Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 1 (of 8)
Author: William Wordsworth
Editor: William Angus Knight
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10219]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
| 1. | The Poems are arranged in chronological order of composition, not of publication. In all the collective editions issued by Wordsworth during his lifetime, the arrangement of his poems in artificial groups, based on their leading characteristics—a plan first adopted in 1815—was adhered to; although he not unfrequently transferred a poem from one group to another. Here they are printed, with one or two exceptions to be afterwards explained, in the order in which they were written. |
| 2. | The changes of text made by Wordsworth in the successive editions of his Poems, are given in footnotes, with the dates of the changes. |
| 3. | Suggested changes, written by the Poet on a copy of the stereotyped edition of 1836-7—long kept at Rydal Mount, and bought, after Mrs. Wordsworth's death, at the sale of a portion of the Library at the Mount—are given in footnotes. |
| 4. | The Notes dictated by Wordsworth to Miss Isabella Fenwick—a dear friend of the Rydal Mount household, and a woman of remarkable character and faculty—which tell the story of his Poems, and the circumstances under which each was written, are printed in full. |
| 5. | Topographical Notes—explanatory of allusions made by Wordsworth to localities in the Lake District of England, to places in Scotland, Somersetshire, Yorkshire, the Isle of Man, and others on the Continent of Europe—are given, either at the close of the Poem in which the allusions occur, or as footnotes to the passages they illustrate. |
| 6. | Several complete Poems, and other fragments of verse, not included in any edition of his Works published during Wordsworth's lifetime, or since, are printed as an appendix to Volume VIII. |
| 7. | A new Bibliography of the Poems and Prose Works, and of the several editions issued in England and America, from 1793 to 1850, is added. |
| 8. | A new Life of the Poet is given. |
| 1. | The volumes are published, not in library 8vo size, but—as the works of every poet should be issued—in one more convenient to handle, and to carry. Eight volumes are devoted to the Poetical Works, and among them are included those fragments by his sister Dorothy, and others, which Wordsworth published in his lifetime among his own Poems. They are printed in the chronological order of composition, so far as that is known. |
| 2, | In the case of each Poem, any Note written by Wordsworth himself, as explanatory of it, comes first, and has the initials W. W., with the date of its first insertion placed after it. Next follows the Fenwick Note, within square brackets, thus [ ], and signed I. F.; and, afterwards, any editorial note required. When, however, Wordsworth's own notes were placed at the end of the Poems, or at the foot of the page, his plan is adopted, and the date appended. I should have been glad, had it been possible—the editors of the twentieth century may note this—to print Wordsworth's own notes, the Fenwick notes, and the Editor's in different type, and in type of a decreasing size; but the idea occurred to me too late, i.e. after the first volume had been passed for press. [Note: in pursuance of this aim, I have displayed the notes as above: Wordsworth's in black type, the Fenwick notes in dark grey, and the editor's own notes in light grey. I have not decreased the size, which would have made the text more difficult to read! html Ed.] |
| 3. | All the Prose Works of Wordsworth are given in full, and follow the Poems, in two volumes. The Prose Works were collected by Dr. Grosart, and published in 1876. Extracts from them have since been edited by myself and others: but they will now be issued, like the Poems, in chronological order, under their own titles, and with such notes as seem desirable. |
| 4. | All the Journals written by Dorothy Wordsworth at Alfoxden, Dove Cottage, and elsewhere, as well as her record of Tours with her brother in Scotland, on the Continent, etc., are published—some of them in full, others only in part. An explanation of why any Journal is curtailed will be found in the editorial note preceding it. Much new material will be found in these Journals. |
| 5. | The Letters of William and Dorothy Wordsworth —with a few from Mary and Dora Wordsworth—are arranged chronologically, and published by themselves. Hitherto, these letters have been scattered in many quarters—in the late Bishop of Lincoln's Memoirs of his uncle, in The Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson, in the Memorials of Coleorton and my own Life of the Poet, in the Prose Works, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, in the Letters of Charles Lamb, in the Memorials of Thomas De Quincey, and other volumes; but many more, both of Wordsworth's and his sister's, have never before seen the light. More than a hundred and fifty letters from Dorothy Wordsworth to Mrs. Clarkson, the wife of the great "slave-liberator," were sent to me some time ago by Mrs. Arthur Tennyson, a relative of Mrs. Clarkson; and I have recently seen and been allowed to copy, Wordsworth's letters to his early friend Francis Wrangham, through the kindness of their late owner, Mr. Mackay of The Grange, Trowbridge. Many other letters of great interest have recently reached me. |
| 6. | In addition to a new Bibliography, and a Chronological Table of the Poems, and the Prose Works, a Bibliography of Wordsworth Criticism is appended. It includes most of the articles on the Poet, and notices of his Works, which have appeared in Great Britain, America, and the Continent of Europe. Under this head I have specially to thank Mrs. Henry A. St. John of Ithaca, N.Y., a devoted Transatlantic Wordsworthian, who has perhaps done more than any one—since Henry Reed—to promote the study of her favourite poet in America. Mrs. St. John's Wordsworth collection is unique, and her knowledge and enthusiasm are as great as her industry has been. Professor E. Legouis of the University of Lyons—who wrote an interesting book on Wordsworth's friend, Le Général Michel Beaupuy (1891)—has sent me material from France, which will be found in its proper place. Frau Professor Gothein of Bonn, who has translated many of Wordsworth's poems into German, and written his life, William Wordsworth: sein Leben, seine Werke, seine Zeitgenossen, (1893), has similarly helped me in reference to German criticism. |
| 7. | As the Poet's Letters, and his sister's Journals, will appear in earlier volumes, the new Life of Wordsworth will be much shorter than that which was published in 1889, in three volumes 8vo. It will not exceed a single volume. |
| 8. | In the edition of 1882-6, each volume contained an etching of a locality associated with Wordsworth. The drawings were made by John M'Whirter, R.A., in water-colour; and they were afterwards etched by Mr. C. O. Murray. One portrait by Haydon was prefixed to the first volume of the Life. In each volume of this edition—Poems, Prose Works, Journals, Letters, and Life—there will be a new portrait, either of the poet, or his wife, or sister, or daughter; and also a small vignette of a place associated with, or memorialised by Wordsworth in some way. The following will be the arrangement. |
| Volume | Contents | Portrait/Vignette | Location |
|---|---|---|---|
| I | Poems | W. Wordsworth by W. Shuter | Cockermouth |
| II | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Robert Hancock | Dame Tyson's Cottage, Hawkshead |
| III | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Edward Nash | Room in St. John's College, Cambridge |
| IV | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Richard Carruthers | Racedown, Dorsetshire |
| V | Poems | W. Wordsworth by William Boxall | Alfoxden, Somersetshire |
| VI | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Henry William Pickersgill | Goslar |
| VII | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Margaret Gillies | Dove Cottage |
| VIII | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Benjamin R. Haydon | The Rock of Names, Thirlmere |
| IX | The Prose Works | W. Wordsworth by Henry Inman | Gallow Hill, Yorkshire |
| X | The Prose Works | W. Wordsworth by Margaret Gillies | Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire |
| XI | The Journals | Dorothy Wordsworth, (Artist unknown) | Allan Bank, Grasmere |
| XII | The Journals | Mary Wordsworth, by Margaret Gillies | Rydal Mount |
| XIII | Correspondence | Dora Wordsworth, by Margaret Gillies | Bolton Abbey |
| XIV | Correspondence | W. Wordsworth, by Edward C. Wyon | Blea Tarn |
| XV | Correspondence | W. Wordsworth by by Thomas Woolner | Peele Castle |
| XVI | The Life | W. Wordsworth by Frederick Thrupp W. Wordsworth by Samuel Laurence W. Wordsworth by Benjamin R. Haydon |
Grasmere Church and Churchyard |
... I have seen
A curious child applying to his ear
| 1. | As to the Chronological Order of the Poems. The chief advantage of a chronological arrangement of the Works of any author—and especially of a poet who himself adopted a different plan—is that it shows us, as nothing else can do, the growth of his own mind, the progressive development of his genius and imaginative power. By such a redistribution of what he wrote we can trace the rise, the culmination, and also—it may be—the decline and fall of his genius. Wordsworth's own arrangement—first adopted in the edition of 1815—was designed by him, with the view of bringing together, in separate classes, those Poems which referred to the same (or similar) subjects, or which were supposed to be the product of the same (or a similar) faculty, irrespective of the date of composition. Thus one group was entitled "Poems of the Fancy," another "Poems of the Imagination," a third "Poems proceeding from Sentiment and Reflection," a fourth "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces," again "Poems on the Naming of Places," "Memorials of Tours," "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," "Miscellaneous Sonnets," etc. The principle which guided him in this was obvious enough. It was, in some respects, a most natural arrangement; and, in now adopting a chronological order, the groups, which he constructed with so much care, are broken up. Probably every author would attach more importance to a classification of his Works, which brought them together under appropriate headings, irrespective of date, than to a method of arrangement which exhibited the growth of his own mind; and it may be taken for granted that posterity would not think highly of any author who attached special value to this latter element. None the less posterity may wish to trace the gradual development of genius, in the imaginative writers of the past, by the help of such a subsequent rearrangement of their Works. There are difficulties, however, in the way of such a rearrangement, some of which, in Wordsworth's case, cannot be entirely surmounted. In the case of itinerary Sonnets, referring to the same subject, the dismemberment of a series—carefully arranged by their author—seems to be specially unnatural. But Wordsworth himself sanctioned the principle. If there was a fitness in collecting all his sonnets in one volume in the year 1838, out of deference to the wishes of his friends, in order that these poems might be "brought under the eye at once"—thus removing them from their original places, in his collected works—it seems equally fitting now to rearrange them chronologically, as far as it is possible to do so. It will be seen that it is not always possible. Then, there is the case of two Poems following each other, in Wordsworth's own arrangement, by natural affinity; such as the Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, written in 1811, which in almost all existing editions is followed by the Poem written in 1841, and entitled, Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its composition; or, the dedication to The White Doe of Rylstone, written in April 1815, while the Poem itself was written in 1807. To separate these Poems seems unnatural; and, as it would be inadmissible to print the second of the two twice over—once as a sequel to the first poem, and again in its chronological place—adherence to the latter plan has its obvious disadvantage in the case of these poems. Mr. Aubrey de Vere is very desirous that I should arrange all the "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty" together in series, as Wordsworth left them, "on the principle that, though the order of publication should as a rule be the order of composition in poetry, all rules require, as well as admit of, exceptions." As I have the greatest respect for the judgment of such an authority as Mr. de Vere, I may explain that I only venture to differ from him because there are seventy-four Poems—including the sonnets and odes—in this series, and because they cover a period ranging from 1802 to 1815. I am glad, however, that many of these sonnets can be printed together, especially the earlier ones of 1802. After carefully weighing every consideration, it has seemed to me desirable to adopt the chronological arrangement in this particular edition; in which an attempt is made to trace the growth of Wordsworth's genius, as it is unfolded in his successive works. His own arrangement of his Poems will always possess a special interest and value; and it is not likely ever to be entirely superseded in subsequent issues of his Works. The editors and publishers of the future may possibly prefer it to the plan now adopted, and it will commend itself to many readers from the mere fact that it was Wordsworth's own; but in an edition such as the present—which is meant to supply material for the study of the Poet to those who may not possess, or have access to, the earlier and rarer editions—no method of arrangement can be so good as the chronological one. Its importance will be obvious after several volumes are published, when the point referred to above—viz. the evolution of the poet's genius—will be shown by the very sequence of the subjects chosen, and their method of treatment from year to year. The date of the composition of Wordsworth's Poems cannot always be ascertained with accuracy: and to get at the chronological order, it is not sufficient to take up his earlier volumes, and thereafter to note the additions made in subsequent ones. We now know (approximately) when each poem was first published; although, in some instances, they appeared in newspapers and magazines, and in many cases publication was long after the date of composition. For example, Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain—written in the years 1791-94—was not published in extenso till 1842. The tragedy of The Borderers, composed in 1795-96, was also first published in 1842. The Prelude—"commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the summer of 1805"—was published posthumously in 1850: and some unpublished poems—both "of early and late years"—were first issued in 1886. A poem was frequently kept back, from some doubt as to its worth, or from a wish to alter and amend it. Of the five or six hundred sonnets that he wrote, Wordsworth said "Most of them were frequently re-touched; and, not a few, laboriously." Some poems were almost entirely recast; and occasionally fugitive verses were withheld from publication for a time, because it was hoped that they would subsequently form part of a larger whole. In the case of many of the poems, we are left to conjecture the date of composition, although we are seldom without some clue to it. The Fenwick Notes are a great assistance in determining the chronology. These notes—which will be afterwards more fully referred to—were dictated by Wordsworth to Miss Fenwick in the year 1843; but, at that time, his memory could not be absolutely trusted as to dates; and in some instances we know it to have been at fault. For example, he said of The Old Cumberland Beggar that it was "written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year." Now, he went to Racedown in the autumn of 1795, when he was twenty-five years old; and to Alfoxden, in the autumn of 1797, when twenty-seven. Again, the poem Rural Architecture is put down in the Fenwick note as "written at Townend in 1801"; but it had been published in 1800, in the second edition of "Lyrical Ballads." Similarly Wordsworth gave the dates "1801 or 1802" for The Reverie of Poor Susan, which had also appeared in "Lyrical Ballads," 1800. Wordsworth's memory was not always to be trusted even when he was speaking of a group of his own Poems. For example, in the edition of 1807, there is a short series described thus, "Poems, composed during a tour, chiefly on foot." They are numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Now, one would naturally suppose that all the poems, in this set of five, were composed during the same pedestrian tour, and that they all referred to the same time. But the series contains Alice Fell (1802), Beggars (1802), To a Sky-Lark (1805), and Resolution and Independence (1802). Much more valuable than the Fenwick notes—for a certain portion of Wordsworth's life—is his sister Dorothy's Journal. The mistakes in the former can frequently be corrected from the minutely kept diary of those early years, when the brother and sister lived together at Grasmere. The whole of that Journal, so far as it is desirable to print it for posterity, will be given in a subsequent volume. Long before the publication of the Fenwick notes, Wordsworth himself supplied some data for a chronological arrangement of his Works. In the table of contents, prefixed to the first collected edition of 1815, in two volumes,—and also to the second collected edition of 1820, in four volumes,—there are two parallel columns: one giving the date of composition, and the other that of publication. There are numerous blanks in the former column, which was the only important one; as the year of publication could be ascertained from the editions themselves. Sometimes the date is given vaguely; as in the case of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," where the note runs, "from the year 1807 to 1813." At other times, the entry of the year of publication is inaccurate; for example, the Inscription for the spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwentwater, is put down as belonging to the year 1807; but this poem does not occur in the volumes of 1807, but in the second volume of "Lyrical Ballads" (1800). It will thus be seen that it is only by comparing Wordsworth's own lists of the years to which his Poems belong, with the contents of the several editions of his Works, with the Fenwick Notes, and with his sister's Journal, that we can approximately reconstruct the true chronology. To these sources of information must be added the internal evidence of the Poems themselves, incidental references in letters to friends, and stray hints gathered from various quarters. Many new sources of information as to the date of the composition of the Poems became known to me during the publication of my previous edition, and after its issue; the most important being the Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth. These discoveries showed that my chronological table of 1882—although then, relatively, "up to date"—was incomplete. The tables constructed by Mr. Tutin and by Professor Dowden are both more accurate than it was. It is impossible to attain to finality in such a matter; and several facts, afterwards discovered, and mentioned in the later volumes of my previous edition, have been used against the conclusions come to in the earlier ones. I have thus supplied the feathers for a few subsequent critical arrows. The shots have not been unkindly ones; and I am glad of the result, viz. that our knowledge of the dates—both as to the composition and first publication of the poems —is now much more exact than before. When a conjectural one is given in this edition, the fact is always mentioned. This chronological method of arrangement, however, has its limits. It is not possible always to adopt it: nor is it invariably necessary, even in order to obtain a true view of the growth of Wordsworth's mind. In this—as in so many other things—wisdom lies in the avoidance of extremes; the extreme of rigid fidelity to the order of time on the one hand, and the extreme of an irrational departure from it on the other. While an effort has been made to discover the exact order of the composition of the poems—and this is shown, not only in the Chronological Table, but at the beginning of each separate poem—it has been considered expedient to depart from that order in printing some of the poems. In certain cases a poem was begun and laid aside, and again resumed at intervals; and it is difficult to know to what year the larger part of it should be assigned. When we know the date at which a poem was commenced, and that it was finished "long afterwards," but have no clue as to the year, it is assigned to the year in which it was begun. For example, the Address to Kilchurn Castle was begun in 1803, but only the first three lines were written then. Wordsworth tells us that "the rest was added many years after," but when we know not; and the poem was not published till 1827. In such a case, it is placed in this edition as if it belonged chronologically to 1803, and retains its place in the series of Poems which memorialise the Tour in Scotland of that year. On a similar principle, The Highland Girl is placed in the same series; although Dorothy Wordsworth tells us, in her Journal of the Tour, that it was composed "not long after our return from Scotland"; and Glen Almain—although written afterwards at Rydal—retains its published place in the memorial group. Again the Departure from the Vale of Grasmere, August 1803, is prefixed to the same series; although it was not written till 1811, and first published in 1827. To give symmetry to such a Series, it is necessary to depart from the exact chronological order—the departure being duly indicated. On the same principle I have followed the Address to the Scholars of the Village School of ——, by its natural sequel—By the Side of the Grave some Years after, the date of the composition of which is unknown: and the Epistle to Sir George Beaumont (1811) is followed by the later Lines, to which Wordsworth gave the most prosaic title—he was often infelicitous in his titles—Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its composition. A like remark applies to the poem Beggars, which is followed by its own Sequel, although the order of date is disturbed; while all the "Epitaphs," translated from Chiabrera, are printed together. It is manifestly appropriate that the poems belonging to a series—such as the "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," or those referring to the "Duddon"—should be brought together, as Wordsworth finally arranged them; even although we may be aware that some of them were written subsequently, and placed in the middle of the series. The sonnets referring to "Aspects of Christianity in America"—inserted in the 1845 and 1849-50 editions of the collected Works—are found in no previous edition or version of the "Ecclesiastical Sonnets." These, along with some others on the Offices of the English Liturgy, were suggested to Wordsworth by an American prelate, Bishop Doane, and by Professor Henry Reed2; but we do not know in what year they were written. The "Ecclesiastical Sonnets"—first called "Ecclesiastical Sketches"—were written in the years 1820-22. The above additions to them appeared twenty-five years afterwards; but they ought manifestly to retain their place, as arranged by Wordsworth in the edition of 1845. The case is much the same with regard to the "Duddon Sonnets." They were first published in 1820: but No. xiv. beginning: was written in the