Chapter V: Preface (5)

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

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

[Variant 68:

1845.

Lines 246 to 253 were previously:

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

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

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

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

[Variant 69:

1845.

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

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

[Variant 70:

1836.

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

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

[Variant 71:

1820.

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

[Variant 72:

1845.

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

[Variant 73:

1845.

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

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

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

[Variant 74:

1845.

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

[Variant 75:

1845.

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

... glorious form; 1836.]

[Variant 76:

1845.

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

Those eastern cliffs ... 1836.]

[Variant 77:

1845.

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

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

[Variant 78:

1845.

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

[Variant 79:

1836.

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

[Variant 80:

1836.

Exalt, and agitate ... 1820.]

[Variant 81:

1836.

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

[Variant 82:

1836.

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

[Variant 83:

1836.

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

[Variant 84:

1836.

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

[Variant 85:

1827.

Flying more fleet than vision can pursue! 1820.]

[Variant 86:

1836.

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

[Variant 87:

1836.

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

[Variant 88:

1836.

... from ... 1820.]

[Variant 89:

1836.

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

[Variant 90:

1836.

Broke only by the melancholy sound 1815.]

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

[Variant 92:

1832.

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

[Variant 93:

1836.

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

[Variant 94:

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

Inserted in the editions 1815 to 1832.]

[Variant 95:

1836.

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

[Variant 96:

1836.

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

[Variant 97:

1836.

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

[Variant 98:

1836.

(Omitting the first of the two following couplets.)

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

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

[Variant 100:

1836.

Lines 380-385 were previously:

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

[Variant 101:

1836.

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

[Variant 102:

1845.

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

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

[Variant 103:

1836.

Continual fountains ... 1815.]

[Variant 104:

1836.

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

[Variant 105:

1836.

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

[Variant 106:

1836.

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

[Variant 107:

1836.

But human vices have provoked the rod 1815.

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

[Variant 108:

1836.

... whose vales and mountains round 1820.]

[Variant 109:

1836.

(Compressing eight lines into six.)

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

[Variant 110:

1836.

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

[Variant 111:

1836.

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

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

[Variant 113:

1836.

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

[Variant 114:

1836.

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

[Variant 115:

1836.

... by vestal ... 1820.]

[Variant 116:

1836.

... native ... 1820.]

[Variant 117:

1832.

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

[Variant 118:

1845.

... wonderous ... 1820.]

[Variant 119:

1840.

... glorious ... 1820.]

[Variant 120:

1836.

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

[Variant 121:

1836.

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

[Variant 122:

1836.

Where the dread peal ... 1820.]

[Variant 123:

1836.

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

[Variant 124:

1845.

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

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

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

[Variant 125:

1836.

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

... his eye ... 1832.]

[Variant 126:

1836

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

[Variant 127:

1820.

Where, ... 1815.]

[Variant 128:

1836.

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

[Variant 129:

1820.

Content ... 1815. ]

[Variant 130:

1836.

... consecrate ... 1815.]

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

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

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

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

[Variant 132:

1836.

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

[Variant 133:

1836.

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

[Variant 134:

1836.

To us ... 1820.]

[Variant 135:

1836.

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

[Variant 136:

1836.

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

[Variant 137:

1836.

From his bare nest ... 1820.]

[Variant 138:

1836.

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

[Variant 139:

1836.

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

[Variant 140:

1836.

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

While poison ... 1827.]

[Variant 141:

1836.

Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! 1815.]

[Variant 142:

1836.

Soft ... 1815.]

[Variant 143:

1836.

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

[Variant 144:

1836. (Expanding four lines into six.)

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

[Variant 145:

1836.

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

[Variant 146:

1836.

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

[Variant 147:

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

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

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

[Variant 148:

1836.

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

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

[Variant 149:

1836.

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

[Variant 150:

1836.

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

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

[Variant 151:

1836.

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

While they are drawing toward the sacred floor 1827.]

[Variant 152:

1827.

... for you ... 1820.]

[Variant 153:

1836.

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

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

[Variant 154:

1836.

Yes I will see you when you first behold 1820.

... ye ... 1827.]

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

[Variant 156:

1836.

... the hands ... 1820.]

[Variant 157:

1836.

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

[Variant 158:

1827.

Bosomed in gloomy woods, ... 1820.]

[Variant 159:

1836.

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

[Variant 160:

1836.

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

Inserted in the editions 1820 to 1832.]

[Variant 161:

1836.

Alone ascends that Mountain named of white, 1820.

Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height, 1827.]

[Variant 162:

1836.

... amid ... 1820.]

[Variant 163:

1836.

Mysterious ... 1820.]

[Variant 164:

1836.

... 'mid ... 1820.]

[Variant 165:

1836.

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

[Variant 166:

1836.

... delicious ... 1820.]

[Variant 167:

1836.

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

To soothe or cheer, ... 1827.]

[Variant 168:

1836.

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

[Variant 169:

1836.

O'er ... 1820.]

[Variant 170:

1836.

(Compressing four lines into two.)

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

That where despotic courts their gems display, 1827.]

[Variant 171:

1836.

In thy dear ... 1820.]

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

[Variant 173:

1836.

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

[Variant 174:

1836.

(Compressing six lines into two.)

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

[Variant 175:

1836.

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

[Variant 176:

1836.

(Compressing four lines into two.)

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

[Variant 177:

1845.

(Compressing four lines into two.)

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

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

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

[Variant 178:

1836.

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

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

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

[Variant 179:

1836.

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

[Variant 180:

1836.

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

[Variant 181:

1845.

... fainter pang ... 1820.]

[Variant 182:

1836.

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

[Variant 183:

1836.

(Compressing six lines into four.)

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

[Variant 184:

1836.

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

[Variant 185:

1836.

Lines 646-651 were previously

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

[Variant 186:

1836.

(Expanding eight lines into nine.)

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

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

[Variant 188:

1836.

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

[Variant 189:

1845.

Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot! 1820

Be fear and joyful hope alike forgot 1836.]

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

[Variant 191:

1836.

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

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

* * * * *

SUB-VARIANTS

[Sub-Variant 1:

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

[Sub-Variant 2:

And, ... 1832.]

[Sub-Variant 3:

... above yon ... 1836.]

[Sub-Variant 4:

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

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

[Sub-Variant 6:

Or on her fingers ... 1836.]

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

[Sub-Variant 8:

Behind the hill ... 1836.]

[Sub-Variant 9:

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

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ed.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ed.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTES

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

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

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

Ed.]

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

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

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

(HOME'S _Douglas_.)

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

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

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

* * * * *

GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

I

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

II

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

III

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

IV

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

V

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

VI

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

VII

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

VIII

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

IX

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

X

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

XI

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

XII

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

XIII

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

XIV

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

XV

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

XVI

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

XVII

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

XVIII

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

XIX

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

XX

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

XXI

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

XXII

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

XXIII

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

XXIV [8]

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

XXV

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

XXVI

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

XXVII

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

XXVIII

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

XXIX

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

XXX

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

XXXI

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

XXXII

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

XXXIII

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

XXXIV

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

XXXV

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

XXXVI

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

XXXVII

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

XXXVIII

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

XXXIX

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

XL

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

XLI

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

XLII

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

XLIII

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

XLIV

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

XLV

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

XLVI

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

XLVII

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

XLVIII

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

XLIX