Storgosi, in a work called 'Il Narratore Italiano'.

"I received good information of the truth of the following case, which was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the blessing to be warm.' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the cold air, till at length he died."

In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads," Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire."

The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April 1799:

"IPSWICH, April 2, 1799.

"To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'.

"GENTLEMEN--The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and which has, a short time since', been turned by a _lyric poet_ into that excellent ballad."

From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the Imagination." In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous Poems."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still! Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5 Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15 His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; His voice was like the voice of three. 20 Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25 And then her three hours' work at night, Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. Remote from sheltered village-green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30 Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]

By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; 35 But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone. 'Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the _canty_ Dame Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40

But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh then how her old bones would shake; You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45 Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed; And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout; 50 And scattered many a lusty splinter And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55 Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could anything be more alluring Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60 And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected 65 This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detected-- That [5] he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take; 70 And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand: The moon was full and shining clearly, 75 And crisp with frost the stubble land. --He hears a noise--he's all awake-- Again?--on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake; She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80

Right glad was he when he beheld her: Stick after stick did Goody pull: He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, 85 The by-way [6] back again to take; He started forward, with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, 90 And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95 To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm-- "God! who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!" 100 The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray; Young Harry heard what she had said: And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow 105 That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: 110 Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three.

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinned; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115 Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say, 'tis plain That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again. 120

No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." A-bed or up, by night or day; 125 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1802.

Auld 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1836

--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, Her hut was on a cold hill-side, And in that country coals are dear, For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.

Remote from sheltering village green, Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. 1820.

On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827.]

[Variant 3.

1820.

... dwelt ... 1798.]

[Variant 4.

1827.

... wood ... 1798]

[Variant 5.

1836.

And ... 1798.]

[Variant 6.

1827.

The bye-road ... 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal.--Ed.]

* * * * *

HER EYES ARE WILD

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of Bristol, who had seen the poor creature.--I. F.]

From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad Mother'.

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination." In 1836 and afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, 5 Or else she were alone: And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the greenwood stone, She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. 10

II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15 I pray thee have no fear of me; But safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be: To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe. 20

III "A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces, one, two, three, Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me; But then there came a sight of joy; 25 It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he. 30

IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35 It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree: It comes to cool my babe and me. 40

V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, 45 Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie; for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die. 50

VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion will I be; [2] And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55 The leaves that make the softest bed: And, if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shall sing As merry as the birds in spring. 60

VII "Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest; 'Tis all thine own!--and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65 My beauty, little child, is flown, But thou wilt live with me in love; And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. 70

VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life; I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75 With me he never would have stayed: From him no harm my babe can take; But he, poor man! is wretched made; And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away. 80

IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. --Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85 What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad. 90

X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am: My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade; 95 I know the earth-nuts fit for food: Then, pretty dear, be not afraid: We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." [A] 100

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1.

1820.

... breasts ... 1798.]

[Variant 2.

1832.

... I will be; 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors, that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the loss of Paradise."

(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800.) See 'William Godwin: his Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN;

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love their voice,' was word for word from his own lips.--I. F.]

This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old Man dwells, a little man,-- 'Tis said [1] he once was tall. [2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5 A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]

No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee: 10 When Echo bandied, round and round, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15 The sleepers of the village. [5]

He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase [6] was done, He reeled, and was stone blind. 20 And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7] Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead,--and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. [8]

And [9] he is lean and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35 His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. [10] 40

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath 45 Enclosed when he was stronger; But what to them avails the land Which he can till no longer? [11]

Oft, working by her Husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50 For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12] Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little--all 55 That they can do between them. [13]

Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60 My gentle Reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And now I fear [15] that you expect Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind 65 Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B] O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, And you must [16] kindly take it: 70 It is no tale; but, should you think, [17] Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see This old Man doing all he could To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75 A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand; So vain was his endeavour, That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. 80

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffered aid. I struck, and with a single blow 85 The tangled root I severed, At which the poor old Man so long And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run 90 So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men 95 Hath oftener [19] left me mourning.[C]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

I've heard ... 1798.]

[Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:

Of years he has upon his back, No doubt, a burthen weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he, That's fair behind, and fair before; Yet, meet him where you will, you see At once that he is poor.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

... five and twenty ... 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

And, though he has but one eye left, His cheek is like a cherry. 1798.

And still the centre of his cheek Is blooming as a cherry. 1820.]

[Variant 5:

1827.

No man like him the horn could sound, And no man was so full of glee; To say the least, four counties round Had heard of Simon Lee; His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. 1798.

Worn out by hunting feats--bereft By time of friends and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead, ... 1827.

The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the second stanza being third in 1827.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

... race ... 1798.]

[Variant 7:

Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.

In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828.]

[Variant 8:

1832.

His hunting feats have him bereft Of his right eye, as you may see: And then, what limbs those feats have left To poor old Simon Lee! He has no son, he has no child, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common. 1798.

His hunting feats have him bereft Of his right eye, as you may see, And Simon to the world is left, In liveried poverty. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage; And now is forced to work, though weak, --The weakest in the village. 1820.]

[Variant 9:

1798.

But ... 1820.

The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1827.

His little body's half awry, His ancles they are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage; And now he's forced to work, though weak, --The weakest in the village. 1798.

His dwindled body's half awry, 1800.

His ancles, too, are swoln and thick; 1815.

And now is forced to work, 1815.

His dwindled body half awry, Rests upon ancles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. He has no son, he has no child, His Wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. 1820.]

[Variant 11:

1845.

But what avails the land to them, Which they can till no longer? 1798.

"But what," saith he, "avails the land, Which I can till no longer?" 1827.

But what avails it now, the land Which he can till no longer? 1832.

'Tis his, but what avails the land Which he can till no longer? 1837.

The time, alas! is come when he Can till the land no longer. 1840.

The time is also come when he Can till the land no longer. C.]

[Variant 12:

1827.

Old Ruth works out of doors with him, And does what Simon cannot do; For she, not over stout of limb, 1798.]

[Variant 13:

1840.

Alas! 'tis very little, all Which they can ... 1798.

That they can ... 1837.]

[Variant 14:

1815.

His poor old ancles swell. 1798.]

[Variant 15:

1820.

And I'm afraid ... 1798.]

[Variant 16:

1820.

I hope you'll ... 1798.]

[Variant 17:

1798.

... _think_,

In the editions 1832 to 1843.]

[Variant 18:

1815.

About the root ... 1798.]

[Variant 19:

1820.

Has oftner ... 1798.

Has oftener ... 1805.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in Milton's 'Lycidas'. (Professor Dowden.) See 'Lycidas', l. 37.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx.:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past;

and in Spenser's 'An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing.'

Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.

Ed.]

[Footnote C: See Appendix VI. to this volume.--Ed.]

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the 'Comb', in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree--an ash if I rightly remember--from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, after an interval of more than forty years, [A] this interesting feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep along without difficulty.--I. F.]

These 'Lines' were included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link 5 The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green [1] bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10 And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. [B]

The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion which they made, 15 It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. 20

If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, [2] Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

* * * * *

This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This Lime-Tree Bower, my Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb:

The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep, And only speckled by the midday sun; Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock Flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash, Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, Fanned by the waterfall!

Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880, I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored. An ash tree, having fallen across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the Fenwick note.--Ed.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

... sweet 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1837.

If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, 1798.

If this belief from Heaven is sent, If such be nature's holy plan, 1820.

From Heaven if this belief be sent, 1827.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See the Fenwick note to "A whirl-blast from behind the hill," p. 238.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: See Appendix VII.--Ed.]

* * * * *

TO MY SISTER

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed.--I. F.]

In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, 'Lines written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the person to whom they are addressed'. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, 'To my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy'. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply 'To my Sister'. The poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air, 5 Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, 10 Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you;--and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day 15 We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar: We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. 20

Love, now a [1] universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: --It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more 25 Than years of toiling reason: [2] Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make, [3] Which they shall long obey: 30 We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: 35 They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. 40

* * * * *

The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be identified.--Ed.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

... an ... 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1837.

Than fifty years of reason; 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1820.

... may. 1798.]

* * * * *

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many occasions. It was composed in front of the house of Alfoxden, in the spring of 1798. [A]--I.F.]

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

* * * * *

THE POEM

"Why, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away?

"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed 5 To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; 10 As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 And thus I made reply.

"The eye--it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. 20

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking?

"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, 30 I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away."

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes,

"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy."

Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it--a much more probable supposition--his friend, S. T. Coleridge?--Ed.]