year 1806, and appears in the edition of 1807. This sonnet will be printed in the series to which it belongs, and not in its chronological place. I think it would be equally unjust to remove it from the group—in which it helps to form a unity—and to print it twice over3. On the other hand, the series of "Poems composed during a Tour in Scotland, and on the English Border, in the Autumn of 1831"—and first published in the year 1835, in the volume entitled "Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems"—contains two, which Wordsworth himself tells us were composed earlier; and there is no reason why these poems should not be restored to their chronological place. The series of itinerary sonnets, published along with them in the Yarrow volume of 1835, is the record of another Scottish tour, taken in the year 1833; and Wordsworth says of them that they were "composed or suggested during a tour in the summer of 1833." We cannot now discover which of them were written during the tour, and which at Rydal Mount after his return; but it is obvious that they should be printed in the order in which they were left by him, in 1835. It may be noted that almost all the "Evening Voluntaries" belong to these years—1832 to 1835—when the author was from sixty-two to sixty-five years of age. Wordsworth's habit of revision may perhaps explain the mistakes into which he occasionally fell as to the dates of his Poems, and the difficulty of reconciling what he says, as to the year of composition, with the date assigned by his sister in her Journal. When he says "written in 1801, or 1802," he may be referring to the last revision which he gave to his work. Certain it is, however, that he sometimes gave a date for the composition, which was subsequent to the publication of the poem in question. In the case of those poems to which no date was attached, I have tried to find a clue by which to fix an approximate one. Obviously, it would not do to place all the undated poems in a class by themselves. Such an arrangement would be thoroughly artificial; and, while we are in many instances left to conjecture, we can always say that such and such a poem was composed not later than a particular year. When the precise date is undiscoverable, I have thought it best to place the poem in or immediately before the year in which it was first published. Poems which were several years in process of composition, having been laid aside, and taken up repeatedly; e.g. The Prelude, which was composed between the years 1799 and 1805—are placed in the year in which they were finished. Disputable questions as to the date of any poem are dealt with in the editorial note prefixed or appended to it. There is one Poem which I have intentionally placed out of its chronological place, viz. the Ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood. It was written at intervals from 1803 to 1806, and was first published in the edition of 1807, where it stood at the end of the second volume. In every subsequent edition of the collected Works—1815 to 1850—it closed the groups of poems; The Excursion only following it, in a volume of its own. This was an arrangement made by Wordsworth, of set purpose, and steadily adhered to—the Ode forming as it were the High Altar of his poetic Cathedral. As he wished it to retain that place in subsequent editions of his Works, it retains it in this one. Mr. Arnold's arrangement of the Poems, in his volume of Selections4, is extremely interesting and valuable; but, as to the method of grouping adopted, I am not sure that it is better than Wordsworth's own. As a descriptive title, "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" is quite as good as "Poems akin to the Antique," and "Poems of the Fancy" quite as appropriate as "Poems of Ballad Form." Wordsworth's arrangement of his Poems in groups was psychologically very interesting; but it is open to many objections. Unfortunately Wordsworth was not himself consistent—in the various editions issued by himself—either in the class into which he relegated each poem, or the order in which he placed it there. There is tantalising topsy-turvyism in this, so that an editor who adopts it is almost compelled to select Wordsworth's latest grouping, which was not always his best. Sir William Rowan Hamilton wrote to Mr. Aubrey de Vere in 1835 that Dora Wordsworth told him that her father "was sometimes at a loss whether to refer her to the 'Poems of the Imagination,' or the 'Poems of the Fancy,' for some particular passage." Aubrey de Vere himself considered Wordsworth's arrangement as "a parade of system," and wrote of it, "I cannot help thinking that in it, he mistakes classification for method."5 I confess that it is often difficult to see why some of the poems were assigned by their author to the realm of the "Fancy," the "Imagination," and "Sentiment and Reflection" respectively. In a note to The Horn of Egremont Castle (edition 1815) Wordsworth speaks of it as "referring to the imagination," rather than as being "produced by it"; and says that he would not have placed it amongst his "Poems of the Imagination," "but to avoid a needless multiplication of classes"; and in the editions of 1827 and 1832 he actually included the great Ode on Immortality among his "Epitaphs and Elegiac Poems"! As late as 27th September 1845, he wrote to Professor Henry Reed, Could anything show more explicitly than this that Wordsworth was not perfectly satisfied with his own artificial groups? Professor Reed, in his American edition of 1837, however, acted on Wordsworth's expressed intention of distributing the contents of "Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems" amongst the classes. He tells us that he "interspersed the contents of this volume among the Poems already arranged" by Wordsworth6. It may also be mentioned that not only members of his own household, but many of Wordsworth's friends—notably Charles Lamb—expressed a preference for a different arrangement of his Poems from that which he had adopted. |
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| 2. | The various Readings, or variations of text, made by Wordsworth during his lifetime, or written by him on copies of his Poems, or discovered in MS. letters, from himself, or his sister, or his wife, are given in footnotes in this edition. Few English poets changed their text more frequently, or with more fastidiousness, than Wordsworth did. He did not always alter it for the better. Every alteration however, which has been discovered by me, whether for the better or for the worse, is here printed in full. We have thus a record of the fluctuations of his own mind as to the form in which he wished his Poems to appear; and this record casts considerable light on the development of his genius7. A knowledge of these changes of text can only be obtained in one or other of two ways. Either the reader must have access to all the thirty-two editions of Poems, the publication of which Wordsworth personally supervised; or, he must have all the changes in the successive editions, exhibited in the form of footnotes, and appended to the particular text that is selected and printed in the body of the work. It is extremely difficult—in some cases quite impossible—to obtain the early editions. The great public libraries of the country do not possess them all8. It is therefore necessary to fall back upon the latter plan, which seems the only one by which a knowledge of the changes of the text can be made accessible, either to the general reader, or to the special student of English Poetry. The text which—after much consideration—I have resolved to place throughout, in the body of the work, is Wordsworth's own final textus receptus, i.e. the text of 1849-50, reproduced in the posthumous edition of 18579; and since opinion will doubtless differ as to the wisdom of this selection, it may be desirable to state at some length the reasons which have led me to adopt it. There are only three possible courses open to an editor, who wishes to give—along with the text selected—all the various readings chronologically arranged as footnotes. Either,
Now, most persons who have studied the subject know that Wordsworth's best text is to be found, in one poem in its earliest edition, in another in its latest, and in a third in some intermediate edition. I cannot agree either with the statement that he always altered for the worse, or that he always altered for the better. His critical judgment was not nearly so unerring in this respect as Coleridge's was, or as Tennyson's has been. It may be difficult, therefore, to assign an altogether satisfactory reason for adopting either the earliest or the latest text; and at first sight, the remaining alternative plan may seem the wisest of the three. There are indeed difficulties in the way of the adoption of any one of the methods suggested; and as I adopt the latest text—not because it is always intrinsically the best, but on other grounds to be immediately stated—it may clear the way, if reference be made in the first instance to the others, and to the reasons for abandoning them. As to a selection of the text from various editions, this would doubtless be the best plan, were it a practicable one; and perhaps it may be attainable some day. But Wordsworth is as yet too near us for such an editorial treatment of his Works to be successful. The fundamental objection to it is that scarcely two minds—even among the most competent of contemporary judges—will agree as to what the best text is. An edition arranged on this principle could not possibly be acceptable to more than a few persons. Of course no arrangement of any kind can escape adverse criticism: it would be most unfortunate if it did. But this particular edition would fail in its main purpose, if questions of individual taste were made primary, and not secondary; and an arrangement, which gave scope for the arbitrary selection of particular texts,—according to the wisdom, or the want of wisdom, of the editor,—would deservedly meet with severe criticism in many quarters. Besides, such a method of arrangement would not indicate the growth of the Poet's mind, and the development of his genius. If an editor wished to indicate his own opinion of the best text for each poem—under the idea that his judgment might be of some use to other people—it would be wiser to do so by means of some mark or marginal note, than by printing his selected text in the main body of the work. He could thus at once preserve the chronological order of the readings, indicate his own preference, and leave it to others to select what they preferred. Besides, the compiler of such an edition would often find himself in doubt as to what the best text really was, the merit of the different readings being sometimes almost equal, or very nearly balanced; and, were he to endeavour to get out of the difficulty by obtaining the judgments of literary men, or even of contemporary poets, he would find that their opinions would in most cases be dissimilar, if they did not openly conflict. Those who cannot come to a final decision as to their own text would not be likely to agree as to the merits of particular readings in the poems of their predecessors. Unanimity of opinion on this point is indeed quite unattainable. Nevertheless, it would be easy for an editor to show the unfortunate result of keeping rigorously either to the latest or to the earliest text of Wordsworth. If, on the one hand, the latest were taken, it could be shown that many of the changes introduced into it were for the worse, and some of them very decidedly so. For example, in the poem To a Skylark—composed in 1825—the second verse, retained in the editions of 1827, 1832, 1836, and 1843, was unaccountably dropped out in the editions of 1845 and 1849. The following is the complete poem of 1825, as published in 1827. There is no doubt that the first and third stanzas are the finest, and some may respect the judgment that cut down the Poem by the removal of its second verse: but others will say, if it was right that such a verse should be removed, why were many others of questionable merit allowed to remain? Why was such a poem as The Glowworm, of the edition of 1807, never republished; while The Waterfall and the Eglantine, and To the Spade of a Friend, were retained? To give one other illustration, where a score are possible. In the sonnet, belonging to the year 1807, beginning: we find, in the latest text, the lines—first adopted in 1827: while the early edition of 1807 contains the far happier lines: On the other hand, if the earliest text be invariably retained, some of the best poems will be spoiled (or the improvements lost), since Wordsworth did usually alter for the better. For example, few persons will doubt that the form in which the second stanza of the poem To the Cuckoo (written in 1802) appeared in 1845, is an improvement on all its predecessors. I give the readings of 1807, 1815, 1820, 1827, and 1845.
It might be urged that these considerations would warrant the interference of an editor, and justify him in selecting the text which he thought the best upon the whole; but this must be left to posterity. When editors can escape the bias of contemporary thought and feeling, when their judgments are refined by distance and mellowed by the new literary standards of the intervening years,—when in fact Wordsworth is as far away from his critics as Shakespeare now is—it may be possible to adjust a final text. But the task is beyond the power of the present generation. It may farther be urged that if this reasoning be valid,—and if, for the present, one text must be retained uniformly throughout,—the natural plan is to take the earliest, and not the latest; and this has some recommendations. It seems more simple, more natural, and certainly the easiest. We have a natural sequence, if we begin with the earliest and go on to the latest readings. Then, all the readers of Wordsworth, who care to possess or to consult the present edition, will doubtless possess one or other of the complete copies of his works, which contain his final text; while probably not one in twenty have ever seen the first edition of any of his poems, with the exception of The Prelude. It is true that if the reader turns to a footnote to compare the versions of different years, while he is reading for the sake of the poetry, he will be so distracted that the effect of the poem as a whole will be entirely lost; because the critical spirit, which judges of the text, works apart from the spirit of sympathetic appreciation, in which all poetry should be read. But it is not necessary to turn to the footnotes, and to mark what may be called the literary growth of a poem, while it is being read for its own sake: and these notes are printed in smaller type, so as not to obtrude themselves on the eye of the reader. Against the adoption of the earlier text, there is this fatal objection, that if it is to be done at all, it must be done throughout; and, in the earliest poems Wordsworth wrote—viz. An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches,—the subsequent alterations almost amounted to a cancelling of the earlier version. His changes were all, or almost all, unmistakably for the better. Indeed, there was little in these works—in the form in which they first appeared—to lead to the belief that an original poet had arisen in England. It is true that Coleridge saw in them the signs of the dawn of a new era, and wrote thus of Descriptive Sketches, before he knew its author, "Seldom, if ever, was the emergence of a great and original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced." Nevertheless the earliest text of these Sketches is, in many places, so artificial, prosaic, and dull, that its reproduction (except as an appendix, or in the form of footnotes) would be an injustice to Wordsworth.10 On the other hand, the passages subsequently cancelled are so numerous, and so long, that if placed in footnotes the latter would in some instances be more extensive than the text. The quarto of 1793 will therefore be reprinted in full as an Appendix to the first volume of this edition. The School Exercise written at Hawkshead in the poet's fourteenth year, will be found in vol. viii. Passing over these juvenile efforts, there are poems—such as Guilt and Sorrow, Peter Bell, and many others—in which the earlier text is an inferior one, which was either corrected or abandoned by Wordsworth in his maturer years. It would be a conspicuous blunder to print— in the place of honour,—the crude original which was afterwards repudiated by its author. It may be remembered, in connection with Wordsworth's text, that he himself said, "I am for the most part uncertain about my success in altering poems; but, in this case" (he is speaking of an insertion) "I am sure I have produced a great improvement." (Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 174.)11 Again, in writing to Mr. Dyce in 1830, "You know what importance I attach to following strictly the last copy of the text of an author." It is also worthy of note that the study of their chronology casts some light on the changes which the poems underwent. The second edition of "Lyrical Ballads" appeared in 1800. In that edition the text of 1798 is scarcely altered: but, in the year in which it was published, Wordsworth was engrossed with his settlement at Grasmere; and, in the springtime of creative work, he probably never thought of revising his earlier pieces. In the year 1800, he composed at least twenty-five new poems. The third edition of "Lyrical Ballads" appeared in 1802; and during that year he wrote forty-three new poems, many of them amongst the most perfect of his Lyrics. His critical instinct had become much more delicate since 1800: and it is not surprising to find—as we do find—that between the text of the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, and that of 1802, there are many important variations. This is seen, for example, in the way in which he dealt with The Female Vagrant, which is altered throughout. Its early redundance is pruned away; and, in many instances, the final text, sanctioned in 1845, had been adopted in 1803. Without going into further detail, it is sufficient to remark that in the year 1803 Wordsworth's critical faculty, the faculty of censorship, had developed almost step for step with the creative originality of his genius. In that prolific year, when week by week, almost day by day, fresh poems were thrown off with marvellous facility—as we see from his sister's Journal—he had become a severe, if not a fastidious, critic of his own earlier work. A further explanation of the absence of critical revision, in the edition of 1800, may be found in the fact that during that year Wordsworth was engaged in writing the "Preface" to his Poems; which dealt, in so remarkable a manner, with the nature of Poetry in general, and with his own theory of it in particular. A further reference to the Evening Walk will illustrate Wordsworth's way of dealing with his earlier text in his later editions. This Poem showed from the first a minute observation of Nature—not only in her external form and colour, but also in her suggestiveness—though not in her symbolism; and we also find the same transition from Nature to Man, the same interest in rural life, and the same lingering over its incidents that we see in his maturer poems. Nevertheless, there is much that is conventional in the first edition of An Evening Walk, published in 1793. I need only mention, as a sample, the use of the phrase "silent tides" to describe the waters of a lake. When this poem was revised, in the year 1815—with a view to its insertion in the first edition of the collected works—Wordsworth merely omitted large portions of it, and some of its best passages were struck out. He scarcely amended the text at all. In 1820, however, he pruned and improved it throughout; so that between this poem, as recast in 1820 (and reproduced almost verbatim in the next two editions of 1827 and 1832), and his happiest descriptions of Nature in his most inspired moods, there is no great difference. But, in 1836, he altered it still further in detail; and in that state practically left it, apparently not caring to revise it further. In the edition of 1845, however, there are several changes. So far as I can judge, there is one alteration for the worse, and one only. The reading, in the edition of 1793, is better than that finally adopted, It will be seen, however, from the changes made in the text of this poem, how Wordsworth's observation of Nature developed, how thoroughly dissatisfied he soon became with everything conventional, and discarded every image not drawn directly or at first hand from Nature. The text adopted in the present edition is, for the reasons stated, that which was finally sanctioned by Wordsworth himself, in the last edition of his Poems (1849-50). The earlier readings, occurring in previous editions, are given in footnotes; and it may be desirable to explain the way in which these are arranged. It will be seen that whenever the text has been changed a date is given in the footnote, before the other readings are added. This date, which accompanies the reference number of the footnote, indicates the year in which the reading finally retained was first adopted by Wordsworth. The earlier readings then follow, in chronological order, with the year to which they belong;12 and it is in every case to be assumed that the last of the changes indicated was continued in all subsequent editions of the works. No direct information is given as to how long a particular reading was retained, or through how many editions it ran. It is to be assumed, however, that it was retained in all intermediate editions till the next change of text is stated. It would encumber the notes with too many figures if, in every instance in which a change was made, the corresponding state of the text in all the other editions was indicated. But if no new reading follows the text quoted, it is to be taken for granted that the reading in question was continued in every subsequent edition, until the date which accompanies the reference figure. Two illustrations will make this clear. The first is a case in which the text was only altered once, the second an instance in which it was altered six times. In the Evening Walk the following lines occur And the footnote is as follows:
Again, in Simon Lee, the lines occur: And the following are the footnotes:
The same thing is true of Descriptive Sketches. In the year 1827, there were scarcely any alterations made on the text of the poem, as printed in 1820; still fewer were added in 1832; but for the edition of 1836 the whole was virtually rewritten, and in that state it was finally left, although a few significant changes were made in 1845. Slight changes of spelling which occur in the successive editions, are not mentioned. When, however, the change is one of transposition, although the text remains unaltered,—as is largely the case in Simon Lee, for example—it is always indicated. It will be further observed that, at the beginning of every poem, two dates are given; the first, on the left-hand side, is the date of composition; the second, on the right-hand side, is the date of the first publication. In what class the poem first appeared, and the changes (if any) which subsequently occurred in its title, are mentioned in the note appended. |
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| 3. | In the present edition several suggested changes of text, which
were written by Wordsworth on the margin of a copy of his edition of
1836-7, which he kept beside him at Rydal Mount, are published. These
MS. notes seem to have been written by himself, or dictated to others,
at intervals between the years 1836 and 1850, and they are thus a record
of passing thoughts, or "moods of his own mind," during these years.
