Chapter IX: Part 9

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

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

* * * * *

TROILUS AND CRESIDA

Translated 1801.--Published 1841 [A]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1842.

... burst 1841.]

[Variant 2:

1842.

... hast ... 1841.]

[Variant 3:

1842.

... his eye, 1841.]

[Variant 4:

1842.

... whose words ... 1841.]

[Variant 5:

1842.

With a soft voice, ... 1841.]

[Variant 6:

1842.

... mine ... 1841.]

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

[Variant 8:

1842.

... too light; 1841.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

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

[Footnote B:

"Chaucer's text is:

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

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

'And therewithal to cover his _intent_,'

possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."

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

[Footnote C:

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

'That no wight his continuance espied.'

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

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

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

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

[Footnote E:

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

1802

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

... in ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

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

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

[Variant 3:

1807.

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

... cross the deep ... 1827.

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

[Variant 4:

1827.

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

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

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

[Variant 5:

1845.

This Singing-bird hath gone ... 1807.

... had gone ... 1820.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

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

[Variant 7:

1827.

Till he came back again; and there 1807.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

I trail ... 1807.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY [A]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

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

[Variant 2:

1845.

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

[Variant 3:

1845.

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

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

[Variant 4:

1836.

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

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

[Variant 5:

1815.

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

[Variant 6:

1845.

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

... between ... 1840.]

[Variant 7:

1836.

A wretched, wretched rag indeed! 1807.]

[Variant 8:

1845.

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

[Variant 9:

1836.

And then, ... 1807.]

[Variant 10:

1836.

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

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

BEGGARS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Variant 2:

1827.

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

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

[Variant 3:

1836.

To head ... 1807.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

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

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

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

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

[Variant 5:

1807.

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

[Variant 6:

1827.

And they both ... 1807.]

[Variant 7:

1820.

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

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

[Variant 9:

1836.

Precursors of ... 1827.]

[Variant 10:

1827.

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

[Variant 11:

1827.

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

[Variant 12:

1845.

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

... Heaven hears that rash reply; 1827.

The text of 1807 was resumed in 1836.]

[Variant 13:

1827.

... they both together flew. 1807.

... the thoughtless vagrants flew. C.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

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

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

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

* * * * *

SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,

COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER

Composed 1817.--Published 1827

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

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

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

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

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

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

[Variant 2:

1836.

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

[Variant 3:

1836.

... such thoughts ... 1827.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

* * * * *

TO A BUTTERFLY (#1)

Composed March 14, 1802.--Published 1807

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER

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

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

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

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIII

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

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

This Mother ... MS.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

... English ... 1807.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

... did ... 1807.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

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

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

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

[Variant 5:

1845.

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

[Variant 6:

1820.

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

[Variant 7:

1827.

... sweet ... 1807.]

[Variant 8:

1836.

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

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

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

[Variant 9:

1827.

From France across the Ocean came; 1807.]

[Variant 10:

1845.

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

But to my heart she cannot be 1836.]

[Variant 11:

1807.

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

[Variant 12:

1820.

... that quiet face, 1807.]

[Variant 13:

1807.

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

[Variant 14:

1807.

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

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

* * * * *

TO THE CUCKOO

Composed 1802.--Published 1807

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

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

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

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

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

[Variant 2:

1827.

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

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

But unto me .... 1820.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

No Bird; but an invisible Thing, 1807.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

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

Barron Field.--Ed.

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD"

Composed March 26, 1802.--Published 1807

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

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

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

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

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

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

'Men are but children of a larger growth.'

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

'The boy and man an individual makes.'

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

'Nature in the infant marked the man.'

Ed.]

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

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

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

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

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

He then quotes the above poem, and adds:

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

'Sus, apage! Haud tibi spiro.'"

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

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

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

'Our childhood sits.'

* * * * *

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

Composed April 16, 1802.--Published 1807

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

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

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