* * * * *

THE TABLES TURNED

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT

Composed 1798.--Published 1798

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

* * * * *

THE POEM

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? [1]

The sun, above the mountain's head, 5 A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10 How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is [2] no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, 15 Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. [A]

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25 Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those [3] barren leaves; 30 Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, Why all this toil and trouble? Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double. 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

And he is ... 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1837.

... these ... 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: A mediæval anticipation of this may be quoted in a footnote.

"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters."

I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all approaching to it which I can verify is the following:

"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit, maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet."

See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of 'Bernardi Opera', ii. 1072, 'S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo'.--Ed.]

* * * * *

THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem.--W. W. 1798.

[At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads."--I. F.]

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

* * * * *

THE POEM

I Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars, they were among my dreams; [1] In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5 I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3] And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive; Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! 10

II My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain: All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, 15 For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie! Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20

III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair; Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5] When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25 And oh, how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30

IV My Child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, 35 A most strange working [8] did I see; --As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me: And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40

V My little joy! my little pride! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee. O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45 The way my friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send; Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away; For I had many things to say. 50

VI I'll follow you across the snow; Ye [11] travel heavily and slow; In spite of all my weary pain I'll look upon your tents again. --My fire is dead, and snowy white 55 The water which beside it stood: The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I; Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60

VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13] I shall not see another sun; I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken Child, if I 65 For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then would die, And my last thought would happy be; [14] But thou, dear Babe, art far away, Nor shall I see another day. [15] 70

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1798.

The stars were mingled with my dreams; 1815.

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1820.

In sleep did I behold the skies, 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

I saw the crackling flashes drive; 1798.

I heard, and saw the flashes drive; 1820.]

[Variant 4:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1815.

Too soon despair o'er me prevailed; Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1845.

My friends, when you ... 1798.

... when ye ... 1815.]

[Variant 8:

1815.

A most strange something .... 1798.]

[Variant 9:

1815.

... a little child. 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1815.

You ... 1798.]

[Variant 12: This stanza was omitted in the editions 1815 to 1832, but restored in 1836.--Ed.]

[Variant 13:

1836.

My journey will be shortly run, 1798.]

[Variant 14:

1836.

... I then would die, And my last thoughts ... 1798.

... I then should die, 1800.]

[Variant 15:

1836.

I feel my body die away, I shall not see another day. 1798.]

* * * * *

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Produced at the same time as 'The Complaint', and for the same purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by Alfoxden.--I. F.]

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

* * * * *

THE POEM

I In distant countries have I been, [1] And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads, alone. But such a one, on English ground, 5 And in the broad highway, I met; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet: Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a Lamb he had. 10

II He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: And with his coat did then essay [2] To wipe those briny tears away. I followed him, and said, "My friend, 15 What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" --"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock: He is the last of all my flock. 20

III "When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, an ewe [3] I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, 25 As healthy sheep as you might see; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I numbered a full score, And every year increased my store. 30

IV "Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As fine [4] a flock as ever grazed! Upon the Quantock hills they fed; [5] 35 They throve, and we at home did thrive: --This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. 40

V "Six [6] Children, Sir! had I to feed; Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the Parish asked relief. They said, I was a wealthy man; 45 My sheep upon the uplands [7] fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread. 'Do this: how can we give to you,' They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' 50

VI "I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me--it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, 55 To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away-- For me it was a woeful day. 60

VII "Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopped-- Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. 'Till thirty were not left alive 65 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say, that many a time I wished they all were gone-- Reckless of what might come at last Were but the bitter struggle past. [8] 70

VIII "To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies crossed my mind; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me: No peace, no comfort could I find, 75 No ease, within doors or without; And, crazily and wearily I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam.[9] 80

IX "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more. Alas! it was an evil time; 85 God cursed me in my sore distress; I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock it seemed to melt away. 90

X "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;-. And then at last from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday 95 I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none;-- To-day I fetched it from the rock; It is the last of all my flock." 100

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

... I have been, 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

Then with his coat he made essay 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1832.

... a ewe ... 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

As sweet ... 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1836.

Upon the mountain did they feed; 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1800.

Ten ... 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1836.

... upon the mountain ... 1798.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

They dwindled one by one away; For me it was a woeful day. 1798.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

Oft-times I thought to run away; For me it was a woeful day. 1798.

Bent oftentimes to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 1827.]

* * * * *

THE IDIOT BOY

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, 'The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,' was the foundation of the whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole; but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots. Let me add, that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for, in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.--I. F.]

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

* * * * *

THE POEM

'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night, The moon is up,--the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts from [1] nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5 Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

--Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set 10 Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? [2]

Scarcely a soul is out of bed: [3] Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do 15 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? [4]

But Betty's bent on her intent; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 20 As if her very life would fail.

There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, 25 For what she ails they cannot guess.

And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 30 What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched Her Pony, that is mild and good; Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, 35 Or bringing faggots from the wood.

And he is all in travelling trim,-- And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has on the well-girt saddle set [5] (The like was never heard of yet) 40 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And he must post without delay Across the bridge and through the dale, [6] And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, 45 Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand; For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a _hurly-burly_ now 50 He shakes the green bough in his hand.

And Betty o'er and o'er has told The Boy, who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, 55 How turn to left, and how to right.

And Betty's most especial charge, Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you Come home again, nor stop at all,-- Come home again, whate'er befal, 60 My Johnny, do, I pray you do."

To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too; And then! his words were not a few, 65 Which Betty well could understand.

And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the Pony's side, On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 70 And seems no longer in a hurry.

But when the Pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, 75 He's idle all for very joy.

And while the Pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left hand you may see The green bough [7] motionless and dead: The Moon that shines above his head 80 Is not more still and mute than he.

His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship: 85 Oh! happy, happy, happy John.

And while the Mother, at the door, Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows [8] Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim, 90 How quietly her Johnny goes.

The silence of her Idiot Boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! He's at the guide-post--he turns right; She watches till he's out of sight, 95 And Betty will not then depart.

Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr. As loud as any mill, or near it; Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 100 And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

Away she hies to Susan Gale: Her Messenger's in merry tune; [9] The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 105 As [10] on he goes beneath the moon.

His steed and he right well agree; For of this Pony there's a rumour, That, should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, 110 He never will be out of humour.

But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks, his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 115 What he has got upon his back.

So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, 120 To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And Betty, now at Susan's side, Is in the middle of her story, What speedy help her Boy will bring, [11] With many a most diverting thing, 125 Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.

And Betty, still at Susan's side, By this time is not quite so flurried: [12] Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate 130 Her life and soul were buried.

But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment's store Five years of happiness or more 135 To any that might need it.

But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well; And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, 140 Which she to Susan will not tell.

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; They'll both be here--'tis almost ten-- 145 Both will be [13] here before eleven."

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven; 'Tis on the stroke--"He must be near," Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, [14] 150 As sure as there's a moon in heaven."

The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight: --The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; 155 And Susan has a dreadful night.

And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast: "A little idle sauntering Thing!" With other names, an endless string; 160 But now that time is gone and past.

And Betty's drooping at the heart, That happy time all past and gone, "How can it be he is so late? The Doctor, he has made him wait; 165 Susan! they'll both be here anon."

And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad _quandary_; And then there's nobody to say If she must go, or she must stay! 170 --She's in a sad _quandary_.

The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his Guide Appears [15] along the moonlight road; There's neither horse nor man abroad, 175 And Betty's still at Susan's side.

And Susan now begins to fear [16] Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drowned; Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 180 Which they must both for ever rue.

She prefaced half a hint of this With, "God forbid it should be true!" At the first word that Susan said Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 185 "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.

"I must be gone, I must away: Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; Susan, we must take care of him, If he is hurt in life or limb"-- 190 "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.

"What can I do?" says Betty, going, "What can I do to ease your pain? Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; I fear you're in a dreadful way, 195 But I shall soon be back again."

"Nay, Betty, [17] go! good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain." Then off she hies; but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, 200 Till she comes back again.

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, 205 Would surely be a tedious tale.

In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, In tree and tower was Johnny seen, In bush and brake, in black and green; 210 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

And while she crossed the bridge, there came A thought with which her heart is sore--[18] Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, To hunt the moon within the brook, [19] 215 And never will be heard of more.

Now is she high [20] upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide; There's neither Johnny nor his Horse Among the fern or in the gorse; 220 There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.

"Oh saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead; Or, sadly he has been misled, 225 And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.

"Or him that wicked Pony's carried To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; Or in the castle he's pursuing Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230 Or playing with the waterfall."

At poor old Susan then she railed, While to the town she posts away; "If Susan had not been so ill, Alas! I should have had him still, 235 My Johnny, till my dying day."

Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, The Doctor's self could [21] hardly spare: Unworthy things she talked, and wild; Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240 The Pony had his share.