Some of these were afterwards introduced into the editions of 1842,
1846, and 1849; others were not made use of. The latter have now a value
of their own, as indicating certain new phases of thought and feeling,
in Wordsworth's later years. I owe my knowledge of them, and the
permission to use them, to the kindness of the late Chief Justice of
England, Lord Coleridge. The following is an extract from a letter from
him:
This precious copy of the edition of 1836-7 is now the property of Lady Coleridge. I re-examined it in 1894, and added several readings, which I had omitted to note twelve years ago, when Lord Coleridge first showed it to me. I should add that, since the issue of the volumes of 1882-6, many other MS. copies of individual Poems have come under my notice; and that every important variation of text in them is incorporated in this edition. As it is impossible to discover the precise year in which the suggested alterations of text were written by Wordsworth, on the margin of the edition of 1836, they will be indicated, wherever they occur, by the initial letter C. Comparatively few changes occur in the poems of early years. A copy of the 1814 (quarto) edition of The Excursion, now in the possession of a grandson of the poet, the Rev. John Wordsworth, Gosforth Rectory, Cumberland—which was the copy Wordsworth kept at Rydal Mount for annotation and correction, much in the same way as he kept the edition of 1836-7—has also been kindly sent to me by its present owner, for examination and use in this edition; and, in it, I have found some additional readings. |
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| 4. | In the present edition all the Notes and Memoranda, explanatory
of the Poems, which Wordsworth dictated to Miss Fenwick, are given in
full. Miss Fenwick lived much at Rydal Mount, during the later years of
the Poet's life; and it is to their friendship, and to her inducing
Wordsworth to dictate these Notes, that we owe most of the information
we possess, as to the occasions and circumstances under which his poems
were composed. These notes were first made use of—although only in a
fragmentary manner—by the late Bishop of Lincoln, in the Memoirs
of his uncle. They were afterwards incorporated in full in the edition
of 1857, issued by Mr. Moxon, under the direction of Mr. Carter; and in
the centenary edition. They were subsequently printed in The Prose
Works of Wordsworth, edited by Dr. Grosart; and in my edition of
1882-6. I am uncertain whether it was the original MS., written by Miss
Fenwick, or the copy of it afterwards taken for Miss Quillinan, to which
Dr. Grosart had access. The text of these Notes, as printed in the
edition of 1857, is certainly (in very many cases) widely different from
what is given in The Prose Works of 1876. I have made many
corrections—from the MS. which I have examined with care—of errors
which exist in all previously printed copies of these Notes, including
my own. What appears in this volume is printed from a MS., which Miss Quillinan gave me to examine and copy, and which she assured me was the original one. The proper place for these Fenwick Notes is doubtless that which was assigned to them by the editor of 1857, viz. before the poems which they respectively illustrate. |
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| 5. | Topographical Notes, explanatory of the allusions made by
Wordsworth to the localities in the English Lake District, and
elsewhere, are added throughout the volumes. This has already been
attempted to some extent by several writers, but a good deal more
remains to be done; and I may repeat what I wrote on this subject, in
1878. Many of Wordsworth's allusions to Place are obscure, and the exact localities difficult to identify. It is doubtful if he cared whether they could be afterwards traced out or not; and in reference to one particular rock, referred to in the "Poems on the Naming of Places," when asked by a friend to localise it, he declined; replying to the question, "Yes, that—or any other that will suit!" There is no doubt that, in many instances, his allusions to place are intentionally vague; and, in some of his most realistic passages, he avowedly weaves together a description of localities remote from each other. It is true that "Poems of Places" are not meant to be photographs; and were they simply to reproduce the features of a particular district, and be an exact transcript of reality, they would be literary photographs, and not poems. Poetry cannot, in the nature of things, be a mere register of phenomena appealing to the eye or the ear. No imaginative writer, however, in the whole range of English Literature, is so peculiarly identified with locality as Wordsworth is; and there is not one on the roll of poets, the appreciation of whose writings is more aided by an intimate knowledge of the district in which he lived. The wish to be able to identify his allusions to those places, which he so specially interpreted, is natural to every one who has ever felt the spell of his genius; and it is indispensable to all who would know the special charm of a region, which he described as "a national property," and of which he, beyond all other men, may be said to have effected the literary "conveyance" to posterity. But it has been asked—and will doubtless be asked again—what is the use of a minute identification of all these places? Is not the general fact that Wordsworth described this district of mountain, vale, and mere, sufficient, without any further attempt at localisation? The question is more important, and has wider bearings, than appears upon the surface. It must be admitted, on the one hand, that the discovery of the precise point in every local allusion is not necessary to an understanding or appreciation of the Poems. But, it must be remembered, on the other hand, that Wordsworth was never contented with simply copying what he saw in Nature. Of the Evening Walk—written in his eighteenth year—he says that the plan of the poem Again, he says of the Lines written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening: and of Guilt and Sorrow, he said, In The Excursion he passes from Langdale to Grasmere, over to Patterdale, back to Grasmere, and again to Hawes Water, without warning; and even in the case of the "Duddon Sonnets" he introduces a description taken direct from Rydal. Mr. Aubrey de Vere tells of a conversation he had with Wordsworth, in which he vehemently condemned the ultra-realistic poet, who goes to Nature with The two last sentences of this extract give admirable expression to one feature of Wordsworth's interpretation of Nature. In the deepest poetry, as in the loftiest music,—in Wordsworth's lyrics as in Beethoven's sonatas—it is by what they unerringly suggest and not by what they exhaustively express that their truth and power are known. "In what he leaves unsaid," wrote Schiller, "I discover the master of style." It depends, no doubt, upon the vision of the "inward eye," and the reproductive power of the idealising mind, whether the result is a travesty of Nature, or the embodiment of a truth higher than Nature yields. On the other hand, it is equally certain that the identification of localities casts a sudden light in many instances upon obscure passages in a poem, and is by far the best commentary that can be given. It is much to be able to compare the actual scene, with the ideal creation suggested by it; as the latter was both Wordsworth's reading of the text of Nature, and his interpretation of it. In his seventy-third year, he said, looking back on his Evening Walk, that there was not an image in the poem which he had not observed, and that he "recollected the time and place where most of them were noted." In the Fenwick notes, we constantly find him saying, "the fact occurred strictly as recorded," "the fact was as mentioned in the poem"; and the fact very often involved the accessories of place. Any one who has tried to trace out the allusions in the "Poems on the Naming of Places," or to discover the site of "Michael's Sheepfold," to identify "Ghimmer Crag," or "Thurston-Mere,"—not to speak of the individual "rocks" and "recesses" near Blea Tarn at the head of Little Langdale so minutely described in The Excursion,—will admit that local commentary is an important aid to the understanding of Wordsworth. If to read the Yew Trees in Borrowdale itself, to read The Brothers in Ennerdale, or "The Daffodils" by the shore of Ullswater, gives a new significance to these "poems of the imagination," a discovery of the obscurer allusions to place or scene will deepen our appreciation of those passages in which his idealism is most pronounced. Every one knows Kirkstone Pass, Aira Force, Dungeon Ghyll, the Wishing Gate, and Helm Crag: many persons know the Glowworm Rock, and used to know the Rock of Names; but where is "Emma's Dell"? or "the meeting point of two highways," so characteristically described in the twelfth book of The Prelude? and who will fix the site of the pool in Rydal Upper Park, immortalised in the poem To M. H.? or identify "Joanna's Rock"? Many of the places in the English Lake District are undergoing change, and every year the local allusions will be more difficult to trace. Perhaps the most interesting memorial of the poet which existed, viz. the "Rock of Names," on the shore of Thirlmere, is now sunk under the waters of a Manchester reservoir. Other memorials are perishing by the wear and tear of time, the decay of old buildings, the alteration of roads, the cutting down of trees, and the modernising, or "improving," of the district generally. All this is inevitable. But it is well that many of the natural objects, over and around which the light of Wordsworth's genius lingers, are out of the reach of "improvements," and are indestructible even by machinery. If it be objected that several of the places which we try to identify—and which some would prefer to leave for ever undisturbed in the realm of imagination —were purposely left obscure, it may be replied that Death and Time have probably now removed all reasons for reticence, especially in the case of those poems referring to domestic life and friendly ties. While an author is alive, or while those are alive to whom he has made reference in the course of his allusions to place, it may even be right that works designed for posterity should not be dealt with after the fashion of the modern "interviewer." But greatness has its penalties; and a "fierce light" "beats around the throne" of Genius, as well as round that of Empire. Moreover, all experience shows that posterity takes a great and a growing interest in exact topographical illustrations of the works of great authors. The labour recently bestowed upon the places connected with Shakespeare, Scott, and Burns sufficiently attests this. The localities in Westmoreland, which are most permanently associated with Wordsworth, are these: Grasmere, where he lived during the years of his "poetic prime," and where he is buried; Lower Easdale, where he passed so many days with his sister by the side of the brook, and on the terraces at Lancrigg, and where The Prelude was dictated; Rydal Mount, where he spent the latter half of his life, and where he found one of the most perfect retreats in England; Great Langdale, and Blea Tarn at the head of Little Langdale, immortalised in The Excursion; the upper end of Ullswater, and Kirkstone Pass; and all the mountain tracks and paths round Grasmere and Rydal, especially the old upper road between them, under Nab Scar, his favourite walk during his later years, where he "composed hundreds of verses." There is scarcely a rock or mountain summit, a stream or tarn, or even a well, a grove, or forest-side in all that neighbourhood, which is not imperishably identified with this poet, who at once interpreted them as they had never been interpreted before, and added It may be worthy of note that Wordsworth himself sanctioned the principle of tracing out local allusions both by dictating the Fenwick notes, and by republishing his Essay on the topography of the Lakes, along with the Duddon Sonnets, in 1820—and also, by itself, in 1822—"from a belief that it would tend materially to illustrate" his poems. In this edition the topographical Notes usually follow the Poems to which they refer. But in the case of the longer Poems, such as The Prelude, The Excursion, and others, it seems more convenient to print them at the foot of the page, than to oblige the reader to turn to the end of the volume. From the accident of my having tried long ago— at Principal Shairp's request—to do what he told me he wished to do, but had failed to carry out, I have been supposed, quite erroneously, to be an authority on the subject of "The English Lake District, as interpreted in the Poems of Wordsworth." The latter, it is true, is the title of one of the books which I have written about Wordsworth: but, although I visited the Lakes in 1860,—"as a pilgrim resolute"—and have re-visited the district nearly every year for more than a quarter of a century, I may say that I have only a partial knowledge of it. Others, such as Canon Rawnsley, Mr. Harry Goodwin, and Mr. Rix, for example, know many parts of it much better than I do; but, as I have often had to compare my own judgment with that of such experts as the late Dr. Cradock, Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford, and others, I may add that, when I differ from them, it has been only after a re-examination of their evidence, at the localities themselves. |
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| 6. | Several Poems, and fragments of poems, hitherto unpublished—or
published in stray quarters, and in desultory fashion—will find a place
in this edition; but I reserve these fragments, and place them all
together, in an Appendix to the last volume of the "Poetical Works." If
it is desirable to print these poems, in such an edition as this, it is
equally desirable to separate them from those which Wordsworth himself
sanctioned in his final edition of 1849-50. Every great author in the Literature of the World—whether he lives to old age (when his judgment may possibly be less critical) or dies young (when it may be relatively more accurate)—should himself determine what portions of his work ought, and what ought not to survive. At the same time,—while I do not presume to judge in the case of writers whom I know less fully than I happen to know Wordsworth and his contemporaries,—it seems clear that the very greatest men have occasionally erred as to what parts of their writings might, with most advantage, survive; and that they have even more frequently erred as to what MS. letters, etc.,—casting light on their contemporaries—should, or should not, be preserved. I am convinced, for example, that if the Wordsworth household had not destroyed all the letters which Coleridge sent to them, in the first decade of this century, the world would now possess much important knowledge which is for ever lost. It may have been wise, for reasons now unknown, to burn those letters, written by Coleridge: but the students of the literature of the period would gladly have them now. Passing from the question of the preservation of Letters, it is evident that Wordsworth was very careful in distinguishing between the Verses which he sent to Newspapers and Magazines, and those Poems which he included in his published volumes. His anxiety on this point may be inferred from the way in which he more than once emphasised the fact of republication, e.g. in Peter Bell (1819) he put the following prefatory note to four sonnets, which had previously appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, and which afterwards (1828) appeared in the Poetical Album of Alaric Watts, "The following Sonnets having lately appeared in Periodical Publications are here reprinted." Some of the poems (or fragments of poems), included in the addenda to Volume viii. of this edition, I would willingly have left out (especially the sonnet addressed to Miss Maria Williams); but, since they have appeared elsewhere, I feel justified in now reprinting even that trivial youthful effusion, signed "Axiologus." I rejoice, however, that there is no likelihood that the "Somersetshire Tragedy" will ever see the light. When I told Wordsworth's successor in the Laureateship that I had burned a copy of that poem, sent to me by one to whom it had been confided, his delight was great. It is the chronicle of a revolting crime, with nothing in the verse to warrant its publication. The only curious thing about it is that Wordsworth wrote it. With this exception, there is no reason why the fragments which he did not himself republish, and others which he published but afterwards suppressed, should not now be printed. The suppression of some of these by the poet himself is as unaccountable, as is his omission of certain stanzas in the earlier poems from their later versions. Even the Cambridge Installation Ode, which is so feeble, will be reprinted.16 The Glowworm, which only appeared in the edition of 1807, will be republished in full. Andrew Jones,—also suppressed after appearing in "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, 1802, and 1805,—will be replaced, in like manner. The youthful School Exercise written at Hawkshead, the translation from the Georgics of Virgil, the poem addressed To the Queen in 1846, will appear in their chronological place in vol. viii. There are also a translation of some French stanzas by Francis Wrangham on The Birth of Love-a poem entitled The Eagle and the Dove, which was privately printed in a volume, consisting chiefly of French fragments, and called La petite Chouannerie, ou Historie d'un College Breton sous l'Empire—a sonnet on the rebuilding of a church at Cardiff—an Election Squib written during the Lowther and Brougham contest for the representation of the county of Cumberland in 1818—some stanzas written in the Visitors' Book at the Ferry, Windermere, and other fragments. Then, since Wordsworth published some verses by his sister Dorothy in his own volumes, other unpublished fragments by Miss Wordsworth may find a place in this edition. I do not attach much importance, however, to the recovery of these unpublished poems. The truth is, as Sir Henry Taylor—himself a poet and critic of no mean order—remarked,17 The industrious labour of some editors in disinterring the trivial works of great men is not a commendable industry. All great writers have occasionally written trifles—this is true even of Shakespeare—and if they wished them to perish, why should we seek to resuscitate them? Besides, this labour—whether due to the industry of admiring friends, or to the ambition of the literary resurrectionist—is futile; because the verdict of Time is sure, and posterity is certain to consign the recovered trivialities to kindly oblivion. The question which should invariably present itself to the editor of the fragments of a great writer is, "Can these bones live?" If they cannot, they had better never see the light. Indeed the only good reason for reprinting the fragments which have been lost (because the author himself attached no value to them), is that, in a complete collection of the works of a great man, some of them may have a biographic or psychological value. But have we any right to reproduce, from an antiquarian motive, what—in a literary sense—is either trivial, or feeble, or sterile? We must, however, distinguish between what is suitable for an edition meant either to popularise an author, or to interpret him, and an edition intended to bring together all that is worthy of preservation for posterity. There is great truth in what Mr. Arnold has lately said of Byron: This is quite true; nevertheless, English literature demands a complete edition of all the works of Byron: and it may be safely predicted that, for weightier reasons and with greater urgency, it will continue to call for the collected works of Wordsworth. It should also be noted that the fact of Wordsworth's having dictated to Miss Fenwick (so late as 1843) a stanza from The Convict in his note to The Lament of Mary Queen of Scots (1817), justifies the inclusion of the whole of that (suppressed) poem in such an edition as this. The fact that Wordsworth did not republish all his Poems, in his final edition of 1849-50, is not conclusive evidence that he thought them unworthy of preservation, and reproduction. It must be remembered that The Prelude itself was a posthumous publication; and also that the fragmentary canto of The Recluse, entitled "Home at Grasmere"—as well as the other canto published in 1886, and entitled (most prosaically) "Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a residence"—were not published by the poet himself. I am of opinion that his omission of the stanzas beginning: and of the sonnet on his Voyage down the Rhine, was due to sheer forgetfulness of their existence. Few poets remember all their past, fugitive, productions. At the same time, there are other fragments,—written when he was experimenting with his theme, and when the inspiration of genius had forsaken him,—which it is unfortunate that he did not himself destroy. Among the Poems which Wordsworth suppressed, in his final edition, is the Latin translation of The Somnambulist by his son. This will be republished, more especially as it was included by Wordsworth himself in the second edition of his "Yarrow Revisited." It may be well to mention the repetitions which are inevitable in this edition,
will be printed both by themselves in their chronological place, and in the longer poem of which they form a part, according to the original plan of their author. |
Fresh springs of green boxwood, not six months before.