But now she's fairly in the town, [22] And to the Doctor's door she hies; 'Tis silence all on every side; The town so long, the town so wide, 245 Is silent as the skies.

And now she's at the Doctor's door, She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; The Doctor at the casement shows His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 250 And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?" "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 255 You know him--him you often see;

"He's not so wise as some folks be": "The devil take his wisdom!" said The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, "What, Woman! should I know of him?" 260 And, grumbling, he went back to bed!

"O woe is me! O woe is me! Here will I die; here will I die; I thought to find my lost one here, [23] But he is neither far nor near, 265 Oh! what a wretched Mother I!"

She stops, she stands, she looks about; Which way to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty! it would ease her pain If she had heart to knock again; 270 --The clock strikes three--a dismal knell!

Then up along the town she hies, No wonder if her senses fail; This piteous news so much it shocked her, She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 275 To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And now she's high upon the down, And she can see a mile of road: "O cruel! I'm almost threescore; Such night as this was ne'er before, 280 There's not a single soul abroad."

She listens, but she cannot hear The foot of horse, the voice of man; The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, 285 You hear it now, if e'er you can.

The owlets through the long blue night Are shouting to each other still: Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob, They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 290 That echoes far from hill to hill.

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, A green-grown pond she just has past, And from the brink she hurries fast, 295 Lest she should drown herself therein.

And now she sits her down and weeps; Such tears she never shed before; "Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy! Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! 300 And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

A thought is come into her head: The Pony he is mild and good, And we have always used him well; Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 305 And carried Johnny to the wood.

Then up she springs as if on wings; She thinks no more of deadly sin; If Betty fifty ponds should see, The last of all her thoughts would be 310 To drown herself therein.

O Reader! now that I might tell What Johnny and his Horse are doing! What they've been doing all this time, Oh could I put it into rhyme, 315 A most delightful tale pursuing!

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! He with his Pony now doth roam The cliffs and peaks so high that are, To lay his hands upon a star, 320 And in his pocket bring it home.

Perhaps he's turned himself about, His face unto his horse's tail, And, still and mute, in wonder lost, All silent as a horseman-ghost, 325 He travels slowly down the vale. [24]

And now, perhaps, is hunting [25] sheep, A fierce and dreadful hunter he; Yon valley, now so trim [26] and green, In five months' time, should he be seen, 330 A desert wilderness will be!

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, And like the very soul of evil, He's galloping away, away, And so will gallop [27] on for aye, 335 The bane of all that dread the devil!

I to the Muses have been bound These fourteen years, by strong indentures: [A] O gentle Muses! let me tell But half of what to him befel; 340 He surely met [28] with strange adventures.

O gentle Muses! is this kind? Why will ye thus my suit repel? Why of your further aid bereave me? And can ye thus unfriended [29] leave me; 345 Ye Muses! whom I love so well?

Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, Which thunders down with headlong force Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, As careless as if nothing were, 350 Sits upright on a feeding horse?

Unto his horse--there feeding [30] free, He seems, I think, the rein to give; Of moon or stars he takes no heed; Of such we in romances read: 355 --'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

And that's the very Pony, too! Where is she, where is Betty Foy? She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring waterfall she hears, 360 And cannot find her Idiot Boy.

Your Pony's worth his weight in gold: Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! She's coming from among the trees, And now all full in view she sees 365 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And Betty sees the Pony too: Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, 370 He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.

She looks again--her arms are up-- She screams--she cannot move for joy; She darts, as with a torrent's force, She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 375 And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.

And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; Whether in cunning or in joy I cannot tell; but while he laughs, Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 380 To hear again her Idiot Boy.

And now she's at the Pony's tail, And now is [31] at the Pony's head,-- On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss, 385 A few sad tears does Betty shed.

She kisses o'er and o'er again Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She's happy here, is happy there, [32] She is uneasy every where; 390 Her limbs are all alive with joy.

She pats the Pony, where or when She knows not, happy Betty Foy! The little Pony glad may be, But he is milder far than she, 395 You hardly can perceive his joy.

"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; You've done your best, and that is all:" She took the reins, when this was said, And gently turned the Pony's head 400 From the loud waterfall.

By this the stars were almost gone, The moon was setting on the hill, So pale you scarcely looked at her: The little birds began to stir, 405 Though yet their tongues were still.

The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, Wind slowly through the woody dale; And who is she, betimes abroad, That hobbles up the steep rough road? 410 Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

Long time lay Susan lost in thought; [33] And many dreadful fears beset her, Both for her Messenger and Nurse; And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 415 Her body--it grew better.

She turned, she tossed herself in bed, On all sides doubts and terrors met her; Point after point did she discuss; And, while her mind was fighting thus, 420 Her body still grew better.

"Alas! what is become of them? These fears can never be endured; I'll to the wood."--The word scarce said, Did Susan rise up from her bed, 425 As if by magic cured.

Away she goes [34] up hill and down, And to the wood at length is come; She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; Oh me! it is a merry meeting 430 As ever was in Christendom.

The owls have hardly sung their last, While our four travellers homeward wend; The owls have hooted all night long, And with the owls began my song, 435 And with the owls must end.

For while they all were travelling home, Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do, Where all this long night you have been, What you have heard, what you have seen: 440 And, Johnny, mind you tell us true."

Now Johnny all night long had heard The owls in tuneful concert strive; No doubt too he the moon had seen; For in the moonlight he had been 445 From eight o'clock till five.

And thus, to Betty's question, he Made answer, like a traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 450 And the sun did shine so cold!" --Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

He shouts from ... 1798.]

[Variant 2: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.

Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?]

[Variant 3:

1836.

There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 1798.]

[Variant 4: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.

The world will say 'tis very idle, Bethink you of the time of night; There's not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.]

[Variant 5:

1836.

Has up upon the saddle set, 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1820.

... that's in the dale, 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1827.

... bough's ... 1798.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

And Betty's standing at the door, And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 1798.]

[Variant 9:

1820.

And Johnny's in a merry tune, 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1827.

And ... 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1836.

What comfort Johnny soon will bring, 1798.

What comfort soon her Boy will bring, 1827.]

[Variant 12:

1827.

And Betty's still at Susan's side: By this time she's not quite so flurried; 1798.]

[Variant 13:

1827.

They'll both be ... 1798.]

[Variant 14:

1827.

'Tis on the stroke--"If Johnny's near," Quoth Betty, "he will soon be here," 1798.]

[Variant 15:

1836.

Appear ... 1798.]

[Variant 16:

1827.

... she begins to fear 1798.]

[Variant 17:

1800.

Good Betty [i] ... 1798.]

[Variant 18:

1836.

She's past the bridge that's in the dale, And now the thought torments her sore, 1798.

She's past the bridge far in the dale; 1820.

The bridge is past--far in the dale; 1827.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

... that's in the brook, 1798.]

[Variant 20:

1827.

And now she's high ... 1798.]

[Variant 21.

1827.

...would ... 1798.]

[Variant 22.

1836.

And now she's got into the town, 1798.]

[Variant 23:

1827.

... my Johnny here, 1798.]

[Variant 24.

1836.

All like a silent horseman-ghost, He travels on along the vale. 1798.]

[Variant 25.

1820.

... he's hunting . . 1798.]

[Variant 26.

1820.

...that's so trim .... 1798.]

[Variant 27.

1827.

...he'll gallop .... 1798.]

[Variant 28.

1802.

For sure he met ..... 1798.]

[Variant 29.

1798.

...unfriendly....

Only in MS. and in the edition of 1805.]

[Variant 30:

1827.

...that's feeding ... 1798.]

[Variant 31:

1827.

And now she's ... 1798.]

[Variant 32:

1827.

... she's happy there, 1798.]

[Variant 33:

1827

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, 1798.]

[Variant 34: 1836.

... she posts ... 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: As Wordsworth gives the date of this poem as 1798, the above line implies that his poetical work began at least in 1784, when he was fourteen years of age. The note to 'An Evening Walk' dictated to Miss Fenwick (see p. 5) implies the same.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT

[Sub-Footnote i: This change was made by S. T. C.--Ed.]

* * * * *

THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR [A]

Composed 1798.--Published 1800.

The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.-W. W. 1800.

[Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child. Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. [B] The Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it can go by the AMENDED Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of their Christian grace and spirit, as being _forced_ rather from the benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep all they possess from their distressed brethren.--I. F.]