"Of the Poems in this class, "The Evening Walk" and "Descriptive Sketches" were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems."
"The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, 'Descriptive Sketches', as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'"
"Dear native regions," etc., 1786, Hawkshead. The beautiful image with which this poem concludes suggested itself to me while I was resting in a boat along with my companions under the shade of a magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their branches from the shore of the promontory upon which stands the ancient, and at that time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston, the Seat of the Le Flemings from very early times. The Poem of which it was the conclusion, was of many hundred lines, and contained thoughts and images, most of which have been dispersed through my other writings.—I. F.
" .... I wrote, while yet a schoolboy, a long poem running upon my own adventures, and the scenery of the county in which I was brought up. The only part of that poem which has been preserved is the conclusion of it, which stands at the beginning of my collected Poems."A
while, in that shade
Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light
Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed
In silent beauty on the naked ridge
Of a high eastern hill—thus flowed my thoughts
In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart:
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| Dear native regions, I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, And whensoe'er my course shall end, If in that hour a single tie Survive of local sympathy, My soul will cast the backward view, The longing look alone on you. Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest Far in the regions of the west, Though to the vale no parting beam Be given, not one memorial gleam, A lingering light he fondly throws On the dear hills where first he rose. |
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| Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly his later meal: Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain; Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel The officious touch that makes me droop again. |
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Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear,
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The young Lady to whom this was addressed was my Sister. It was composed at School, and during my first two College vacations. There is not an image in it which I have not observed; and, now in my seventy-third year, I recollect the time and place, when most of them were noticed. I will confine myself to one instance:I was an eye-witness of this for the first time while crossing the Pass of Dunmail Raise. Upon second thought, I will mention another image:Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale,
Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,—
The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks,
Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I recollect distinctly the very spot where this first struck me. It was on the way between Hawkshead and Ambleside, and gave me extreme pleasure. The moment was important in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness of the infinite variety of natural appearances which had been unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, so far as I was acquainted with them; and I made a resolution to supply in some degree the deficiency. I could not have been at that time above fourteen years of age. The description of the swans, that follows, was taken from the daily opportunities I had of observing their habits, not as confined to the gentleman's park, but in a state of nature. There were two pairs of them that divided the lake of Esthwaite, and its in-and-out flowing streams, between them, never trespassing a single yard upon each other's separate domain. They were of the old magnificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about the same relation to the Thames swan which that does to the goose. It was from the remembrance of those noble creatures, I took, thirty years after, the picture of the swan which I have discarded from the poem of 'Dion'. While I was a schoolboy, the late Mr. Curwen introduced a little fleet of these birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. Their principal home was about his own island; but they sailed about into remote parts of the lake, and either from real or imagined injury done to the adjoining fields, they were got rid of at the request of the farmers and proprietors, but to the great regret of all who had become attached to them from noticing their beauty and quiet habits. I will conclude my notice of this poem by observing that the plan of it has not been confined to a particular walk, or an individual place; a proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and real circumstance. The country is idealised rather than described in any one of its local aspects.—I. F.And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines
Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines.
cross-reference: return to Footnote A of The Idiot Boy
"They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems."
"The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, Descriptive Sketches, as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'"
"It was with great reluctance that I sent these two little works into the world in so imperfect a state. But as I had done nothing at the University, I thought these little things might show that I could do something."
'General Sketch of the Lakes—
Author's regret of his Youth which was passed amongst them—
Short description of Noon—
Cascade—
Noon-tide Retreat—
Precipice and sloping Lights—
Face of Nature as the Sun declines—
Mountain-farm, and the Cock—
Slate-quarry—
Sunset—
Superstition of the Country connected with that moment—
Swans—
Female Beggar—
Twilight-sounds—
Western Lights—
Spirits—
Night—
Moonlight—
Hope—
Night-sounds—
Conclusion'.
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| Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore; Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads; Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander sleeps 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, And memory of departed pleasures, more. Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. In youth's keen eye the livelong day was bright, The sun at morning, and the stars at night, Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moonlight hill. In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, And hope itself was all I knew of pain; For then, the inexperienced heart would beat At times, while young Content forsook her seat, And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road. Alas! the idle tale of man is found Depicted in the dial's moral round; Hope with reflection blends her social rays To gild the total tablet of his days; Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, He knows but from its shade the present hour. But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain? To show what pleasures yet to me remain, Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, The history of a poet's evening hear? When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill, And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between; When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, Lashed the cool water with their restless tails, Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales; When school-boys stretched their length upon the green; And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene, In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear; When horses in the sunburnt intake stood, And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress, With forward neck the closing gate to press— Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll As by enchantment, an obscure retreat Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. While thick above the rill the branches close, In rocky basin its wild waves repose, Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; And its own twilight softens the whole scene, Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine On withered briars that o'er the crags recline; Save where, with sparkling foam, a small cascade, Illumines, from within, the leafy shade; Beyond, along the vista of the brook, Where antique roots its bustling course o'erlook, The eye reposes on a secret bridge Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge; There, bending o'er the stream, the listless swain Lingers behind his disappearing wain. —Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield to thine! Never shall ruthless minister of death 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers, No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers; The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove A more benignant sacrifice approve— A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood Of happy wisdom, meditating good, Beholds, of all from her high powers required, Much done, and much designed, and more desired,— Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined, Entire affection for all human kind. Dear Brook, farewell! To-morrow's noon again Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain; But now the sun has gained his western road, And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad. While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace Travel along the precipice's base; Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown; Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's beard; And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard. How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view The spacious landscape change in form and hue! Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, Come forth, and here retire in purple shade; Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, Soften their glare before the mellow light; The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide, Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam, Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream: Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire, Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire. Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink; There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage sleep, And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deep: And now, on every side, the surface breaks Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks; Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright With thousand thousand twinkling points of light; There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away, Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray; And now the whole wide lake in deep repose Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, Save where, along the shady western marge, Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge. Their panniered train a group of potters goad, Winding from side to side up the steep road; The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green rings," and broom; While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds; In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, Dashed o'er the rough rock, lightly leaps along; From lonesome chapel at the mountain's feet, Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat; Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat; And 'blasted' quarry thunders, heard remote! Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs and falling floods, Not undelightful are the simplest charms, Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms. Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks; Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread; A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurls Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote: Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings! Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline; I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains: How busy all the enormous hive within, While Echo dallies with its various din! Some (hear you not their chisels' clinking sound?) Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side; These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. Just where a cloud above the mountain rears An edge all flame, the broadening sun appears; A long blue bar its ægis orb divides, And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; And now that orb has touched the purple steep Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire, With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire"; While coves and secret hollows, through a ray Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between Shines in the light with more than earthly green: Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume, Far in the level forest's central gloom: Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,— The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold; And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill. In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. The form appears of one that spurs his steed Midway along the hill with desperate speed; Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; At intervals imperial banners stream, And now the van reflects the solar beam; The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. While silent stands the admiring crowd below, Silent the visionary warriors go, Winding in ordered pomp their upward way Till the last banner of their long array Has disappeared, and every trace is fled Of splendour—save the beacon's spiry head Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale; And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines; 'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray Where, winding on along some secret bay, The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flings His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings: The eye that marks the gliding creature sees How graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease. While tender cares and mild domestic loves With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, The female with a meeker charm succeeds, And her brown little-ones around her leads, Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, Or playing wanton with the floating grass. She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; Alternately they mount her back, and rest Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. Long may they float upon this flood serene; Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, And breathes in peace the lily of the vale! Yon isle, which feels not even the milk-maid's feet, Yet hears her song, "by distance made more sweet," Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower; Green water-rushes overspread the floor; Long grass and willows form the woven wall, And swings above the roof the poplar tall. Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk; Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn; Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings, Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings, Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caressed, Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed; When with her infants, from some shady seat By the lake's edge, she rose—to face the noontide heat; Or taught their limbs along the dusty road A few short steps to totter with their load. I see her now, denied to lay her head, On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed, Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, By pointing to the gliding moon on high. —When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, And fireless are the valleys far and wide, Where the brook brawls along the public road Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad, Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay The shining glow-worm; or, in heedless play, Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; While others, not unseen, are free to shed Green unmolested light upon their mossy bed. Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale; No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold; Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears; No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms! Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn colouring of night; 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw, Like Una shining on her gloomy way, The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small, Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall; Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. With restless interchange at once the bright Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze On lovelier spectacle in faery days; When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, Brushing with lucid wands the water's face; While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. —The lights are vanished from the watery plains: No wreck of all the pageantry remains. Unheeded night has overcome the vales: On the dark earth the wearied vision fails; The latest lingerer of the forest train, The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain; Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar; And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear. —Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, And ever, as we fondly muse, we find The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay! Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away: Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, And pours a deeper blue to Æther's bound; Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely face: Across the gloomy valley flings her light, Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue. Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn, 'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while On darling spots remote her tempting smile. Even now she decks for me a distant scene, (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear! How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, 'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood, Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill, Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, The boat's first motion—made with dashing oar; Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn; The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; The distant forge's swinging thump profound; Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. |
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November chill blaws loud, wi' angry sugh
"So break those glittering shadows, human joys"
"Charming the night-calm with her powerful song."
"Charms with her excellent voice an awful silence through all this building."
Not a passing breeze
Sigh'd to the grove, which in the midnight air
Stood motionless, and in the peaceful floods
Inverted hung.
Save that, atop, the subtle ...
Save that aloft ...
"Vivid rings of green."
"Down the rough slope the pondrous waggon rings."
"Dolcemente feroce."
and now a golden curve,
Gives one bright glance, then total disappears.
"Southen-fell side, as seen on the 25th of June 1744 by William Lancaster of Blakehills, and a farm servant, David Strichet:
"These visionary horsemen seemed to come from the lowest part of Southen-fell, and became visible just at a place called Knott. They then moved in regular troops along the side of the fell, till they came opposite Blakehills, when they went over the mountain. Then they described a kind of curvilinear path upon the side of the fell, and both these first and last appearances were bounded by the top of the mountain.
"Frequently the last, or last but one, in a troop would leave his place, and gallop to the front, and then take the same pace with the rest—a regular swift walk. Thus changes happened to every troop (for many troops appeared) and oftener than once or twice, yet not at all times alike.... Nor was this phenomenon seen at Blakehill only, it was seen by every person at every cottage within the distance of a mile. Neither was it confined to a momentary view, for from the time that Strichet first observed it, the appearance must have lasted at least two hours and a half, viz. from half past seven till the night coming on prevented further view."
"I have an idea that the fact that it took place at midsummer eve (June 27), the eve of the Feast of St. John, upon which occasion the shepherds hereabout used to light bonfires on the hills (no doubt a relic of the custom of the Beltane fires of old Norse days, perhaps of earlier sun-worship festivals of British times), may have had something to do with the naming of the mountain Blencathara of which Southen-fell (or Shepherd's-fell, as the name implies) is part. Blencathara, we are told, may mean the Hill of Demons, or the haunted hill. My suggestion is that the old sun-worshippers, who met in midsummer eve on Castrigg at the Druid circle or Donn-ring, saw just the same phenomenon as Strichet and Lancaster saw upon Southen-fell, and hence the name. Nay, perhaps the Druid circle was built where it is, because it was well in view of the Demon Hill."
... Her angel face
As the great eye of Heaven shined bright,
And made a sunshine in that shady place.
But the soft murmur of swift-gushing rills,
Forth issuing from the mountain's distant steep
(Unheard till now, and now scarce heard), proclaim'd
All things at rest.
This title is scarcely correct. It was during a solitary walk on the banks of the Cam that I was first struck with this appearance, and applied it to my own feelings in the manner here expressed, changing the scene to the Thames, near Windsor. This, and the three stanzas of the following poem, Remembrance of Collins, formed one piece; but, upon the recommendation of Coleridge, the three last stanzas were separated from the other.—I. F.
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| How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling. Such views the youthful Bard allure; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. —And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? |
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| Glide gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river! come to me. O glide, fair stream! for ever so, Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought!—Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the Poet bless, Who murmuring here a later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress But in the milder grief of pity. Now let us, as we float along, For him suspend the dashing oar; And pray that never child of song May know that Poet's sorrows more. How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended! —The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest Powers attended. |
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Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest.
And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest.
To the Rev. Robert Jones, Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge
Dear SirB,—However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the circumstance of our having been companions among the Alps, seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples which your modesty might otherwise have suggestedC.
In inscribing this little work to you, I consult my heart. You know well how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post-chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, each with his little knapsack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter!
I am happy in being conscious that I shall have one reader who will approach the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we observed them together; consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own memory.
With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea-sunsets, which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethgelert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee, remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem
I am, dear Sir,
Most sincerely yours,
W. Wordsworth.
London, 1793.
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| Were there, below, a spot of holy ground Where from distress a refuge might be found, And solitude prepare the soul for heaven; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given Where falls the purple morning far and wide In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight; At least, not owning to himself an aim To which the sage would give a prouder name. No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread: Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? Upward he looks—"and calls it luxury:" Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; In every babbling brook he finds a friend; While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; He views the sun uplift his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre; Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray, To light him shaken by his rugged way. Back from his sight no bashful children steal; He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; His humble looks no shy restraint impart; Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there. A hope, that prudence could not then approve, That clung to Nature with a truant's love, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led; Her files of road-elms, high above my head In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze; Or where her pathways straggle as they please By lonely farms and secret villages. But lo! the Alps ascending white in air, Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom. Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear? That Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound, Chains that were loosened only by the sound Of holy rites chanted in measured round? —The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. The thundering tube the aged angler hears, Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears. Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads, Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'erspreads; Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, And start the astonished shades at female eyes. From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock The Cross, by angels planted on the aërial rock. The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of Life and Death. Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds, Vallombre, 'mid her falling fanes deplores For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. —To towns, whose shades of no rude noise complain, From ringing team apart and grating wain— To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling— The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines; And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. The loitering traveller hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue, And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed In golden light; half hides itself in shade: While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire: There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw Rich golden verdure on the lake below. Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar; Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amorous music on the water dies. How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, Each with its household boat beside the door; Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky; Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high; That glimmer hoar in eve's last light descried Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods; —Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey, 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray Slow-travelling down the western hills, to' enfold Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold; Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell, And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass Along the steaming lake, to early mass. But now farewell to each and all—adieu To every charm, and last and chief to you, Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; To all that binds the soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. —Alas! the very murmur of the streams Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge. Yet are thy softer arts with power indued To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. But once I pierced the mazes of a wood In which a cabin undeserted stood; There an old man an olden measure scanned On a rude viol touched with withered hand. As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye, His children's children listened to the sound; —A Hermit with his family around! But let us hence; for fair Locarno smiles Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles: Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her waters gleam. From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire To where afar rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow: Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom His burning eyes with fearful light illume. The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, With sad congratulation joins the train Where beasts and men together o'er the plain Move on—a mighty caravan of pain: Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs. —There be whose lot far otherwise is cast: Sole human tenant of the piny waste, By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, A nursling babe her only comforter; Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke! When lightning among clouds and mountain-snows Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road— She seeks a covert from the battering shower In the roofed bridge; the bridge, in that dread hour, Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. Nor is she more at ease on some still night, When not a star supplies the comfort of its light; Only the waning moon hangs dull and red Above a melancholy mountain's head, Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs, Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes; Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf. From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide; By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they; By cells upon whose image, while he prays, The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze; By many a votive death-cross planted near, And watered duly with the pious tear, That faded silent from the upward eye Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh; Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves. But soon a peopled region on the sight Opens—a little world of calm delight; Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale, Spread roof like o'er the deep secluded vale, And beams of evening slipping in between, Gently illuminate a sober scene:— Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep, There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. On as we journey, in clear view displayed, The still vale lengthens underneath its shade Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead The green light sparkles;—the dim bowers recede. While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before the admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, And antique castles seen through gleamy showers. From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake! To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread: The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch, Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech; Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, Nor stop but where creation seems to end. Yet here and there, if 'mid the savage scene Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep. —Before those thresholds (never can they know The face of traveller passing to and fro,) No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell; Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes; The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. Yet thither the world's business finds its way At times, and tales unsought beguile the day, And there are those fond thoughts which Solitude, However stern, is powerless to exclude. There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale; At midnight listens till his parting oar, And its last echo, can be heard no more. And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons cry, Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray; Contentment shares the desolate domain With Independence, child of high Disdain. Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes; And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: Dark is the region as with coming night; But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form! Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun The west, that burns like one dilated sun, A crucible of mighty compass, felt By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. And who, that walks where men of ancient days Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, Feels not the spirit of the place control, Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" expired? But now with other mind I stand alone Upon the summit of this naked cone, And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep; Where silent Hours their death-like sway extend, Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. —'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height, To see a planet's pomp and steady light In the least star of scarce-appearing night; While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound Of ether, shining with diminished round, And far and wide the icy summits blaze, Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: To him the day-star glitters small and bright, Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, And he can look beyond the sun, and view Those fast-receding depths of sable blue Flying till vision can no more pursue! —At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow, with angry roar Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink; Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink; And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar; Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's pastoral heights. —Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen The native Genii walk the mountain green? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, Soft music o'er the aërial summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. —And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, Nought but the chalets, flat and bare, on high Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. How still! no irreligious sound or sight Rouses the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, And with that voice accords the soothing sound Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady sugh; The solitary heifer's deepened low; Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, Blend in a music of tranquillity; Save when, a stranger seen below the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. When, from the sunny breast of open seas, And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze Comes on to gladden April with the sight Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height; When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, Leaving to silence the deserted vale; And like the Patriarchs in their simple age Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage; High and more high in summer's heat they go, And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; Another high on that green ledge;—he gained The tempting spot with every sinew strained; And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. —Far different life from what Tradition hoar Transmits of happier lot in times of yore! Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode: Continual waters welling cheered the waste, And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste: Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. Thus does the father to his children tell Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows; More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose billows wide around Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear, That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, Gapes in the centre of the sea—and through That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound Innumerable streams with roar profound. Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, And merry flageolet; the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, Talk, laughter, and perchance a church-tower knell: Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised: Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less Alive to independent happiness, Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even-tide Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was blest as free—for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, Walked none restraining, and by none restrained: Confessed no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As man in his primeval dower arrayed The image of his glorious Sire displayed, Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here The traces of primeval Man appear; The simple dignity no forms debase; The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; —Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a marvellous victory renowned, The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, innumerable foes, When to those famous fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead: For images of other worlds are there; Awful the light, and holy is the air. Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll; His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign. And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, He holds with God himself communion high, There where the peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. And when a gathering weight of shadows brown Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms, Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red— Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which on the hills so oft employs His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends A little prattling child, he oft descends, To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. There, safely guarded by the woods behind, He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound. Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; The bound of all his vanity, to deck, With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck; Well pleased upon some simple annual feast, Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. —Alas! in every clime a flying ray Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; And here the unwilling mind may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race: The churlish gales of penury, that blow Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, To them the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more;—compelled by Powers which only deign That solitary man disturb their reign, Powers that support an unremitting strife With all the tender charities of life, Full oft the father, when his sons have grown To manhood, seems their title to disown; And from his nest amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; With stern composure watches to the plain— And never, eagle-like, beholds again! When long familiar joys are all resigned, Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind? Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, And search the affections to their inmost cell; Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume! Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious morn, And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! Alas! the little joy to man allowed, Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; Or like the beauty in a flower installed, Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, We still confide in more than we can know; Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, Between interminable tracts of pine, Within a temple stands an awful shrine, By an uncertain light revealed, that falls On the mute Image and the troubled walls. Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain That views, undimmed, Ensiedlen's wretched fane. While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; While prayer contends with silenced agony, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope—oh, pass and leave it there! The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing toward the sacred floor Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more. How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains reared for them amid the waste! Their thirst they slake:—they wash their toil-worn feet, And some with tears of joy each other greet. Yes, I must see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment will for you a sigh Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; In that glad moment when your hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast! Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields: Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend;— A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here all the seasons revel hand in hand: 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height That holds no commerce with the summer night. From age to age, throughout his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; Appalling havoc! but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow; Glitter the stars, and all is black below. What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thy reward, unrivall'd Vale! Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray, With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, While the remotest hamlets blessings share In thy loved presence known, and only there; Heart-blessings—outward treasures too which the eye Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, And every passing breeze will testify. There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound; The housewife there a brighter garden sees, Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,— To greet the traveller needing food and rest; Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; Though martial songs have banished songs of love, And nightingales desert the village grove, Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mournful cry! —Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; With more majestic course the water rolled, And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. —But foes are gathering—Liberty must raise Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!— Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire: Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! —All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, not the hope disown; She knows that only from high aims ensue Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed In an impartial balance, give thine aid To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs, Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! And grant that every sceptred child of clay Who cries presumptuous, "Here the flood shall stay," May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand; Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, With a light heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. |
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Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye:
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:
And when he fa's,
His latest draught o' breathin' leaves him
In faint huzzas.
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
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... Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
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O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
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The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly;
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale.
"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft
The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd."
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 twoA 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.
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.
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| 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 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. |
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| II | While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 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!" 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. |
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| III | The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 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, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. |
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| 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, 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, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. |
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| 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. 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. |
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| 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 endured in hope of just reward, 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. |
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| VII | For years the work of carnage did not cease. 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 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. |
55 60 |
||
| VIII | Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 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; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. |
65 70 |
||
| 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. 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; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. |
C |
75 80 |
|
| 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 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 his way. |
2 |
85 90 |
|
| XI | As one whose brain habitual 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, 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. |
3 | 95 |
|
| XII | Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 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 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. |
100 105 |
||
| XIII | All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye—which, wheresoe'er it strays, 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 Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. |
110 115 |
||
| 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, 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 Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? |
4 |
120 125 |
|
| XV | Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 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. |
5 |
130 135 |
|
| 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; 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. |
140 |
||
| XVII | At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 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 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. |
145 150 |
||
| XVIII | Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 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. In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,—his eyes begin to close; |
155 160 |
||
| 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 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 Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; |
165 170 |
||
| 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; 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. |
175 180 |
||
| 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; 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. |
185 |
||
| XXII | But soon his voice and words of kind intent 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. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. |
6 |
190 195 |
|
| XXIII | "By Derwent's side my father dwelt—a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; 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; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. |
7 |
200 205 |
|
| XXIV | "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 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 Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! |
8
9 |
210 215 |
|
| XXV | "The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 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; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. |
10 11 12 |
220 225 |
|
| 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 When Fortune might put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came;—our final leave we took. |
13 14 / 15 / 16 |
230 |
|
| XXVII | "It was indeed a miserable hour 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: 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! |
17 18 |
235 240 |
|
| XXVIII | "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song We two had sung, like gladsome birds 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; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. |
19 20 |
245 250 |
|
| XXIX | "Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 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; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. |
21 |
255 260 |
|
| XXX | "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. |
22 23 24 25 26 / 27 |
265 270 |
|
| XXXI | "'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain 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. |
28 29 |
275 |
|
| XXXII | "There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed 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, 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed—at last the land withdrew. |
30 31 |
280 285 |
|
| XXXIII | "But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. |
32 33 34 |
290 295 |
|
| 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, It would unman the firmest heart to hear. 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 A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." |
35 |
300 305 |
|
| 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. 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. |
310 315 |
||
| 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 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. |
320 |
||
| XXXVII | They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain 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, 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. |
325 330 |
||
| XXXVIII | "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. |
36 37 38 |
335 340 |
|
| XXXIX | "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, 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, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! |
39 40 |
345 350 |
|
| 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, 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. |
355 360 |
||
| 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, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'— 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. |
41 42 |
365 |
|
| XLII | "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised 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: Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. |
43 44 45 46 |
370 375 |
|
| XLIII | "So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. —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 Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. |
47 48 49 50 |
380 385 |
|
| XLIV | "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 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, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. |
51 52 53 |
390 395 |
|
| XLV | "These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 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 saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food—and rest, more welcome, more desired. |
54 55 56 57 |
400 405 |
|
| XLVI | "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure— The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. |
58 59 |
410 |
|
| XLVII | "But ill they suited me—those journeys dark 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, 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. |
60 | 415 420 |
|
| XLVIII | "What could I do, unaided and unblest? My father! gone was every friend of thine: 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 then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. |
61 62 63 64 |
425 430 |
|
| XLIX | "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Forgone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. |
65 66 |
435 440 |
|
| L | "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend— Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friend Have I."—She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. |
67 68 |
445 450 |
|
| LI | True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks—for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 'Twas not for him to speak—a man so tried. Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. |
455 |
||
| LII | Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle,—but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement. |
460 465 |
||
| LIII | A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. |
470 475 |
||
| LIV | His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;— Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. |
480 485 |
||
| LV | Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw—there and upon that ground— Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. |
D |
490 495 |
|
| LVI | Within himself he said—What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill—fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son—so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. |
500 |
||
| LVII | "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"— While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. |
505 510 |
||
| LVIII | Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. |
515 520 |
||
| LIX | They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;—the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. |
525 530 |
||
| LX | Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. |
535 540 |
||
| LXI | A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,—wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. |
545 |
||
| LXII | The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. |
550 555 |
||
| LXIII | While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage—gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife—"God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!" |
560 565 |
||
| LXIV | So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said—"I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. |
570 575 |
||
| LXV | "Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me—there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain: For I shall never see my father's door again. |
580 585 |
||
| LXVI | "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.— Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. |
590 |
||
| LXVII | "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; |
595 600 |
||
| LXVIII | "For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And he had done the deed in the dark wood— Near his own home!—but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband's loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." |
605 610 |
||
| LXIX | Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried—"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish—forgive me, but forgive!" |
615 620 |
||
| LXX | To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." |
625 630 |
||
| LXXI | She slept in peace,—his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!" |
635 |
||
| LXXII | The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. |
640 645 |
||
| LXXIII | Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" |
650 655 |
||
| LXXIV | His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:—no one on his form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. |
660 665 |
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Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks above the peninsula on which the Ferry HouseB stands. This property afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr. Curwen. The site was long ago pointed out by Mr. West, in his Guide, as the pride of the Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station." So much used I to be delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these notes.—I. F.
| text | variant | line number |
| Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.—He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,—against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,—how lovely 'tis Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, When nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those Beings to whose minds Warm from the labours of benevolence The world, and human life, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died,—this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart. |
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Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten linesA, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy.
February 28, 1842B.
This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of 'The Borderers' was composedC.
Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read Redpath's History of the Borders, but found there nothing to my purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of Remorse; and it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr. Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays, and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself, I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no disappointment when the piece was judiciously returned as not calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as is well known, brought forward several years after, through the kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the apparently motiveless actions of bad men intelligible to careful observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of the changes through which the French Revolution passed.—I. F.
| Marmaduke... | |
| Oswald... | |
| Wallace... | ...all of the Band of Borderers |
| Lacy... | |
| Lennox... | |
| Herbert... | |
| Wilfred | Servant To Marmaduke |
| Host | |
| Forester | |
| Eldred | A Peasant |
| Idonea | |
| Female Beggar | |
| Eleanor | Wife To Eldred |
| Peasant, Pilgrims, etc. |
| Lacy | The Troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. —-Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service. |
| Wallace | Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, Companionship with One of crooked ways, From whose perverted soul can come no good To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. |
| Lacy | True; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Over our much-loved Captain. |
| Wallace | I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life His passion drove him—then a Voyager Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing In Palestine? |
| Lacy | Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; Let us begone—the Band may else be foiled. |
| Exeunt | |
| Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred | |
| Wilfred | Be cautious, my dear Master! |
| Marmaduke | I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm. |
| Wilfred | Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is— |
| Marmaduke | Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him? |
| Wilfred | You know that you have saved his life. |
| Marmaduke | I know it. |
| Wilfred | And that he hates you!—Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty. |
| Marmaduke | Fy! no more of it. |
| Wilfred | Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul.—Nobody loves this Oswald— Yourself, you do not love him. |
| Marmaduke | I do more, I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart Are natural; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience Has given him power to teach: and then for courage And enterprise—what perils hath he shunned? What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, And be at rest. |
| Wilfred | Oh, Sir! |
| Marmaduke | Peace, my good Wilfred; Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. |
| Wilfred | May He whose eye is over all protect you! |
| Exir | |
| Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his hand) | |
| Oswald | This wood is rich in plants and curious simples. |
| Marmaduke | (looking at them) The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: Which is your favorite, Oswald? |
| Oswald | That which, while it is Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal— (Looking forward) Not yet in sight!—We'll saunter here awhile; They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. |
| Marmaduke |
(a letter in his hand) It is no common thing when one like you Performs these delicate services, and therefore I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald; 'Tis a strange letter this!—You saw her write it? |
| Oswald | And saw the tears with which she blotted it. |
| Marmaduke | And nothing less would satisfy him? |
| Oswald | No less; For that another in his Child's affection Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. Besides, I know not what strange prejudice Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours, Which you've collected for the noblest ends, Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed To guard the Innocent—he calls us "Outlaws"; And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts This garb was taken up that indolence Might want no cover, and rapacity Be better fed. |
| Marmaduke | Ne'er may I own the heart That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. |
| Oswald | Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, Yet was I grievously provoked to think Of what I witnessed. |
| Marmaduke | This day will suffice To end her wrongs. |
| Oswald | But if the blind Man's tale Should yet be true? |
| Marmaduke | Would it were possible! Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, And others who survived the wreck, beheld The Baron Herbert perish in the waves Upon the coast of Cyprus? |
| Oswald | Yes, even so, And I had heard the like before: in sooth The tale of this his quondam Barony Is cunningly devised; and, on the back Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail To make the proud and vain his tributaries, And stir the pulse of lazy charity. The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much The Arch-Impostor— |
| Marmaduke | Treat him gently, Oswald: Though I have never seen his face, methinks, There cannot come a day when I shall cease To love him. I remember, when a Boy Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm That casts its shade over our village school, 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, Till all the band of play-mates wept together; And that was the beginning of my love. And, through all converse of our later years, An image of this old Man still was present, When I had been most happy. Pardon me If this be idly spoken. |
| Oswald | See, they come, Two Travellers! |
| Marmaduke | (points) The woman1 is Idonea. |
| Oswald | And leading Herbert. |
| Marmaduke | We must let them pass— This thicket will conceal us. |
| [They step aside.] | |
| [Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind.] | |
| Idonea | Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since We left the willow shade by the brook-side, Your natural breathing has been troubled. |
| Herbert | Nay, You are too fearful; yet must I confess, Our march of yesterday had better suited A firmer step than mine. |
| Idonea | That dismal Moor— In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, I never can forgive it: but how steadily You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!— I thought the Convent never would appear; It seemed to move away from us: and yet, That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, And midway on the waste ere night had fallen I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods— A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, Who might have found a nothing-doing hour Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut We might have made a kindly bed of heath, And thankfully there rested side by side Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,— That staff of yours, I could almost have heart To fling't away from you: you make no use Of me, or of my strength;—come, let me feel That you do press upon me. There—indeed You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile On this green bank. |
| [He sits down.] | |
| Herbert | (after some time) Idonea, you are silent, And I divine the cause. |
| Idonea | Do not reproach me: I pondered patiently your wish and will When I gave way to your request; and now, When I behold the ruins of that face, Those eyeballs dark—dark beyond hope of light, And think that they were blasted for my sake, The name of Marmaduke is blown away: Father, I would not change that sacred feeling For all this world can give. |
| Herbert | Nay, be composed: Few minutes gone a faintness overspread My frame, and I bethought me of two things I ne'er had heart to separate—my grave, And thee, my Child! |
| Idonea | Believe me, honoured Sire! 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods Resound with music, could you see the sun, And look upon the pleasant face of Nature— |
| Herbert | I comprehend thee—I should be as cheerful As if we two were twins; two songsters bred In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. My fancies, fancies if they be, are such As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source Than bodily weariness. While here we sit I feel my strength returning.—The bequest Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive We have thus far adventured, will suffice To save thee from the extreme of penury; But when thy Father must lie down and die, How wilt thou stand alone? |
| Idonea | Is he not strong? Is he not valiant? |
| Herbert | Am I then so soon Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child; Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed— This Marmaduke— |
| Idonea | O could you hear his voice: Alas! you do not know him. He is one (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul, Which with the motion of a virtuous act Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. |
| Herbert | Unhappy Woman! |
| Idonea | Nay, it was my duty Thus much to speak; but think not I forget— Dear Father! how could I forget and live— You and the story of that doleful night When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, You rushed into the murderous flames, returned Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart. |
| Herbert | Thy Mother too!—scarce had I gained the door, I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me, I felt thy infant brother in her arms; She saw my blasted face—a tide of soldiers That instant rushed between us, and I heard Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand. |
| Idonea | Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all. |
| Herbert | Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time— For my old age, it doth remain with thee To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, That when, on our return from Palestine, I found how my domains had been usurped, I took thee in my arms, and we began Our wanderings together. Providence At length conducted us to Rossland,—there, Our melancholy story moved a Stranger To take thee to her home—and for myself, Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot Where now we dwell.—For many years I bore Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities Exacted thy return, and our reunion. I did not think that, during that long absence, My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, Traitor to both. |
| Idonea | Oh, could you hear his voice! I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. |
| [Enter a Peasant] | |
| Peasant | Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, Let me have leave to serve you! |
| Idonea | My Companion Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel Would be most welcome. |
| Peasant | Yon white hawthorn gained, You will look down into a dell, and there Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, You seem worn out with travel—shall I support you? |