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

* * * * *

THE POEM

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 5 May thence remount at ease. The aged Man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 10 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, He sat, and ate [1] his food in solitude: 15 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, That, still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20 Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary Man, So helpless in appearance, that for him 25 The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground, But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30 Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3] Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4] The old man does not change his course, the boy 40 Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man; His age has no companion. On the ground 45 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, _They_ move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5] He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road,--in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7] Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60 In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8] Ere he has [9] passed the door, will turn away, Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: 65 Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 70 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate Your talents, power, or [10] wisdom, deem him not A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brute, 75 The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good, A life and soul, to every mode of being Inseparably linked. Then be assured That least of all can aught--that ever owned 80 The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime [C] Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed, So low as to be scorned without a sin; Without offence to God cast out of view; Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 85 Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement Worn out and worthless. [11] While from door to door This old Man creeps, [12] the villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity, 90 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 95 Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels To acts of love; and habit does the work 100 Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued Doth find herself [13] insensibly disposed To virtue and true goodness. 105 Some there are, By their good works exalted, lofty minds And meditative, authors of delight And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds [14] 110 In childhood, from this solitary Being, Or from like wanderer, haply have received [15] (A thing more precious far than all that books Or the solicitudes of love can do!) That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 115 In which they found their kindred with a world Where want and sorrow were. The easy man Who sits at his own door,--and, like the pear That [16] overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, 120 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove Of their own kindred;--all behold in him A silent monitor, which on their minds Must needs impress a transitory thought 125 Of self-congratulation, to the heart Of each recalling his peculiar boons, His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve 130 His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.

Yet further.--Many, I believe, there are Who live a life of virtuous decency, 135 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel No self-reproach; who of the moral law Established in the land where they abide Are strict observers; and not negligent In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, [17] 140 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! --But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; Go, and demand of him, if there be here In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 145 And these inevitable charities, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? No--man is dear to man; the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life When they can know and feel that they have been, 150 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out Of some small blessings; have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause, That we have all of us one human heart. --Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 155 My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself By her own wants, she from her store [18] of meal Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 160 Returning with exhilarated heart, Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And while in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has borne [19] him, he appears 165 To breathe and live but for himself alone, Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of Heaven Has hung around him: and, while life is his, Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 170 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. [D] --Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 175 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his grey locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 180 Make him a captive!--for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes; And have around him, whether heard or not, 185 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle upon earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, [20] 190 Rising or setting, let the light at least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. And let him, _where_ and _when_ he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or on a [21] grassy bank Of highway side, and with the little birds 195 Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally, As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die! [E]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1805.

... eat ... 1800.]

[Variant 2:

1837.

The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw With careless hand ... 1800.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, 1800.]

[Variant 4:

1827.

... and, if perchance 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1800.

... and, evermore, Instead of Nature's fair variety,] Her ample scope of hill and dale, of clouds And the blue sky, the same short span of earth Is all his prospect. When the little birds Flit over him, if their quick shadows strike Across his path, he does not lift his head Like one whose thoughts have been unsettled. So Brow-bent, his eyes for ever ... MS.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

And never ... 1800.]

[Variant 7:

1800.

... his slow footsteps scarce MS.]

[Variant 8:

1800.

... that the miller's dog Is tired of barking at him. MS.]

[Variant 9:

1837.

... have ... 1800.]

[Variant 10:

1837.

... and ... 1800.]

[Variant 11: The lines from "Then be assured" to "worthless" were added in the edition of 1837.]

[Variant 12:

1837.

... While thus he creeps From door to door, ... 1800.]

[Variant 13:

1832.

... itself ... 1800.]

[Variant 14:

1827.

... ; minds like these, 1800.]

[Variant 15:

1827.

This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, 1800.]

[Variant 16:

1827.

Which ... 1800.]

[Variant 17:

1827.

... and not negligent, Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart Or act of love ... 1800.]

[Variant 18:

1827.

... chest ... 1800.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

... led ... 1800.]

[Variant 20:

1837.

... if his eyes, which now Have been so long familiar with the earth, No more behold the horizontal sun 1800.

... if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle on the earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, 1815.]

[Variant 21:

1837.

... or by the ... 1800.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In an early MS. the title of this poem is 'Description of a Beggar', and in the editions 1800 to 1820 the title was 'The Old Cumberland Beggar, a Description'.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Wordsworth went to Racedown in 1795, when he was twenty-five years of age; and was at Alfoxden in his twenty-eighth year.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Compare Ovid's 'Metamorphoses' I. 84:

Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque videre Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus.

Ed.]

[Footnote D: With this poem compare Frederick William Faber's "Hymn," which he called 'The Old Labourer', beginning:

What end doth he fulfil! He seems without a will. Ed.]

[Footnote E: In January 1801 Charles Lamb thus wrote to Wordsworth of his 'Old Cumberland Beggar':

"It appears to me a fault that the instructions conveyed in it are too direct, and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the reader while he is imagining no such matter,"

At the same time he refers to

"the delicate and curious feeling in the wish of the Beggar that he may have about him the melody of birds, although he hears them not."

('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 163.)--Ed.]

* * * * *

ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[If I recollect right, these verses were an overflowing from 'The Old Cumberland Beggar'.--I. F.]

They were published in the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798), but 'The Old Cumberland Beggar' was not published till 1800. In an early MS., however, the two are incorporated.

In the edition of 1798, the poem was called, 'Old Man Travelling; Animal Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch'. In 1800, the title was 'Animal Tranquillity and Decay. A Sketch'. In 1845, it was 'Animal Tranquillity and Decay'.

It was included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

The little hedgerow birds, That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression: every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5 A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought.--He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath [1] such mild composure given, 10 That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. [2]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1805.

...has... 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

--I asked him whither he was bound, and what The object of his journey; he replied "Sir! I am going many miles to take A last leave of my son, a mariner, Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth, And there is dying in an hospital." 1798.

... he replied That he was going many miles to take A last leave of his son, a mariner, Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth, And there was dying [i] in an hospital. 1800 to 1805.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT

[Sub-Footnote i: The edition of 1800 has "lying," evidently a misprint.--Ed.]

* * * * *

APPENDIX

I

The following is the full text of the original edition of 'Descriptive Sketches', first published in 1793:

DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES

IN VERSE. TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR IN THE ITALIAN, GRISON, SWISS, AND SAVOYARD ALPS. BY W. WORDSWORTH, B.A. OF ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE. "LOCA PASTORUM DESERTA ATQUE OTIA DIA." 'Lucret'. "CASTELLA IN TUMULIS-- ET LONGE SALTUS LATEQUE VACANTES." 'Virgil'. LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD. 1793.

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

Dear sir, However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the circumstance of my having accompanied you amongst the Alps, seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples which your modesty might otherwise have suggested.

In inscribing this little work to you I consult my heart. You know well how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, each with his little knap-sack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter!

I am happy in being conscious I shall have one reader who will approach the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we observed them together, consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own memory.

With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea-sunsets which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethkelert, Menai and her druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem,

I am Dear Sir,

Your most obedient very humble Servant

W. WORDSWORTH.

ARGUMENT

'Happiness (if she had been to be found on Earth) amongst the Charms of Nature--Pleasures of the pedestrian Traveller--Author crosses France to the Alps--Present state of the Grande Chartreuse--Lake of Como--Time, Sunset--Same Scene, Twilight--Same Scene, Morning, it's Voluptuous Character; Old Man and Forest Cottage Music--River Tusa--Via Mala and Grison Gypsey. Valley of Sckellenen-thal--Lake of Uri, Stormy Sunset--Chapel of William Tell--force of Local Emotion--Chamois Chaser--View of the higher Alps--Manner of Life of a Swiss Mountaineer interspersed with views of the higher Alps--Golden Age of the Alps--Life and Views continued--Ranz des Vaches famous Swiss Air--Abbey of Einsiedlen and it's Pilgrims--Valley of Chamouny--Mont Blanc--Slavery of Savoy--Influence of Liberty on Cottage Happiness--France--Wish for the extirpation of Slavery--Conclusion.'

DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES [A]

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, By Pain and her sad family unfound, Sure, Nature's GOD that spot to man had giv'n, Where murmuring rivers join the song of ev'n; Where falls the purple morning far and wide 5 In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; Where summer Suns in ocean sink to rest, Or moonlight Upland lifts her hoary breast; Where Silence, on her night of wing, o'er-broods Unfathom'd dells and undiscover'd woods; 10 Where rocks and groves the power of waters shakes In cataracts, or sleeps in quiet lakes.

But doubly pitying Nature loves to show'r Soft on his wounded heart her healing pow'r, Who plods o'er hills and vales his road forlorn, 15 Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn. No sad vacuities his heart annoy, Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy; For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale; He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale; 20 For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn, And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? 25 Upward he looks--and calls it luxury; Kind Nature's charities his steps attend, In every babbling brook he finds a friend, While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestow'd By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 30 Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bow'r, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; He views the Sun uprear his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like [B] Memnon's lyre; Blesses the Moon that comes with kindest ray 35 To light him shaken by his viewless way. With bashful fear no cottage children steal From him, a brother at the cottage meal, His humble looks no shy restraint impart, Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 40 While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with inquiring glance, Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there.