| Herbert | I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, 'Twere wrong to trouble you. |
| Peasant | God speed you both. |
| [Exit Peasant.] | |
| Herbert | Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed— 'Tis but for a few days—a thought has struck me. |
| Idonea | That I should leave you at this house, and thence Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached. |
| [Exit Herbert supported by Idonea.] | |
| [Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald] | |
| Marmaduke | This instant will we stop him— |
| Oswald | Be not hasty, For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, He tempted me to think the Story true; 'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said That savoured of aversion to thy name Appeared the genuine colour of his soul— Anxiety lest mischief should befal her After his death. |
| Marmaduke | I have been much deceived. |
| Oswald | But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, Thus to torment her with inventions!—death— There must be truth in this. |
| Marmaduke | Truth in his story! He must have felt it then, known what it was, And in such wise to rack her gentle heart Had been a tenfold cruelty. |
| Oswald | Strange pleasures Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves! To see him thus provoke her tenderness With tales of weakness and infirmity! I'd wager on his life for twenty years. |
| Marmaduke | We will not waste an hour in such a cause. |
| Oswald | Why, this is noble! shake her off at once. |
| Marmaduke | Her virtues are his instruments.—A Man Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, May well deceive his Child—what! leave her thus, A prey to a deceiver?—no—no—no— 'Tis but a word and then— |
| Oswald | Something is here More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales Have reached his ear—you have had enemies. |
| Marmaduke | Enemies!—of his own coinage. |
| Oswald | That may be, But wherefore slight protection such as you Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.— I am perplexed. |
| Marmaduke | No—no—the thing stands clear of mystery; (As you have said) he coins himself the slander With which he taints her ear;—for a plain reason; He dreads the presence of a virtuous man Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart, Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds The punishment they merit. All is plain: It cannot be— |
| Oswald | What cannot be? |
| Marmaduke | Yet that a Father Should in his love admit no rivalship, And torture thus the heart of his own Child— |
| Oswald | Heaven forbid!— There was a circumstance, trifling indeed— It struck me at the time—yet I believe I never should have thought of it again But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed. |
| Marmaduke | What is your meaning? |
| Oswald | Two days gone I saw, Though at a distance and he was disguised, Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure Resembled much that cold voluptuary, The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows Where he can stab you deepest. |
| Marmaduke | Clifford never Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door— It could not be. |
| Oswald | And yet I now remember, That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, And the blind Man was told how you had rescued A maiden from the ruffian violence Of this same Clifford, he became impatient And would not hear me. |
| Marmaduke | No—it cannot be— I dare not trust myself with such a thought— Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man Not used to rash conjectures— |
| Oswald | If you deem it A thing worth further notice, we must act With caution, sift the matter artfully. |
| [Exeunt Marmaduke and Oswald.] |
| Herbert | (seated) As I am dear to you, remember, Child! This last request. |
| Idonea | You know me, Sire; farewell! |
| Herbert | And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, We must not part,—I have measured many a league When these old limbs had need of rest,—and now I will not play the sluggard. |
| Idonea | Nay, sit down. [Turning to Host.] Good Host, such tendance as you would expect From your own Children, if yourself were sick, Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader, [Looking at the dog.] We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!—Look, The little fool is loth to stay behind. Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy, Take care of him, and feed the truant well. |
| Host | Fear not, I will obey you;—but One so young, And One so fair, it goes against my heart That you should travel unattended, Lady!— I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?) And for less fee than I would let him run For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. |
| Idonea | You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, A look of mine would send him scouring back, Unless I differ from the thing I am When you are by my side. |
| Herbert | Idonea, wolves Are not the enemies that move my fears. |
| Idonea | No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest Will bring me back—protect him, Saints—farewell! |
| [Exit Idonea.] | |
| Host | 'Tis never drought with us—St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort: Pity the Maiden did not wait awhile; She could not, Sir, have failed of company. |
| Herbert | Now she is gone, I fain would call her back. |
| Host | (calling) Holla! |
| Herbert | No, no, the business must be done.— What means this riotous noise? |
| Host | The villagers Are flocking in—a wedding festival— That's all—God save you, Sir. |
| [Enter Oswald] | |
| Oswald | Ha! as I live, The Baron Herbert. |
| Host | Mercy, the Baron Herbert! |
| Oswald | So far into your journey! on my life, You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you? |
| Herbert | Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir? |
| Oswald | I do not see Idonea. |
| Herbert | Dutiful Girl, She is gone before, to spare my weariness. But what has brought you hither? |
| Oswald | A slight affair, That will be soon despatched. |
| Herbert | Did Marmaduke Receive that letter? |
| Oswald | Be at peace.—The tie Is broken, you will hear no more of him. |
| Herbert | This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times!— That noise!—would I had gone with her as far As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard That, in his milder moods, he has expressed Compassion for me. His influence is great With Henry, our good King;—the Baron might Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. No matter—he's a dangerous Man.—That noise!— 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. Idonea would have fears for me,—the Convent Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host, And he must lead me back. |
| Oswald | You are most lucky; I have been waiting in the wood hard by For a companion—here he comes; our journey [Enter Marmaduke] Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides. |
| Herbert | Alas! I creep so slowly. |
| Oswald | Never fear; We'll not complain of that. |
| Herbert | My limbs are stiff And need repose. Could you but wait an hour? |
| Oswald | Most willingly!—Come, let me lead you in, And, while you take your rest, think not of us; We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm. |
| [Conducts Herbert into the house. Exit Marmaduke.] [Enter Villagers] |
|
| Oswald | (to himself, coming out of the Hostel) I have prepared a most apt Instrument— The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled, By mingling natural matter of her own With all the daring fictions I have taught her, To win belief, such as my plot requires. |
| [Exit Oswald.] [Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them] |
|
| Host | (to them) Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, Are here, to send the sun into the west More speedily than you belike would wish. |
| Marmaduke | I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: When first I saw him sitting there, alone, It struck upon my heart I know not how. |
| Oswald | To-day will clear up all.—You marked a Cottage, That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock By the brook-side: it is the abode of One, A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas! What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, Nor moves her hands to any needful work: She eats her food which every day the peasants Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice; But every night at the first stroke of twelve She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one— She paces round and round an Infant's grave, And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep— Ah2! what is here? |
| [A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep— a Child in her arms.] | |
| Beggar | O Gentlemen, I thank you; I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled The heart of living creature.—My poor Babe Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread When I had none to give him; whereupon, I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: When, into one of those same spotted bells A bee came darting, which the Child with joy Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, And suddenly grew black, as he would die. |
| Marmaduke | We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip; Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money.] |
| Beggar | The Saints reward you For this good deed!—Well, Sirs, this passed away; And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, Trotting alone along the beaten road, Came to my child as by my side he slept And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head: But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have been a dream. |
| Oswald | When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, And put your head, good Woman, under cover. |
| Beggar | Oh, Sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew What life is this of ours, how sleep will master The weary-worn.—You gentlefolk have got Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be A stone than what I am.—But two nights gone, The darkness overtook me—wind and rain Beat hard upon my head—and yet I saw A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: At which I half accused the God in Heaven.— You must forgive me. |
| Oswald | Ay, and if you think The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide Your favourite saint—no matter—this good day Has made amends. |
| Beggar | Thanks to you both; but, Oh Sir! How would you like to travel on whole hours As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, Expecting still, I knew not how, to find A piece of money glittering through the dust. |
| Marmaduke | This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! Do you tell fortunes? |
| Beggar | Oh Sir, you are like the rest. This Little-one—it cuts me to the heart— Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors, But there are Mothers who can see the Babe Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: This they can do, and look upon my face— But you, Sir, should be kinder. |
| Marmaduke | Come hither, Fathers, And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch! |
| Beggar | Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. Why now—but yesterday I overtook A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass He should have used me better!—Charity! If you can melt a rock, he is your man; But I'll be even with him—here again Have I been waiting for him. |
| Oswald | Well, but softly, Who is it that hath wronged you? |
| Beggar | Mark you me; I'll point him out;—a Maiden is his guide, Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog, Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur, I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth He does his Master credit. |
| Marmaduke | As I live, 'Tis Herbert and no other! |
| Beggar | 'Tis a feast to see him, Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, And long beard white with age—yet evermore, As if he were the only Saint on earth, He turns his face to heaven. |
| Oswald | But why so violent Against this venerable Man? |
| Beggar | I'll tell you: He has the very hardest heart on earth; I had as lief turn to the Friar's school And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. |
| Marmaduke | But to your story. |
| Beggar | I was saying, Sir— Well!—he has often spurned me like a toad, But yesterday was worse than all;—at last I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, And begged a little aid for charity: But he was snappish as a cottage cur. Well then, says I—I'll out with it; at which I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt As if my heart would burst; and so I left him. |
| Oswald | I think, good Woman, you are the very person Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, At Herbert's door. |
| Beggar | Ay; and if truth were known I have good business there. |
| Oswald | I met you at the threshold, And he seemed angry. |
| Beggar | Angry! well he might; And long as I can stir I'll dog him.—Yesterday, To serve me so, and knowing that he owes The best of all he has to me and mine. But 'tis all over now.—That good old Lady Has left a power of riches; and I say it, If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave Shall give me half. |
| Oswald | What's this?—I fear, good Woman, You have been insolent. |
| Beggar | And there's the Baron, I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. |
| Oswald | How say you? in disguise?— |
| Marmaduke | But what's your business With Herbert or his Daughter? |
| Beggar | Daughter! truly— But how's the day?—I fear, my little Boy, We've overslept ourselves.—Sirs, have you seen him? [Offers to go.] |
| Marmaduke | I must have more of this;—you shall not stir An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught That doth concern this Herbert? |
| Beggar | You are provoked, And will misuse me, Sir! |
| Marmaduke | No trifling, Woman!— |
| Oswald | You are as safe as in a sanctuary; Speak. |
| Marmaduke | Speak! |
| Beggar | He is a most hard-hearted Man. |
| Marmaduke | Your life is at my mercy. |
| Beggar | Do not harm me, And I will tell you all!—You know not, Sir, What strong temptations press upon the Poor. |
| Oswald | Speak out. |
| Beggar | Sir, I've been a wicked Woman. |
| Oswald | Nay, but speak out! |
| Beggar | He flattered me, and said What harvest it would bring us both; and so, I parted with the Child. |
| Marmaduke | Parted with whom3? |
| Beggar | Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl Is mine. |
| Marmaduke | Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife? |
| Beggar | Wife, Sir! his wife—not I; my husband, Sir, Was of Kirkoswald—many a snowy winter We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred! He has been two years in his grave. |
| Marmaduke | Enough. |
| Oswald | We've solved the riddle—Miscreant! |
| Marmaduke | Do you, Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait For my return; be sure you shall have justice. |
| Oswald | A lucky woman!—go, you have done good service.[Aside.] |
| Marmaduke | (to himself) Eternal praises on the power that saved her!— |
| Oswald | (gives her money) Here's for your little boy—and when you christen him I'll be his Godfather. |
| Beggar | O Sir, you are merry with me. In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns A dog that does not know me.—These good Folks, For love of God, I must not pass their doors; But I'll be back with my best speed: for you— God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters. |
| [Exit Beggar.] | |
| Marmaduke | (to himself) The cruel Viper!—Poor devoted Maid, Now I do love thee. |
| Oswald | I am thunderstruck. |
| Marmaduke | Where is she—holla! [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.] You are Idonea's Mother?— Nay, be not terrified—it does me good To look upon you. |
| Oswald | (interrupting) In a peasant's dress You saw, who was it? |
| Beggar | Nay, I dare not speak; He is a man, if it should come to his ears I never shall be heard of more. |
| Oswald | Lord Clifford? |
| Beggar | What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs, I love her, though I dare not call her daughter. |
| Oswald | Lord Clifford—did you see him talk with Herbert? |
| Beggar | Yes, to my sorrow—under the great oak At Herbert's door—and when he stood beside The blind Man—at the silent Girl he looked With such a look—it makes me tremble, Sir, To think of it. |
| Oswald | Enough! you may depart. |
| Marmaduke | (to himself) Father!—to God himself we cannot give A holier name; and, under such a mask, To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, To that abhorrèd den of brutish vice!— Oswald, the firm foundation of my life Is going from under me; these strange discoveries— Looked at from every point of fear or hope, Duty, or love—involve, I feel, my ruin. |
| Oswald | They chose him for their Chief!—what covert part He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take, I neither know nor care. The insult bred More of contempt than hatred; both are flown; That either e'er existed is my shame: 'Twas a dull spark—a most unnatural fire That died the moment the air breathed upon it. —These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter That haunt some barren island of the north, Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand, They think it is to feed them. I have left him To solitary meditation;—now For a few swelling phrases, and a flash Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, And he is mine for ever—here he comes. |
| [Enter Marmaduke.] | |
| Marmaduke | These ten years she has moved her lips all day And never speaks! |
| Oswald | Who is it? |
| Marmaduke | I have seen her. |
| Oswald | Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness. |
| Marmaduke | I met a peasant near the spot; he told me, These ten years she had sate all day alone Within those empty walls. |
| Oswald | I too have seen her; Chancing to pass this way some six months gone, At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard: The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round Upon the self-same spot, still round and round, Her lips for ever moving. |
| Marmaduke | At her door Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman, I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. |
| Oswald | But the pretended Father— |
| Marmaduke | Earthly law Measures not crimes like his. |
| Oswald | We rank not, happily, With those who take the spirit of their rule From that soft class of devotees who feel Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea Were present, to the end that we might hear What she can urge in his defence; she loves him. |
| Marmaduke | Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that multiplies His guilt a thousand-fold. |
| Oswald | 'Tis most perplexing: What must be done? |
| Marmaduke | We will conduct her hither; These walls shall witness it—from first to last He shall reveal himself. |
| Oswald | Happy are we, Who live in these disputed tracts, that own No law but what each man makes for himself; Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. |
| Marmaduke | Let us begone and bring her hither;—here The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved Before her face. The rest be left to me. |
| Oswald | You will be firm: but though we well may trust The issue to the justice of the cause, Caution must not be flung aside; remember, Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here, Upon these savage confines, we have seen you Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy seas That oft have checked their fury at your bidding. 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy waste, Your single virtue has transformed a Band Of fierce barbarians into Ministers Of peace and order. Aged men with tears Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire For shelter to their banners. But it is, As you must needs have deeply felt, it is In darkness and in tempest that we seek The majesty of Him who rules the world. Benevolence, that has not heart to use The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, Becomes at last weak and contemptible. Your generous qualities have won due praise, But vigorous Spirits look for something more Than Youth's spontaneous products; and to-day You will not disappoint them; and hereafter— |
| Marmaduke | You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all: You are a Man—and therefore, if compassion, Which to our kind is natural as life, Be known unto you, you will love this Woman, Even as I do; but I should loathe the light, If I could think one weak or partial feeling— |
| Oswald | You will forgive me— |
| Marmaduke | If I ever knew My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 'Tis at this moment.—Oswald, I have loved To be the friend and father of the oppressed, A comforter of sorrow;—there is something Which looks like a transition in my soul, And yet it is not.—Let us lead him hither. |
| Oswald | Stoop for a moment; 'tis an act of justice; And where's the triumph if the delegate Must fall in the execution of his office? The deed is done—if you will have it so— Here where we stand—that tribe of vulgar wretches (You saw them gathering for the festival) Rush in—the villains seize us— |
| Marmaduke | Seize! |
| Oswald | Yes, they— Men who are little given to sift and weigh— Would wreak on us the passion of the moment. |
| Marmaduke | The cloud will soon disperse—farewell—but stay, Thou wilt relate the story. |
| Oswald | Am I neither To bear a part in this Man's punishment, Nor be its witness? |
| Marmaduke | I had many hopes That were most dear to me, and some will bear To be transferred to thee. |
| Oswald | When I'm dishonoured! |
| Marmaduke | I would preserve thee. How may this be done? |
| Oswald | By showing that you look beyond the instant. A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, And nowhere upon earth is place so fit To look upon the deed. Before we enter The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft Has held infernal orgies—with the gloom, And very superstition of the place, Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits Of this mock Father's guilt. |
| [Enter Host conducting Herbert.] | |
| Host | The Baron Herbert Attends your pleasure. |
| Oswald | (to Host) We are ready— (to Herbert) Sir! I hope you are refreshed.—I have just written A notice for your Daughter, that she may know What is become of you.—You'll sit down and sign it; 'Twill glad her heart to see her father's signature. [Gives the letter he had written.] |
| Herbert | Thanks for your care. |
| [Sits down and writes. Exit Host.] | |
| Oswald | (aside to Marmaduke) Perhaps it would be useful That you too should subscribe your name. |
| Marmaduke | I cannot leave this paper. |
| [He puts it up, agitated.] | |
| Oswald | (aside) Dastard! Come. |
| [Marmaduke goes towards Herbert and supports him—Marmaduke tremblingly beckons Oswald to take his place.] | |
| Marmaduke | (as he quits Herbert) There is a palsy in his limbs—he shakes. |
| [Exeunt Oswald and Herbert—Marmaduke following.] |
| First Pilgrim | A grove of darker and more lofty shade I never saw. |
| Second Pilgrim | The music of the birds Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves. |
| Old Pilgrim | This news! It made my heart leap up with joy. |
| Idonea | I scarcely can believe it. |
| Old Pilgrim | Myself, I heard The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter Which purported it was the royal pleasure The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady, Filled my dim eyes with tears.—When I returned From Palestine, and brought with me a heart, Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort, I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast: He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy; but grieved He was that One so young should pass his youth In such sad service; and he parted with him. We joined our tales of wretchedness together, And begged our daily bread from door to door. I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady! For once you loved me. |
| Idonea | You shall back with me And see your Friend again. The good old Man Will be rejoiced to greet you. |
| Old Pilgrim | It seems but yesterday That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with travel, In a deep wood remote from any town. A cave that opened to the road presented A friendly shelter, and we entered in. |
| Idonea | And I was with you? |
| Old Pilgrim | If indeed 'twas you— But you were then a tottering Little-one— We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker: I struck my flint, and built up a small fire With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds Of many autumns in the cave had piled. Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods; Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth And we were comforted, and talked of comfort; But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads The thunder rolled in peals that would have made A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. O Lady, you have need to love your Father. His voice—methinks I hear it now, his voice When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, He said to me, that he had seen his Child, A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) Revealed by lustre brought with it from heaven; And it was you, dear Lady! |