Me, lur'd by hope her sorrows to remove, 45 A heart, that could not much itself approve, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, [C] Her road elms rustling thin above my head, Or through her truant pathway's native charms, By secret villages and lonely farms, 50 To where the Alps, ascending white in air, Toy with the Sun, and glitter from afar.

Ev'n now I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom Weeping beneath his chill of mountain gloom. Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe 55 Tam'd "sober Reason" till she crouch'd in fear? That breath'd a death-like peace these woods around Broke only by th' unvaried torrent's sound, Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd. The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, 60 And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubl'd heads, Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night o'erspreads. Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, And start th' astonish'd shades at female eyes. 65 The thundering tube the aged angler hears, And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. From Bruno's forest screams the frighted jay, And slow th' insulted eagle wheels away. The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, 70 By [D] angels planted on the aëreal rock. The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of [E] Life and Death. Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous, thro' her old woods' trackless bounds, 75 Deepening her echoing torrents' awful peal And bidding paler shades her form conceal, [F] Vallombre, mid her falling fanes, deplores, For ever broke, the sabbath of her bow'rs.

More pleas'd, my foot the hidden margin roves 80 Of Como bosom'd deep in chesnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain, To ringing team unknown and grating wain, 85 To flat-roof'd towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or from the bending rocks obtrusive cling, And o'er the whiten'd wave their shadows fling; Wild round the steeps the little [G] pathway twines, 90 And Silence loves it's purple roof of vines. The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, mid opening cliffs, fair dark-ey'd maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades, 95 Or, led by distant warbling notes, surveys, With hollow ringing ears and darkening gaze, Binding the charmed soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing Song and ringlet-tossing Dance, Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume 100 The bosom'd cabin's lyre-enliven'd gloom; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch, o'er their pictur'd mirror, broad and blue, Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, As up th' opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. 105 Here half a village shines, in gold array'd, Bright as the moon, half hides itself in shade. From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw no 110 Rich golden verdure on the waves below. Slow glides the sail along th' illumin'd shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar. Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amourous music on the water dies. 115 Heedless how Pliny, musing here, survey'd Old Roman boats and figures thro' the shade, Pale Passion, overpower'd, retires and woos The thicket, where th' unlisten'd stock-dove coos.

How bless'd, delicious Scene! the eye that greets 120 Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales, The never-ending waters of thy vales; The cots, those dim religious groves enbow'r, Or, under rocks that from the water tow'r 125 Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore, Each with his household boat beside the door, Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, Bright'ning the gloom where thick the forests stoop; --Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky, 130 Thy towns, like swallows' nests that cleave on high; That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descry'd Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, Whence lutes and voices down th' enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods, 135 While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps, Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps; --Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey Gleams, streak'd or dappled, hid from morning's ray Slow-travelling down the western hills, to fold 140 It's green-ting'd margin in a blaze of gold; From thickly-glittering spires the matin-bell Calling the woodman from his desert cell, A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; 145 Slow swells the service o'er the water born, While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn.

Farewel! those forms that, in thy noon-tide shade, Rest, near their little plots of wheaten glade; Those stedfast eyes, that beating breasts inspire 150 To throw the "sultry ray" of young Desire; Those lips, whose tides of fragrance come, and go, Accordant to the cheek's unquiet glow; Those shadowy breasts in love's soft light array'd, And rising, by the moon of passion sway'd. 155

--Thy fragrant gales and lute-resounding streams, Breathe o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams; While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, Her shameless timbrel shakes along thy marge, 160 And winds between thine isles the vocal barge.

Yet, arts are thine that rock th' unsleeping heart, And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. I lov'd, mid thy most desert woods astray, With pensive step to measure my slow way, [H] 165 By lonely, silent cottage-doors to roam, The far-off peasant's day-deserted home; Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood, The red-breast peace had bury'd it in wood, There, by the door a hoary-headed sire 170 Touch'd with his wither'd hand an aged lyre; Beneath an old-grey oak as violets lie, Stretch'd at his feet with stedfast, upward eye, His children's children join'd the holy sound, A hermit--with his family around. 175

Hence shall we seek where fair Locarno smiles Embower'd in walnut slopes and citron isles, Or charms that smile on Tusa's evening stream, While mid dim towers and woods her [I] waters gleam; From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire 180 The dull-red steeps, and darkening still, aspire, To where afar rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguish'd clouds, and rocks, and snow; Or, led where Viamala's chasms confine Th' indignant waters of the infant Rhine, 185 Bend o'er th' abyss?--the else impervious gloom His burning eyes with fearful light illume. The Grison gypsey here her tent has plac'd, Sole human tenant of the piny waste; Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, 190 Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks.

--The mind condemn'd, without reprieve, to go O'er life's long deserts with it's charge of woe, With sad congratulation joins the train, Where beasts and men together o'er the plain 195 Move on,--a mighty caravan of pain; Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs.

--She solitary through the desert drear Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 200

A giant moan along the forest swells Protracted, and the twilight storm foretells, And, ruining from the cliffs their deafening load Tumbles, the wildering Thunder slips abroad; On the high summits Darkness comes and goes, 205 Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; The torrent, travers'd by the lustre broad, Starts like a horse beside the flashing road; In the roof'd [J] bridge, at that despairing hour, She seeks a shelter from the battering show'r. 210 --Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood Gives way, and half it's pines torment the flood; [K] Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call, And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall.

--Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night, 215 No star supplies the comfort of it's light, Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated, round, And one sole light shifts in the vale profound; While, opposite, the waning moon hangs still, And red, above her melancholy hill. 220 By the deep quiet gloom appall'd, she sighs, Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes. --Breaking th' ascending roar of desert floods, And insect buzz, that stuns the sultry woods, She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, 225 The death-dog, howling loud and long, below; On viewless fingers counts the valley-clock, Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. --Bursts from the troubl'd Larch's giant boughs The pie, and chattering breaks the night's repose. 230 Low barks the fox; by Havoc rouz'd the bear, Quits, growling, the white bones that strew his lair; The dry leaves stir as with the serpent's walk, And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk; Behind her hill the Moon, all crimson, rides, 235 And his red eyes the slinking Water hides; Then all is hush'd; the bushes rustle near, And with strange tinglings sings her fainting ear. --Vex'd by the darkness, from the piny gulf Ascending, nearer howls the famish'd wolf, 240 While thro' the stillness scatters wild dismay, Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey.

Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, Plunge with the Russ embrown'd by Terror's breath, 245 Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death; By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight; Black drizzling craggs, that beaten by the din, Vibrate, as if a voice complain'd within; 250 Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid, Unstedfast, by a blasted yew upstay'd; By [L] cells whose image, trembling as he prays, Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys; Loose-hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide, 255 And [M] crosses rear'd to Death on every side, Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, And, bending, water'd with the human tear, Soon fading "silent" from her upward eye, Unmov'd with each rude form of Danger nigh, 260 Fix'd on the anchor left by him who saves Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves.

On as we move, a softer prospect opes, Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. While mists, suspended on th' expiring gale, 265 Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale, The beams of evening, slipping soft between, Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene; Winding it's dark-green wood and emerald glade, The still vale lengthens underneath the shade; 270 While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede, Green dewy lights adorn the freshen'd mead, Where solitary forms illumin'd stray Turning with quiet touch the valley's hay, On the low [N] brown wood-huts delighted sleep 275 Along the brighten'd gloom reposing deep. While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before th' admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, 280 Huge convent domes with pinnacles and tow'rs, And antique castles seen tho' drizzling show'rs.

From such romantic dreams my sould awake, Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake, By whose unpathway'd margin still and dread 285 Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread. Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach Far o'er the secret water dark with beech, More high, to where creation seems to end, Shade above shade the desert pines ascend, 290 And still, below, where mid the savage scene Peeps out a little speck of smilgin green, There with his infants man undaunted creeps And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps. A garden-plot the desert air perfumes, 295 Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms, A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff Threading the painful cragg surmounts the cliff. --Before those hermit doors, that never know The face of traveller passing to and fro, 300 No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell For whom at morning toll'd the funeral bell, Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark forgoes, Touch'd by the beggar's moan of human woes, The grass seat beneath their casement shade 305 The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stay'd. --There, did the iron Genius not disdain The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain, There might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, 310 There watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale, There list at midnight till is heard no more, Below, the echo of his parting oar, There hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream, 315 To guide his dangerous tread the taper's gleam.

Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, Where hardly giv'n the hopeless waste to chear, Deny'd the bread of life the foodful ear, 320 Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray, And apple sickens pale in summer's ray, Ev'n here Content has fix'd her smiling reign With Independance child of high Disdain. Exulting mid the winter of the skies, 325 Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And often grasps her sword, and often eyes, Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, Strange "weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine, And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, 330 While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blast.

'Tis storm; and hid in mist from hour to hour All day the floods a deeper murmur pour, And mournful sounds, as of a Spirit lost, Pipe wild along the hollow-blustering coast, 335 'Till the Sun walking on his western field Shakes from behind the clouds his flashing shield. Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine 340 The wood-crown'd cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, At once to pillars turn'd that flame with gold; Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun The west that burns like one dilated sun, 345 Where in a mighty crucible expire The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. [O]

But lo! the boatman, over-aw'd, before The pictur'd fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, 350 While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. And who but feels a power of strong controul, Felt only there, oppress his labouring soul, Who walks, where honour'd men of ancient days Have wrought with god-like arm the deeds of praise? 355 Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or where with soften'd gaze The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys, Can guess the high resolve, the cherish'd pain 360 Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, Where breath'd the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sun-beam fell on Bayard's eye, Where bleeding Sydney from the cup retir'd, And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" expir'd. 365

But now with other soul I stand alone Sublime upon this far-surveying cone, And watch from [P] pike to pike amid the sky Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly. 'Tis his with fearless step at large to roam 370 Thro' wastes, of Spirits wing'd the solemn home, [Q] Thro' vacant worlds where Nature never gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; Thro' worlds where Life and Sound, and Motion sleep, 375 Where Silence still her death-like reign extends, Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends: In the deep snow the mighty ruin drown'd, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound; --To mark a planet's pomp and steady light 380 In the least star of scarce-appearing night, And neighbouring moon, that coasts the vast profound, Wheel pale and silent her diminish'd round, While far and wide the icy summits blaze Rejoicing in the glory of her rays; 385 The star of noon that glitters small and bright, Shorn of his beams, insufferably white, And flying fleet behind his orb to view Th' interminable sea of sable blue. --Of cloudless suns no more ye frost-built spires 390 Refract in rainbow hues the restless fires! Ye dewy mists the arid rocks o'er-spread Whose slippery face derides his deathful tread!

--To wet the peak's impracticable sides He opens of his feet the sanguine tides, 395 Weak and more weak the issuing current eyes Lapp'd by the panting tongue of thirsty skies. [R] --At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow with angry roar 400 Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Craz'd by the strength of hope at morn he eyes As sent from heav'n the raven of the skies, Then with despair's whole weight his spirits sink, No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, 405 While ere his eyes can close upon the day, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades his prey. --Meanwhile his wife and child with cruel hope All night the door at every moment ope; Haply that child in fearful doubt may gaze, 410 Passing his father's bones in future days, Start at the reliques of that very thigh, On which so oft he prattled when a boy.

Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, Thunders thro' echoing pines the headlong Aar? 415 Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive [S] Underwalden's pastoral heights?

--Is there who mid these awful wilds has seen The native Genii walk the mountain green? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, 420 Soft music from th' aëreal summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. --And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, 425 Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep, Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep, [T] Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky.

How still! no irreligious sound or sight 430 Rouzes the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, Broke only by the melancholy sound Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round; 435 Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods steady sugh; [U] The solitary heifer's deepen'd low; Or rumbling heard remote of falling snow. Save that, the stranger seen below, the boy 440 Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy.

When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, Comes on, to whisper hope, the [V] vernal breeze, When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear, And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 445 When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread Spring up, his little all around him spread, The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale 450 To silence leaving the deserted vale, Up the green mountain tracking Summer's feet, Each twilight earlier call'd the Sun to meet, With earlier smile the ray of morn to view Fall on his shifting hut that gleams mid smoking dew; 455 Bless'd with his herds, as in the patriarch's age, The summer long to feed from stage to stage; O'er azure pikes serene and still, they go, And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or lost at eve in sudden mist the day 460 Attend, or dare with minute-steps their way; Hang from the rocks that tremble o'er the steep, And tempt the icy valley yawning deep, O'er-walk the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, Rock'd on the dizzy larch's narrow tread, 465 Whence Danger leans, and pointing ghastly, joys To mock the mind with "desperation's toys"; Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd, That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. --I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps 470 To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws The fodder of his herds in winter snows. Far different life to what tradition hoar Transmits of days more bless'd in times of yore. [W] 475 Then Summer lengthen'd out his season bland, And with rock-honey flow'd the happy land. Continual fountains welling chear'd the waste, And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste. Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had pil'd 480 Usurping where the fairest herbage smil'd; Nor Hunger forc'd the herds from pastures bare For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. Then the milk-thistle bad those herds demand Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. 485 But human vices have provok'd the rod Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Thus does the father to his sons relate, On the lone mountain top, their chang'd estate. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts 490 Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. --'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows, More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far stretch'd beneath the many-tinted hills A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 495 A solemn sea! whose vales and mountains round Stand motionless, to awful silence bound. A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide And bottomless, divides the midway tide. Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear 500 The pines that near the coast their summits rear; Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar; Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound. 505 Mounts thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds, And talking voices, and the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. Think not, suspended from the cliff on high 510 He looks below with undelighted eye. --No vulgar joy is his, at even tide Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side. For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley hardly stray, 515 Nought round it's darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind, While Hope that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn Binds her wild wreathes, and whispers his return.

Once Man entirely free, alone and wild, 520 Was bless'd as free--for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdain'd, Walk'd none restraining, and by none restrain'd, Confess'd no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wish'd, and wish'd but what he ought. 525 As Man in his primaeval dower array'd The image of his glorious sire display'd, Ev'n so, by vestal Nature guarded, here The traces of primaeval Man appear. The native dignity no forms debase, 530 The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace. The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, He marches with his flute, his book, and sword, Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepar'd With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." 535

And as on glorious ground he draws his breath, Where Freedom oft, with Victory and Death, Hath seen in grim array amid their Storms Mix'd with auxiliar Rocks, three [X] hundred Forms; While twice ten thousand corselets at the view 540 Dropp'd loud at once, Oppression shriek'd, and flew. Oft as those sainted Rocks before him spread, An unknown power connects him with the dead. For images of other worlds are there, Awful the light, and holy is the air. 545 Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultur'd soul Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll; To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign.

And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, 550 He holds with God himself communion high, When the dread peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roof'd temple of th' eternal hills, And savage Nature humbly joins the rite, While flash her upward eyes severe delight. 555 Or gazing from the mountain's silent brow, Bright stars of ice and azure worlds of snow, Where needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air, Great joy by horror tam'd dilates his heart, 560 And the near heav'ns their own delights impart. --When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, Alps overlooking Alps their state upswell; Huge Pikes of Darkness nam'd, of [Y] Fear and Storms Lift, all serene, their still, illumin'd forms, 565 In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Ting'd like an angel's smile all rosy red.

When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows, That hut which from the hills his eyes employs 570 So oft, the central point of all his joys. And as a swift by tender cares oppress'd Peeps often ere she dart into her nest, So to th' untrodden floor, where round him looks His father helpless as the babe he rocks, 575 Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, Till storm and driving ice blockade him there; There hears, protected by the woods behind, Secure, the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter, calling all his Terrors round, 580 Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound.

Thro' Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide Unstain'd by envy, discontent, and pride, The bound of all his vanity to deck With one bright bell a favourite heifer's neck; 585 Content upon some simple annual feast, Remember'd half the year, and hop'd the rest, If dairy produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board. --Alas! in every clime a flying ray 590 Is all we have to chear our wintry way, Condemn'd, in mists and tempests ever rife, To pant slow up the endless Alp of life. "Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, 595 Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd, "Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide, And here the avalanche of Death destroy 600 The little cottage of domestic Joy. But, ah! th' unwilling mind may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race: The churlish gales, that unremitting blow Cold from necessity's continual snow, 605 To us the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more; the tyrant Genius, still at strife With all the tender Charities of life, When close and closer they begin to strain, 610 No fond hand left to staunch th' unclosing vein, Tearing their bleeding ties leaves Age to groan On his wet bed, abandon'd and alone. For ever, fast as they of strength become To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, 615 The father, forc'd by Powers that only deign That solitary Man disturb their reign, From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, his sons as he was driven, His last dread pleasure! watches to the plain-- 620 And never, eagle-like, beholds again." [Z]

When the poor heart has all its joys resign'd, Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind? Lo! by the lazy Seine the exile roves, Or where thick sails illume Batavia's groves; 625 Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, Unlocking bleeding Thought's "memorial cell"; At once upon his heart Despair has set Her seal, the mortal tear his cheek has wet; Strong poison not a form of steel can brave 630 Bows his young hairs with sorrow to the grave. Gay lark of hope thy silent song resume! Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn, And thou, lost fragrance of the heart return! 635 [Aa] Soon flies the little joy to man allow'd, And tears before him travel like a cloud. For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, Labour, and Pain, and Grief, and joyless Age, And Conscience dogging close his bleeding way 640 Cries out, and leads her Spectres to their prey, 'Till Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. --Mid savage rocks and seas of snow that shine Between interminable tracts of pine, 645 Round a lone fane the human Genii mourn, Where fierce the rays of woe collected burn. --From viewless lamps a ghastly dimness falls, And ebbs uncertain on the troubled walls, Dim dreadful faces thro' the gloom appear, 650 Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear, While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud. Oh give not me that eye of hard disdain That views undimm'd Einsiedlen's [Bb] wretched fane. 655 Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet, While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 660 One flower of hope--Oh pass and leave it there.