| Idonea | God be praised, That I have been his comforter till now! And will be so through every change of fortune And every sacrifice his peace requires.— Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. |
| [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims.] |
| Marmaduke | 'Tis a wild night. |
| Oswald | I'd give my cloak and bonnet For sight of a warm fire. |
| Marmaduke | The wind blows keen; My hands are numb. |
| Oswald | Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. [Blowing his fingers.] I long for news of our brave Comrades; Lacy Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed. |
| Marmaduke | I think I see a second range of Towers; This castle has another Area—come, Let us examine it. |
| Oswald | 'Tis a bitter night; I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman, Who at full speed swept by us where the wood Roared in the tempest, was within an ace Of sending to his grave our precious Charge: That would have been a vile mischance. |
| Marmaduke | It would. |
| Oswald | Justice had been most cruelly defrauded. |
| Marmaduke | Most cruelly. |
| Oswald | As up the steep we clomb, I saw a distant fire in the north-east; I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon: With proper speed our quarters may be gained To-morrow evening. |
| [He looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.] | |
| Marmaduke | When, upon the plank, I had led him 'cross4 the torrent, his voice blessed me: You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks With deafening noise,—the benediction fell Back on himself; but changed into a curse. |
| Oswald | As well indeed it might. |
| Marmaduke | And this you deem The fittest place? |
| Oswald | (aside) He is growing pitiful. |
| Marmaduke | (listening) What an odd moaning that is!— |
| Oswald | Mighty odd The wind should pipe a little, while we stand Cooling our heels in this way!—I'll begin And count the stars. |
| Marmaduke | (still listening) That dog of his, you are sure, Could not come after us—he must have perished; The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. You said you did not like his looks—that he Would trouble us; if he were here again, I swear the sight of him would quail me more Than twenty armies. |
| Oswald | How? |
| Marmaduke | The old blind Man, When you had told him the mischance, was troubled Even to the shedding of some natural tears Into the torrent over which he hung, Listening in vain. |
| Oswald | He has a tender heart! |
| [Oswald offers to go down into the dungeon.] | |
| Marmaduke | How now, what mean you? |
| Oswald | Truly, I was going To waken our stray Baron. Were there not A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, Three good round years, for playing the fool here In such a night as this. |
| Marmaduke | Stop, stop. |
| Oswald | Perhaps, You'd better like we should descend together, And lie down by his side—what say you to it? Three of us—we should keep each other warm: I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend Shall not disturb us; further I'll not engage; Come, come, for manhood's sake! |
| Marmaduke | These drowsy shiverings, This mortal stupor which is creeping over me, What do they mean? were this my single body Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble: Why do I tremble now?—Is not the depth Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought? And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment, Something I strike upon which turns my mind Back on herself, I think, again—my breast Concentres all the terrors of the Universe: I look at him and tremble like a child. |
| Oswald | Is it possible? |
| Marmaduke | One thing you noticed not: Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder; But there's a Providence for them who walk In helplessness, when innocence is with them. At this audacious blasphemy, I thought The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air. |
| Oswald | Why are you not the man you were that moment? |
| [He draws Marmaduke to the dungeon.] | |
| Marmaduke | You say he was asleep,—look at this arm, And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. Oswald, Oswald! [Leans upon Oswald.] |
| Oswald | This is some sudden seizure! |
| Marmaduke | A most strange faintness,—will you hunt me out A draught of water? |
| Oswald | Nay, to see you thus Moves me beyond my bearing.—I will try To gain the torrent's brink. |
| [Exit Oswald.] | |
| Marmaduke | (after a pause) It seems an age Since that Man left me.—No, I am not lost. |
| Herbert | (at the mouth of the dungeon) Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me How goes the night. |
| Marmaduke | 'Tis hard to measure time, In such a weary night, and such a place. |
| Herbert | I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald. |
| Marmaduke | A minute past, he went to fetch a draught Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, A cheerless beverage. |
| Herbert | How good it was in you To stay behind!—Hearing at first no answer, I was alarmed. |
| Marmaduke | No wonder; this is a place That well may put some fears into your heart. |
| Herbert | Why so? a roofless rock had been a comfort, Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were; And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks To make a bed for me!—My Girl will weep When she is told of it. |
| Marmaduke | This Daughter of yours Is very dear to you. |
| Herbert | Oh! but you are young; Over your head twice twenty years must roll, With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, Ere can be known to you how much a Father May love his Child. |
| Marmaduke | Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside.] |
| Herbert | Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man; Kindly have you protected me to-night, And no return have I to make but prayers; May you in age be blest with such a daughter!— When from the Holy Land I had returned Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, A wretched Outcast—but this strain of thought Would lead me to talk fondly. |
| Marmaduke | Do not fear; Your words are precious to my ears; go on. |
| Herbert | You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. When my old Leader slipped into the flood And perished, what a piercing outcry you Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. You start—where are we? |
| Marmaduke | Oh, there is no danger; The cold blast struck me. |
| Herbert | 'Twas a foolish question. |
| Marmaduke | But when you were an Outcast?—Heaven is just; Your piety would not miss its due reward; The little Orphan then would be your succour, And do good service, though she knew it not. |
| Herbert | I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers, Where none but those who trampled on my rights Seemed to remember me. To the wide world I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity; She was my Raven in the wilderness, And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her? |
| Marmaduke | Yes. |
| Herbert | More than ever Parent loved a Child? |
| Marmaduke | Yes, yes. |
| Herbert | I will not murmur, merciful God! I will not murmur; blasted as I have been, Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice, And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. |
| [Enter Oswald.] | |
| Oswald | Herbert!—confusion! (aside). Here it is, my Friend, [Presents the Horn.] A charming beverage for you to carouse, This bitter night. |
| Herbert | Ha! Oswald! ten bright crosses I would have given, not many minutes gone, To have heard your voice. |
| Oswald | Your couch, I fear, good Baron, Has been but comfortless; and yet that place, When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd better turn And under covert rest till break of day, Or till the storm abate. (To Marmaduke aside.) He has restored you. No doubt you have been nobly entertained? But soft!—how came he forth? The Night-mare Conscience Has driven him out of harbour? |
| Marmaduke | I believe You have guessed right. |
| Herbert | The trees renew their murmur: Come, let us house together. |
| [Oswald conducts him to the dungeon.] | |
| Oswald | (returns) Had I not Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair To its most fit conclusion, do you think I would so long have struggled with my Nature, And smothered all that's man in me?—away!— [Looking towards the dungeon.] This man's the property of him who best Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege; It now becomes my duty to resume it. |
| Marmaduke | Touch not a finger— |
| Oswald | What then must be done? |
| Marmaduke | Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed. |
| Oswald | Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts Did not admit of stronger evidence; Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right; Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples. |
| Marmaduke | Weak! I am weak—there does my torment lie, Feeding itself. |
| Oswald | Verily, when he said How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. |
| Marmaduke | And never heard a sound so terrible. |
| Oswald | Perchance you think so now? |
| Marmaduke | I cannot do it: Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat, When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, I could have dropped asleep upon his breast. |
| Oswald | Justice—is there not thunder in the word? Shall it be law to stab the petty robber Who aims but at our purse; and shall this Parricide— Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature Whom he to more than filial love and duty Hath falsely trained—shall he fulfil his purpose? But you are fallen. |
| Marmaduke | Fallen should I be indeed— Murder—perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow— Away! away!— [Flings away his sword.] |
| Oswald | Nay, I have done with you: We'll lead him to the Convent. He shall live, And she shall love him. With unquestioned title He shall be seated in his Barony, And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. I now perceive we do mistake our masters, And most despise the men who best can teach us: Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old Man Is brave. [Taking Marmaduke's sword and giving it to him.] To Clifford's arms he would have led His Victim—haply to this desolate house. |
| Marmaduke | (advancing to the dungeon) It must be ended!— |
| Oswald | Softly; do not rouse him; He will deny it to the last. He lies Within the Vault, a spear's length to the left. [Marmaduke descends to the dungeon.] (Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy me; I could have quelled the Cowards, but this Stripling Must needs step in, and save my life. The look With which he gave the boon—I see it now! The same that tempted me to loathe the gift.— For this old venerable Grey-beard—faith 'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face Which doth play tricks with them that look on it: 'Twas this that put it in my thoughts—that countenance— His staff—his figure—Murder!—what, of whom? We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women Sigh at the deed? Hew down a withered tree, And none look grave but dotards. He may live To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches, Highways of dreaming passion, have too long, Young as he is, diverted wish and hope From the unpretending ground we mortals tread;— Then shatter the delusion, break it up And set him free. What follows? I have learned That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world Do never dream of. I have been what he— This Boy—when he comes forth with bloody hands— Might envy, and am now,—but he shall know What I am now— [Goes and listens at the dungeon.] Praying or parleying?—tut! Is he not eyeless? He has been half-dead These fifteen years— [Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions.] (Turning abruptly.) Ha! speak—what Thing art thou? (Recognises her.) Heavens! my good friend! [To her.] |
| Beggar | Forgive me, gracious Sir!— |
| Oswald | (to her companions) Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. [They retire affrighted.] |
| Beggar | Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge sometimes In this deserted Castle—I repent me. [Oswald goes to the dungeon—listens—returns to the Beggar.] |
| Oswald | Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant—keep Thy secret for its sake, or verily That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit. |
| Beggar | I do repent me, Sir; I fear the curse Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, Sir,— |
| Oswald | Begone! |
| Beggar | (going) There is some wicked deed in hand: [Aside.] Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter. [Exit Beggar.] [Marmaduke re-enters from the dungeon] |
| Oswald | It is all over then;—your foolish fears Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, Made quiet as he is. |
| Marmaduke | Why came you down? And when I felt your hand upon my arm And spake to you, why did you give no answer? Feared you to waken him? he must have been In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. There are the strangest echoes in that place! |
| Oswald | Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom. |
| Marmaduke | Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the Spot, When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight, As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at it. |
| Oswald | But after that? |
| Marmaduke | The features of Idonea Lurked in his face— |
| Oswald | Psha! Never to these eyes Will retribution show itself again With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me To share your triumph? |
| Marmaduke | Yes, her very look, Smiling in sleep— |
| Oswald | A pretty feat of Fancy! |
| Marmaduke | Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers. |
| Oswald | Is he alive? |
| Marmaduke | What mean you? who alive? |
| Oswald | Herbert! since you will have it, Baron Herbert; He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea Hath become Clifford's harlot—is he living? |
| Marmaduke | The old Man in that dungeon is alive. |
| Oswald | Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all shall hear it. You a protector of humanity! Avenger you of outraged innocence! |
| Marmaduke | 'Twas dark—dark as the grave; yet did I see, Saw him—his face turned toward me; and I tell thee Idonea's filial countenance was there To baffle me—it put me to my prayers. Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, Beheld a star twinkling above my head, And, by the living God, I could not do it. [Sinks exhausted.] |
| Oswald | (to himself) Now may I perish if this turn do more Than make me change my course. (To Marmaduke.) Dear Marmaduke, My words were rashly spoken; I recal them: I feel my error; shedding human blood Is a most serious thing. |
| Marmaduke | Not I alone, Thou too art deep in guilt. |
| Oswald | We have indeed Been most presumptuous. There is guilt in this, Else could so strong a mind have ever known These trepidations? Plain it is that Heaven Has marked out this foul Wretch as one whose crimes Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat, Or be chastised by mortal instruments. |
| Marmaduke | A thought that's worth a thousand worlds! [Goes towards the dungeon.] |
| Oswald | I grieve That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain. |
| Marmaduke | Think not of that! 'tis over—we are safe. |
| Oswald | (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud) The truth is hideous, but how stifle it? [Turning to Marmaduke.] Give me your sword—nay, here are stones and fragments, The least of which would beat out a man's brains; Or you might drive your head against that wall. No! this is not the place to hear the tale: It should be told you pinioned in your bed, Or on some vast and solitary plain Blown to you from a trumpet. |
| Marmaduke | Why talk thus? Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast I care not: fear I have none, and cannot fear— [The sound of a horn is heard.] That horn again—'Tis some one of our Troop; What do they here? Listen! |
| Oswald | What! dogged like thieves! |
| [Enter Wallace and Lacy, etc.] | |
| Lacy | You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop For not misleading us. |
| Oswald | (looking at Wallace) That subtle Greybeard— I'd rather see my father's ghost. |
| Lacy | (to Marmaduke)
My Captain, We come by order of the Band. Belike You have not heard that Henry has at last Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent abroad His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies As, in these long commotions, have been seized. His Power is this way tending. It befits us To stand upon our guard, and with our swords Defend the innocent. |
| Marmaduke | Lacy! we look But at the surfaces of things; we hear Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old Driven out in troops to want and nakedness; Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure That flatters us, because it asks not thought: The deeper malady is better hid; The world is poisoned at the heart. |
| Lacy | What mean you? |
| Wallace | (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon Oswald) Ay, what is it you mean? |
| Marmaduke | Hark'ee, my Friends;— [Appearing gay.] Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father— |
| Lacy | Why, if his heart be tender, that offence I could forgive him. |
| Marmaduke | (going on) And should he make the Child An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light Of infant playfulness with piteous looks Of misery that was not— |
| Lacy | Troth, 'tis hard— But in a world like ours— |
| Marmaduke | (changing his tone) This self-same Man— Even while he printed kisses on the cheek Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue To lisp the name of Father—could he look To the unnatural harvest of that time When he should give her up, a Woman grown, To him who bid the highest in the market Of foul pollution— |
| Lacy | The whole visible world Contains not such a Monster! |
| Marmaduke | For this purpose Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them; Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron, Work on her nature, and so turn compassion And gratitude to ministers of vice, And make the spotless spirit of filial love Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim Both soul and body— |
| Wallace | 'Tis too horrible; Oswald, what say you to it? |
| Lacy | Hew him down, And fling him to the ravens. |
| Marmaduke | But his aspect It is so meek, his countenance so venerable. |
| Wallace | (with an appearance of mistrust) But how, what say you, Oswald? |
| Lacy | (at the same moment) Stab him, were it Before the Altar. |
| Marmaduke | What, if he were sick, Tottering upon the very verge of life, And old, and blind— |
| Lacy | Blind, say you? |
| Oswald | (coming forward) Are we Men, Or own we baby Spirits? Genuine courage Is not an accidental quality, A thing dependent for its casual birth On opposition and impediment. Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down The giant's strength; and, at the voice of Justice, Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm— She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman, And craft of age, seducing reason, first Made weakness a protection, and obscured The moral shapes of things. His tender cries And helpless innocence—do they protect The infant lamb? and shall the infirmities, Which have enabled this enormous Culprit To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanctuary To cover him from punishment? Shame!—Justice, Admitting no resistance, bends alike The feeble and the strong. She needs not here Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. —We recognise in this old Man a victim Prepared already for the sacrifice. |
| Lacy | By heaven, his words are reason! |
| Oswald | Yes, my Friends, His countenance is meek and venerable; And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers!— I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish When my heart does not ache to think of it!— Poor Victim! not a virtue under heaven But what was made an engine to ensnare thee; But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. |
| Lacy | Idonea! |
| Wallace | How! What? your Idonea? [To Marmaduke.] |
| Marmaduke | Mine; But now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford; He is the Man to whom the Maiden—pure As beautiful, and gentle and benign, And in her ample heart loving even me— Was to be yielded up. |
| Lacy | Now, by the head Of my own child, this Man must die; my hand, A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine In his grey hairs!— |
| Marmaduke | (to Lacy) I love the Father in thee. You know me, Friends; I have a heart to feel, And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me Or duty sanctions. |
| Lacy | We will have ample justice. Who are we, Friends? Do we not live on ground Where Souls are self-defended, free to grow Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy wind? Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed This monstrous crime to be laid open— _here,_ Where Reason has an eye that she can use, And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp He shall be led, and there, the Country round All gathered to the spot, in open day Shall Nature be avenged. |
| Oswald | 'Tis nobly thought; His death will be a monument for ages. |
| Marmaduke | (to Lacy) I thank you for that hint. He shall be brought Before the Camp, and would that best and wisest Of every country might be present. There, His crime shall be proclaimed; and for the rest It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide: Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see That all is well prepared. |
| Wallace | We will obey you. (Aside.) But softly! we must look a little nearer. |
| Marmaduke | Tell where you found us. At some future time I will explain the cause. |
| [Exeunt.] |
| Host | Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent As I have told you: He left us yesterday With two Companions; one of them, as seemed, His most familiar Friend. (Going.) There was a letter Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy Has been forgotten. |
| Idonea | (to Host) Farewell! |
| Host | Gentle pilgrims, St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. |
| [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims.] |
| Oswald | Carry him to the Camp! Yes, to the Camp. Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then, That half a word should blow it to the winds! This last device must end my work.—Methinks It were a pleasant pastime to construct A scale and table of belief—as thus— Two columns, one for passion, one for proof; Each rises as the other falls: and first, Passion a unit and against us—proof— Nay, we must travel in another path, Or we're stuck fast for ever;—passion, then, Shall be a unit for us; proof—no, passion! We'll not insult thy majesty by time, Person, and place—the where, the when, the how, And all particulars that dull brains require To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. A whipping to the Moralists who preach That misery is a sacred thing: for me, I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface; And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, He talks of a transition in his Soul, And dreams that he is happy. We dissect The senseless body, and why not the mind?— These are strange sights—the mind of man, upturned, Is in all natures a strange spectacle; In some a hideous one—hem! shall I stop? No.—Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes, And something shall be done which Memory May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work. |
| [Enter Marmaduke, from behind] | |
| Oswald | (turning to meet him) But listen, for my peace— |
| Marmaduke | Why, I believe you. |
| Oswald | But hear the proofs— |
| Marmaduke | Ay, prove that when two peas Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then Be larger than the peas—prove this—'twere matter Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream It ever could be otherwise! |
| Oswald | Last night When I returned with water from the brook, I overheard the Villains—every word Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. Said one, "It is agreed on. The blind Man Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, Who on her journey must proceed alone, Under pretence of violence, be seized. She is," continued the detested Slave, "She is right willing—strange if she were not!— They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man; But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid That could withstand it. True," continued he, "When we arranged the affair, she wept a little (Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) And said, 'My Father he will have it so.'" |
| Marmaduke | I am your hearer. |
| Oswald | This I caught, and more That may not be retold to any ear. The obstinate bolt of a small iron door Detained them near the gateway of the Castle. By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed For festive decoration; and they said, With brutal laughter and most foul allusion, That they should share the banquet with their Lord And his new Favorite. |
| Marmaduke | Misery!— |