--The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the desert blood-red streams of fire. At such an hour there are who love to stray, And meet the gladdening pilgrims on their way. 665 --Now with joy's tearful kiss each other greet, Nor longer naked be your way-worn feet, For ye have reach'd at last that happy shore, Where the charm'd worm of pain shall gnaw no more. How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste 670 The [Cc] fountains rear'd for you amid the waste! Yes I will see you when ye first behold Those turrets tipp'd by hope with morning gold, And watch, while on your brows the cross ye make, Round your pale eyes a wintry lustre wake. 675 --Without one hope her written griefs to blot, Save in the land where all things are forgot, My heart, alive to transports long unknown, Half wishes your delusion were it's own.

Last let us turn to where Chamouny [Dd] shields, 680 Bosom'd in gloomy woods, her golden fields, Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend, A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever vernal plains. 685 Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand, --Red stream the cottage lights; the landscape fades, Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades. Alone ascends that mountain nam'd of white, [Ee] 690 That dallies with the Sun the summer night. Six thousand years amid his lonely bounds The voice of Ruin, day and night, resounds. Where Horror-led his sea of ice assails, Havoc and Chaos blast a thousand vales, 695 In waves, like two enormous serpents, wind And drag their length of deluge train behind. Between the pines enormous boughs descry'd Serene he towers, in deepest purple dy'd; Glad Day-light laughs upon his top of snow, 700 Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.

At such an hour I heav'd the human sigh, When roar'd the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thee, delicious vale! unfold Thy reddening orchards, and thy fields of gold; 705 That thou, the [Ff] slave of slaves, art doom'd to pine, While no Italian arts their charms combine To teach the skirt of thy dark cloud to shine; For thy poor babes that, hurrying from the door, With pale-blue hands, and eyes that fix'd implore, 710 Dead muttering lips, and hair of hungry white, Besiege the traveller whom they half affright. --Yes, were it mine, the cottage meal to share Forc'd from my native mountains bleak and bare; O'er [Gg] Anet's hopeless seas of marsh to stray, 715 Her shrill winds roaring round my lonely way; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; In the wide range of many a weary round, Still have my pilgrim feet unfailing found, 720 As despot courts their blaze of gems display, Ev'n by the secret cottage far away The lilly of domestic joy decay; While Freedom's farthest hamlets blessings share, Found still beneath her smile, and only there. 725 The casement shade more luscious woodbine binds, And to the door a neater pathway winds, At early morn the careful housewife, led To cull her dinner from it's garden bed, Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees, 730 While hum with busier joy her happy bees; In brighter rows her table wealth aspires, And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires; Her infant's cheeks with fresher roses glow, And wilder graces sport around their brow; 735 By clearer taper lit a cleanlier board Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard; The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, And whiter is the hospitable bed.

--And thou! fair favoured region! which my soul 740 Shall love, till Life has broke her golden bowl, Till Death's cold touch her cistern-wheel assail, And vain regret and vain desire shall fail; Tho' now, where erst the grey-clad peasant stray'd, To break the quiet of the village shade 745 Gleam war's [Hh] discordant habits thro' the trees, And the red banner mock the sullen breeze; Tho' now no more thy maids their voices suit To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute, And heard, the pausing village hum between, 750 No solemn songstress lull the fading green, Scared by the fife, and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, Sole sound, the [Ii] sourd renews his mournful cry: 755 --Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her pow'r Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door: All nature smiles; and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roam'd where Loiret's [Jj] waters glide 760 Thro' rustling aspins heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white, Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power 'till then unheard; 765 Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, Rock'd the charm'd thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those long long dreams the falling leaf Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail 770 Winded in sweeter cadence down the vale; A more majestic tide the [Kk] water roll'd, And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold:

--Tho' Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise Red on his hills his beacon's comet blaze; 775 Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; His larum-bell from village-tow'r to tow'r Swing on th' astounded ear it's dull undying roar: Yet, yet rejoice, tho' Pride's perverted ire 780 Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire. Lo! from th' innocuous flames, a lovely birth! With it's own Virtues springs another earth: Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; 785 With pulseless hand, and fix'd unwearied gaze, Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys: No more, along thy vales and viny groves, Whole hamlets disappearing as he moves, With cheeks o'erspread by smiles of baleful glow, 790 On his pale horse shall fell Consumption go.

Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, To break, the vales where Death with Famine scow'rs, And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribb'd tow'rs; 795 Where Machination her fell soul resigns, Fled panting to the centre of her mines; Where Persecution decks with ghastly smiles Her bed, his mountains mad Ambition piles; Where Discord stalks dilating, every hour, 800 And crouching fearful at the feet of Pow'r, Like Lightnings eager for th' almighty word, Look up for sign of havoc, Fire, and Sword; [Ll] --Give them, beneath their breast while Gladness springs, To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; 805 And grant that every sceptred child of clay, Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay," Swept in their anger from th' affrighted shore, With all his creatures sink--to rise no more. To-night, my friend, within this humble cot 810 Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot, Renewing, when the rosy summits glow At morn, our various journey, sad and slow.

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: All the notes to this reprint of the edition of 1793 are Wordsworth's own, as given in that edition.--Ed.]

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

[Footnote C: There are few people whom it may be necessary to inform, that the sides of many of the post-roads in France are planted with a row of trees.]

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

[Footnote E: Names of rivers at the Chartreuse.]

[Footnote F: Name of one of the vallies of the Chartreuse.]

[Footnote G: If any of my readers should ever visit the Lake of Como, I recommend it to him to take a stroll along this charming little pathway: he must chuse the evening, as it is on the western side of the Lake. We pursued it from the foot of the water to it's head: it is once interrupted by a ferry.]

[Footnote H:

Solo, e pensoso i più deserti campi Vò misurando à passi tardi, e lenti. 'Petrarch'.]

[Footnote I: The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the Alps by the Semplon pass. From the striking contrast of it's features, this pass I should imagine to be the most interesting among the Alps.]

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

[Footnote K:

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

HOME'S 'Douglas'.]

[Footnote L: The Catholic religion prevails here, these cells are, as is well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the Roman tombs, along the road side.]

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

[Footnote N: The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built of wood.]

[Footnote O: I had once given to these sketches the title of Picturesque; but the Alps are insulted in applying to them that term. Whoever, in attempting to describe their sublime features, should confine himself to the cold rules of painting would give his reader but a very imperfect idea of those emotions which they have the irresistible power of communicating to the most impassive imaginations. The fact is, that controuling influence, which distinguishes the Alps from all other scenery, is derived from images which disdain the pencil. Had I wished to make a picture of this scene I had thrown much less light into it. But I consulted nature and my feelings. The ideas excited by the stormy sunset I am here describing owed their sublimity to that deluge of light, or rather of fire, in which nature had wrapped the immense forms around me; any intrusion of shade, by destroying the unity of the impression, had necessarily diminished its grandeur.]

[Footnote P: Pike is a word very commonly used in the north of England, to signify a high mountain of the conic form, as Langdale pike, etc.]

[Footnote Q: For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to his translation of Coxe's 'Tour in Switzerland'.]

[Footnote R: The rays of the sun drying the rocks frequently produce on their surface a dust so subtile and slippery, that the wretched chamois-chasers are obliged to bleed themselves in the legs and feet in order to secure a footing.]

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

[Footnote T: These summer hamlets are most probably (as I have seen observed by a critic in the 'Gentleman's Magazine') what Virgil alludes to in the expression "Castella in tumulis."]

[Footnote U: Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind through the trees.]

[Footnote V: This wind, which announces the spring to the Swiss, is called in their language Foen; and is according to M. Raymond the Syroco of the Italians.]

[Footnote W: This tradition of the golden age of the Alps, as M. Raymond observes, is highly interesting, interesting not less to the philosopher than to the poet. Here I cannot help remarking, that the superstitions of the Alps appear to be far from possessing that poetical character which so eminently distinguishes those of Scotland and the other mountainous northern countries. The Devil with his horns, etc., seems to be in their idea, the principal agent that brings about the sublime natural revolutions that take place daily before their eyes.]

[Footnote X: Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small numbers have gained over their oppressors the house of Austria; and in

## particular, to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred

and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out as I was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew.]

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

[Footnote Z: The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des Vaches upon the Swiss troops removed from their native country is well known, as also the injunction of not playing it on pain of death, before the regiments of that nation, in the service of France and Holland.]

[Footnote Aa: Optima quæque dies, etc.]

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

[Footnote Cc: Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain. Under these sheds the sentimental traveller and the philosopher may find interesting sources of meditation.]

[Footnote Dd: This word is pronounced upon the spot Chàmouny, I have taken the liberty of reading it long thinking it more musical.]

[Footnote Ee: It is only from the higher part of the valley of Chàmouny that Mont Blanc is visible.]

[Footnote Ff: It is scarce necessary to observe that these lines were written before the emancipation of Savoy.]

[Footnote Gg: A vast extent of marsh so called near the lake of Neuf-chatel.]

[Footnote Hh: This, as may be supposed, was written before France became the seat of war.]

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

[Footnote Jj: The river Loiret, which has the honour of giving name to a department, rises out of the earth at a place, called La Source, a league and a half south-east of Orleans, and taking at once the character of a considerable stream, winds under a most delicious bank on its left, with a flat country of meadows, woods, and vineyards on its right, till it falls into the Loire about three or four leagues below Orleans. The hand of false taste has committed on its banks those outrages which the Abbé de Lille so pathetically deprecates in those charming verses descriptive of the Seine, visiting in secret the retreat of his friend Watelet. Much as the Loiret, in its short course, suffers from injudicious ornament, yet are there spots to be found upon its banks as soothing as meditation could wish for: the curious traveller may meet with some of them where it loses itself among the mills in the neighbourhood of the villa called La Fontaine. The walks of La Source, where it takes its rise, may, in the eyes of some people, derive an additional interest from the recollection that they were the retreat of Bolingbroke during his exile, and that here it was that his philosophical works were chiefly composed. The inscriptions, of which he speaks in one of his letters to Swift descriptive of this spot, are not, I believe, now extant. The gardens have been modelled within these twenty years according to a plan evidently not dictated by the taste of the friend of Pope.]

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

[Footnote Ll:

--And, at his heels, Leash'd in like hounds, should Famine, Sword, and Fire, Crouch for employment.]

* * * * *

APPENDIX II

The following is Wordsworth's Itinerary of the Tour, taken by him and his friend Jones, which gave rise to 'Descriptive Sketches'.

July 13. Calais. 14. Ardres. 17. Péronne. 18. Village near Coucy. 19. Soissons. 20. Château Thierry. 21. Sézanne. 22. Village near Troyes. 23. Bar-le-Duc. 24. Chatillon-sur-Seine. 26. Nuits. 27. Châlons. 28. Châlons. 29. On the Saône. 30. Lyons. 31. Condrieu.

August 1. Moreau. 2. Voreppe. 3. Village near Chartreuse. 4. Chartreuse. 6. Aix. 7. Town in Savoy. 8. Town on Lake of Geneva. 9. Lausanne. 10. Villeneuve. 11. St. Maurice in the Valais. 12. Chamouny. 13. Chamouny. 14. Martigny. 15. Village beyond Sion. 16. Brieg. 17. Spital on Alps. 18. Margozza. 19. Village beyond Lago Maggiore. 20. Village on Lago di Como. 21. Village beyond Gravedona. 22. Jones at Chiavenna; W. W. at Samolaco. 23. Sovozza. 24. Splügen. 25. Flems. 26. Dissentis. 27. Village on the Reuss. 28. Fluelen. 29. Lucerne. 30. Village on the Lake of Zurich. 31. Einsiedlen.

September

1. Glarus. 2. Glarus. 3. Village beyond Lake of Wallenstadt. 4. Village on road to Appenzell. 5. Appenzell. 6. Keswill, on Lake of Constance. 7. On the Rhine. 8. On the Rhine. 9. On road to Lucerne. 10. Lucerne. 11. Saxeln. 12. Village on the Aar. 13. Grindelwald. 14. Lauterbrunnen. 15. Village three leagues from Berne. 16. Avranches. 19. Village beyond Pierre Pertuises. 20. Village four leagues from Basle. 21. Basle. 22. Town six leagues from Strasburg. 23. Spires. 24. Village on Rhine. 25. Mentz. Mayence. 27. Village on Rhine, two leagues from Coblentz. 28. Cologne. 29. Village three leagues from Aix-la-Chapelle.

The pedestrians bought a boat at Basle, and in it floated down the Rhine as far as Cologne, intending to proceed in the same way to Ostend; but they returned to England from Cologne by Calais. In the course of this tour, Wordsworth wrote a letter to his sister, dated "Sept. 6, 1790, Keswill, a small village on the Lake of Constance," which will be found amongst his letters in a subsequent volume.--Ed.

* * * * *

APPENDIX III

The following two variants in 'Descriptive Sketches' are from MS. notes written in the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836-7.

l. 247.

Yet the world's business hither finds its way At times, and unsought tales beguile the day, And tender thoughts are those which Solitude

l. 249.

Yet tender thoughts dwell there. No Solitude Hath power Youth's natural feelings to exclude.

* * * * *

APPENDIX IV

'Anecdote for Fathers'

See Eusebius' 'Præparatio Evangelica', vi. 5.--[Greek: kleie bi_en kartos te log_on pseud_egora lex_o]--which was Apollo's answer to certain persons who tried to force his oracle to reply.--Ed.

* * * * *

APPENDIX V

'The Thorn'

William Taylor's translation of Bürger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter' appeared in 'The Monthly Magazine' (1796), and as the same volume contained contributions by Coleridge and Lamb, it is possible that Wordsworth saw it. Bürger's Pastor's Daughter murdered her natural child, but it is her ghost which haunts its grave, which she had torn

With bleeding nails beside the pond, And nightly pines the pool beside.

* * * * *

APPENDIX VI

'Simon Lee'

It was found impossible fully to describe, within the limits of a footnote, the endless shiftings to and fro of the stanzas and half stanzas of 'Simon Lee'. The first eight stanzas of the edition of 1798 are therefore reprinted in this Appendix; and a Table is added, by means of which the various transpositions effected from time to time may be readily ascertained. In the Table 'a' stands for lines 1-4, and 'b' for lines 5-8 of a stanza.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old man dwells, a little man, I've heard he once was tall. Of years he has upon his back, No doubt, a burthen weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he, That's fair behind, and fair before; Yet, meet him where you will, you see At once that he is poor. Full five and twenty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And, though he has but one eye left, His cheek is like a cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound, And no man was so full of glee; To say the least, four counties round Had heard of Simon Lee; His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor.

His hunting feats have him bereft Of his right eye, as you may see: And then, what limbs those feats have left To poor old Simon Lee! He has no son, he has no child, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common.

And he is lean and he is sick, His little body's half awry His ancles they are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage; And now he's forced to work, though weak, --The weakest in the village.

He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the race was done, He reeled and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices!

Old Ruth works out of doors with him, And does what Simon cannot do; For she, not over stout of limb, Is stouter of the two. And though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, Alas! 'tis very little, all Which they can do between them.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what avails the land to them, Which they can till no longer?

Editions Editions Edition Edition Editions 1798 and 1800. 1802-1815. 1820. 1827. 1832-1849.

1 1 1 a 1 a 1 a 2 b 2 b 2 b

2 2 3 4 a 3 a 3 b 5 b

3 3 4 a 3 a 6 5 b 5 b

4 6 6 6 4 a 3 b

5 4 5 a 5 a 5 a 4 b 4 b 4 b

6 5 7 8 8

7 7 8 7 7

8 8 9 9 9

APPENDIX VII

'Lines written in Early Spring', ll. 11, 12

Compare the 'Laws of Manu', i. 49:

"Vegetables, as well as animals, have internal consciousness, and are sensible of pleasure and pain."

This I have received from a correspondent, but I have never seen the English version.--Ed.

* * * * *

APPENDIX VIII

'An Evening Walk'

(1) l. 219,

"His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings."

Compare 'Paradise Lost',