| Oswald | I knew How you would be disturbed by this dire news, And therefore chose this solitary Moor, Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades, Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us. |
| Marmaduke | Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel, I did believe all things were shadows—yea, Living or dead all things were bodiless, Or but the mutual mockeries of body, Till that same star summoned me back again. Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Fool! To let a creed, built in the heart of things, Dissolve before a twinkling atom!—Oswald, I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, And you should see how deeply I could reason Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. |
| Oswald | You take it as it merits— |
| Marmaduke | One a King, General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground With carcases, in lineament and shape And substance, nothing differing from his own, But that they cannot stand up of themselves; Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour Floats kingcups in the brook—a Hero one We call, and scorn the other as Time's spendthrift; But have they not a world of common ground To occupy—both fools, or wise alike, Each in his way? |
| Oswald | Troth, I begin to think so. |
| Marmaduke | Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy: I would not give a denier for the man Who, on such provocation as this earth Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin, And send it with a fillip to its grave. |
| Oswald | Nay, you leave me behind. |
| Marmaduke | That such a One, So pious in demeanour! in his look So saintly and so pure!—Hark'ee, my Friend, I'll plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle, A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley Most tunable. |
| Oswald | In faith, a pleasant scheme; But take your sword along with you, for that Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use.— But first, how wash our hands of this old Man? |
| Marmaduke | Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path; Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. |
| Oswald | You know we left him sitting—see him yonder. |
| Marmaduke | Ha! ha!— |
| Oswald | As 'twill be but a moment's work, I will stroll on; you follow when 'tis done. |
| [Exeunt.] |
| Herbert | A sound of laughter, too!—'tis well—I feared, The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow Pressing upon his solitary heart. Hush!—'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. Alas! 'tis cold—I shiver in the sunshine— What can this mean? There is a psalm that speaks Of God's parental mercies—with Idonea I used to sing it.—Listen!—what foot is there? |
| [Enter Marmaduke] | |
| Marmaduke | (aside—looking at Herbert) And I have loved this Man! and she hath loved him! And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford! And there it ends;—if this be not enough To make mankind merry for evermore, Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made For a wise purpose—verily to weep with! [Looking round.] A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece Of Nature, finished with most curious skill! (To Herbert.) Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage? Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre? |
| Herbert | How glad I am to hear your voice! I know not Wherein I have offended you;—last night I found in you the kindest of Protectors; This morning, when I spoke of weariness, You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it About your own; but for these two hours past Once only have you spoken, when the lark Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, And I, no coward in my better days, Was almost terrified. |
| Marmaduke | That's excellent!— So, you bethought you of the many ways In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes Have roused all Nature up against him—pshaw!— |
| Herbert | For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight? No traveller, peasant, herdsman? |
| Marmaduke | Not a soul: Here is a tree, raggèd, and bent, and bare, That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea-green moss From the stern breathing of the rough sea-wind; This have we, but no other company: Commend me to the place. If a man should die And leave his body here, it were all one As he were twenty fathoms underground. |
| Herbert | Where is our common Friend? |
| Marmaduke | A ghost, methinks— The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance— Might have fine room to ramble about here, A grand domain to squeak and gibber in. |
| Herbert | Lost Man! if thou have any close-pent guilt Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour Of visitation— |
| Marmaduke | A bold word from you! |
| Herbert | Restore him, Heaven! |
| Marmaduke | The desperate Wretch!—A Flower, Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now They have snapped her from the stem—Poh! let her lie Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail Feed on her leaves. You knew her well—ay, there, Old Man! you were a very Lynx, you knew The worm was in her— |
| Herbert | Mercy! Sir, what mean you? |
| Marmaduke | You have a Daughter! |
| Herbert | Oh that she were here!— She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, And if I have in aught offended you, Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us. |
| Marmaduke | I do believe he weeps—I could weep too— There is a vein of her voice that runs through his: Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth From the first moment that I loved the Maid; And for his sake I loved her more: these tears— I did not think that aught was left in me Of what I have been—yes, I thank thee, Heaven! One happy thought has passed across my mind. —It may not be—I am cut off from man; No more shall I be man—no more shall I Have human feelings!—(To Herbert)--Now, for a little more About your Daughter! |
| Herbert | Troops of armed men, Met in the roads, would bless us; little children, Rushing along in the full tide of play, Stood silent as we passed them! I have heard The boisterous carman, in the miry road, Check his loud whip and hail us with mild voice, And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts. |
| Marmaduke | And whither were you going? |
| Herbert | Learn, young Man,— To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, Whether too much for patience, or, like mine, Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. |
| Marmaduke | Now, this is as it should be! |
| Herbert | I am weak!— My Daughter does not know how weak I am; And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, By the good God, our common Father, doomed!— But I had once a spirit and an arm— |
| Marmaduke | Now, for a word about your Barony: I fancy when you left the Holy Land, And came to—what's your title—eh? your claims Were undisputed! |
| Herbert | Like a mendicant, Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone;— I murmured—but, remembering Him who feeds The pelican and ostrich of the desert, From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. So, from the court I passed, and down the brook, Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, I sate me down, and cannot but believe— While in my lap I held my little Babe And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached More with delight than grief—I heard a voice Such as by Cherith on Elijah called; It said, "I will be with thee." A little boy, A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone, Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven, And said, with tears, that he would be our guide: I had a better guide—that innocent Babe— Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm, From cold, from hunger, penury, and death; To whom I owe the best of all the good I have, or wish for, upon earth—and more And higher far than lies within earth's bounds: Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man, I bless her with sad spirit,—when of God, I bless her in the fulness of my joy! |
| Marmaduke | The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays! With nerves so steady, that the very flies Sit unmolested on his staff.—Innocent!— If he were innocent—then he would tremble And be disturbed, as I am. (Turning aside.) I have read In Story, what men now alive have witnessed, How, when the People's mind was racked with doubt, Appeal was made to the great Judge: the Accused With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared For a like trial, but more merciful. Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste? Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. Here will I leave him—here—All-seeing God! Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, I will commit him to this final Ordeal!— He heard a voice—a shepherd-lad came to him And was his guide; if once, why not again, And in this desert? If never—then the whole Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is, Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here To cold and hunger!—Pain is of the heart, And what are a few throes of bodily suffering If they can waken one pang of remorse? [Goes up to Herbert.] Old Man! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here Led by my hand to save thee from perdition: Thou wilt have time to breathe and think— |
| Herbert | Oh, Mercy! |
| Marmaduke | I know the need that all men have of mercy, And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment. |
| Herbert | My Child, my blessèd Child! |
| Marmaduke | No more of that; Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent; Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee. [He pauses and looks at Herbert's staff.] Ha! what is here? and carved by her own hand! [Reads upon the staff.] "I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. He that puts his trust in me shall not fail!" Yes, be it so;—repent and be forgiven— God and that staff are now thy only guides. [He leaves Herbert on the Moor.] |
| Several of the Band | (confusedly) But patience! |
| One of the Band | Curses on that Traitor, Oswald!— Our Captain made a prey to foul device!— |
| Lennox (to Wallace) | His tool, the wandering Beggar, made last night A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt, Knowing what otherwise we know too well, That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now; For rather would I have a nest of vipers Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make Oswald my special enemy, if you Deny me your support. |
| Lacy | We have been fooled— But for the motive? |
| Wallace | Natures such as his Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy! I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. I know him well; there needs no other motive Than that most strange incontinence in crime Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him And breath and being; where he cannot govern, He will destroy. |
| Lacy | To have been trapped like moles!— Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives: There is no crime from which this man would shrink; He recks not human law; and I have noticed That often when the name of God is uttered, A sudden blankness overspreads his face. |
| Lennox | Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built Some uncouth superstition of its own. |
| Wallace | I have seen traces of it. |
| Lennox | Once he headed A band of Pirates in the Norway seas; And when the King of Denmark summoned him To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 'Twas a strange answer that he made; he said, "I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven." |
| Lacy | He is no madman. |
| Wallace | A most subtle doctor Were that man, who could draw the line that parts Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness, That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless Minds, Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men No heart that loves them, none that they can love, Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy In dim relation to imagined Beings. |
| One of the Band | What if he mean to offer up our Captain An expiation and a sacrifice To those infernal fiends! |
| Wallace | Now, if the event Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear, My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds As there are daggers here. |
| Lacy | What need of swearing! |
| One of the Band | Let us away! |
| Another | Away! |
| A Third | Hark! how the horns Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale. |
| Lacy | Stay you behind; and when the sun is down, Light up this beacon. |
| One of the Band | You shall be obeyed. |
| [They go out together.] |
| Marmaduke | Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought, Yet calm.—I could believe, that there was here The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, Remembered terror, there is peace and rest. [Enter Oswald] |
| Oswald | Ha! my dear Captain. |
| Marmaduke | A later meeting, Oswald, Would have been better timed. |
| Oswald | Alone, I see; You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now I feel that you will justify. |
| Marmaduke | I had fears, From which I have freed myself—but 'tis my wish To be alone, and therefore we must part. |
| Oswald | Nay, then—I am mistaken. There's a weakness About you still; you talk of solitude— I am your friend. |
| Marmaduke | What need of this assurance At any time? and why given now? |
| Oswald | Because You are now in truth my Master; you have taught me What there is not another living man Had strength to teach;—and therefore gratitude Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. |
| Marmaduke | Wherefore press this on me? |
| Oswald | Because I feel That you have shown, and by a signal instance, How they who would be just must seek the rule By diving for it into their own bosoms. To-day you have thrown off a tyranny That lives but in the torpid acquiescence Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny Of the world's masters, with the musty rules By which they uphold their craft from age to age: You have obeyed the only law that sense Submits to recognise; the immediate law, From the clear light of circumstances, flashed Upon an independent Intellect. Henceforth new prospects open on your path; Your faculties should grow with the demand; I still will be your friend, will cleave to you Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. |
| Marmaduke | I would be left alone. |
| Oswald | (exultingly) I know your motives! I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, Who damn where they can neither see nor feel, With a hard-hearted ignorance; your struggles I witness'd, and now hail your victory. |
| Marmaduke | Spare me awhile that greeting. |
| Oswald | It may be, That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards, Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer, And you will walk in solitude among them. A mighty evil for a strong-built mind!— Join twenty tapers of unequal height And light them joined, and you will see the less How 'twill burn down the taller; and they all Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude!— The Eagle lives in Solitude! |
| Marmaduke | Even so, The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I, The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved To abide the issue of my act, alone. |
| Oswald | Now would you? and for ever?—My young Friend, As time advances either we become The prey or masters of our own past deeds. Fellowship we must have, willing or no; And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, Are still forthcoming; some which, though they bear Ill names, can render no ill services, In recompense for what themselves required. So meet extremes in this mysterious world, And opposites thus melt into each other. |
| Marmaduke | Time, since Man first drew breath, has never moved With such a weight upon his wings as now; But they will soon be lightened. |
| Oswald | Ay, look up— Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: Great actions move our admiration, chiefly Because they carry in themselves an earnest That we can suffer greatly. |
| Marmaduke | Very true. |
| Oswald | Action is transitory—a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle—this way or that— 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity. |
| Marmaduke | Truth—and I feel it. |
| Oswald | What! if you had bid Eternal farewell to unmingled joy And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart; It is the toy of fools, and little fit For such a world as this. The wise abjure All thoughts whose idle composition lives In the entire forgetfulness of pain. —I see I have disturbed you. |
| Marmaduke | By no means. |
| Oswald | Compassion!—pity!—pride can do without them; And what if you should never know them more!— He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, Finds ease because another feels it too. If e'er I open out this heart of mine It shall be for a nobler end—to teach And not to purchase puling sympathy. —Nay, you are pale. |
| Marmaduke | It may be so. |
| Oswald | Remorse— It cannot live with thought; think on, think on, And it will die. What! in this universe, Where the least things control the greatest, where The faintest breath that breathes can move a world; What! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals. |
| Marmaduke | Now, whither are you wandering? That a man So used to suit his language to the time, Should thus so widely differ from himself— It is most strange. |
| Oswald | Murder!—what's in the word!— I have no cases by me ready made To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp!— A shallow project;—you of late have seen More deeply, taught us that the institutes Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation Banished from human intercourse, exist Only in our relations to the brutes That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask A license to destroy him: our good governors Hedge in the life of every pest and plague That bears the shape of man; and for what purpose, But to protect themselves from extirpation?— This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. |
| Marmaduke | My Office is fulfilled—the Man is now Delivered to the Judge of all things. |
| Oswald | Dead! |
| Marmaduke | I have borne my burthen to its destined end. |
| Oswald | This instant we'll return to our Companions— Oh how I long to see their faces again! |
| [Enter Idonea with Pilgrims who continue their journey.] | |
| Idonea | (after some time) What, Marmaduke! now thou art mine for ever. And Oswald, too! (To Marmaduke.) On will we to my Father With the glad tidings which this day hath brought; We'll go together, and, such proof received Of his own rights restored, his gratitude To God above will make him feel for ours. |
| Oswald | I interrupt you? |
| Idonea | Think not so. |
| Marmaduke | Idonea, That I should ever live to see this moment! |
| Idonea | Forgive me.—Oswald knows it all—he knows, Each word of that unhappy letter fell As a blood drop from my heart. |
| Oswald | 'Twas even so. |
| Marmaduke | I have much to say, but for whose ear?—not thine. |
| Idonea | Ill can I bear that look—Plead for me, Oswald! You are my Father's Friend. (To Marmaduke.) Alas, you know not, And never can you know, how much he loved me. Twice had he been to me a father, twice Had given me breath, and was I not to be His daughter, once his daughter? could I withstand His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms, And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him In his old age— [Hides her face.] |
| Marmaduke | Patience—Heaven grant me patience!— She weeps, she weeps—my brain shall burn for hours Ere I can shed a tear. |
| Idonea | I was a woman; And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest To womankind with duty to my Father, I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought On earth could else have wrested from me;—if erring, Oh let me be forgiven! |
| Marmaduke | I do forgive thee. |
| Idonea | But take me to your arms—this breast, alas! It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it. |
| Marmaduke | (exultingly) She is innocent. [He embraces her.] |
| Oswald | (aside) Were I a Moralist, I should make wondrous revolution here; It were a quaint experiment to show The beauty of truth— [Addressing them.] I see I interrupt you; I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; Follow me to the Hostel. [Exit Oswald.] |
| Idonea | Marmaduke, This is a happy day. My Father soon Shall sun himself before his native doors; The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. No more shall he complain of wasted strength, Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart; His good works will be balm and life to him. |
| Marmaduke | This is most strange!—I know not what it was, But there was something which most plainly said, That thou wert innocent. |
| Idonea | How innocent!— Oh heavens! you've been deceived. |
| Marmaduke | Thou art a Woman To bring perdition on the universe. |
| Idonea | Already I've been punished to the height Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately.] I see you love me still, The labours of my hand are still your joy; Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder I hung this belt. [Pointing to the belt on which was suspended Herbert's scrip.] |
| Marmaduke | Mercy of Heaven! [Sinks.] |
| Idonea | What ails you? [Distractedly.] |
| Marmaduke | The scrip that held his food, and I forgot To give it back again! |
| Idonea | What mean your words? |
| Marmaduke | I know not what I said—all may be well. |
| Idonea | That smile hath life in it! |
| Marmaduke | This road is perilous; I will attend you to a Hut that stands Near the wood's edge—rest there to-night, I pray you: For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald, But will return to you by break of day. |
| [Exeunt.] |
| Herbert | That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me, But now it mocks my steps; its fitful stroke Can scarcely be the work of human hands. Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such There be who pray nightly before the Altar. Oh that I had but strength to reach the place! My Child—my Child—dark—dark—I faint—this wind— These stifling blasts—God help me! |
| [Enter Eldred.] | |
| Eldred | Better this bare rock, Though it were tottering over a man's head, Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter From such rough dealing. [A moaning voice is heard.] Ha! what sound is that? Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) Send forth such noises—and that weary bell! Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night Is ringing it—'twould stop a Saint in prayer, And that—what is it? never was sound so like A human groan. Ha! what is here? Poor Man— Murdered! alas! speak—speak, I am your friend: No answer—hush—lost wretch, he lifts his hand And lays it to his heart—(Kneels to him.) I pray you speak! What has befallen you? |
| Herbert | (feebly) A stranger has done this, And in the arms of a stranger I must die. |
| Eldred | Nay, think not so: come, let me raise you up: [Raises him.] This is a dismal place—well—that is well— I was too fearful—take me for your guide And your support—my hut is not far off. [Draws him gently off the stage.] |
| Marmaduke | But for Idonea!—I have cause to think That she is innocent. |
| Oswald | Leave that thought awhile, As one of those beliefs which in their hearts Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better Than feathers clinging to their points of passion. This day's event has laid on me the duty Of opening out my story; you must hear it, And without further preface.—In my youth, Except for that abatement which is paid By envy as a tribute to desert, I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling Of every tongue—as you are now. You've heard That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy Against my honour, in the which our Captain Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell; We lay becalmed week after week, until The water of the vessel was exhausted; I felt a double fever in my veins, Yet rage suppressed itself;—to a deep stillness Did my pride tame my pride;—for many days, On a dead sea under a burning sky, I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted By man and nature;—if a breeze had blown, It might have found its way into my heart, And I had been—no matter—do you mark me? |
| Marmaduke | Quick—to the point—if any untold crime Doth haunt your memory. |
| Oswald | Patience, hear me further!— One day in silence did we drift at noon By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare; No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form Inanimate large as the body of man, Nor any living thing whose lot of life Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon. To dig for water on the spot, the Captain Landed with a small troop, myself being one: There I reproached him with his treachery. Imperious at all times, his temper rose; He struck me; and that instant had I killed him, And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades Rushed in between us: then did I insist (All hated him, and I was stung to madness) That we should leave him there, alive!—we did so. |
| Marmaduke | And he was famished? |
| Oswald | Naked was the spot; Methinks I see it now—how in the sun Its stony surface glittered like a shield; And in that miserable place we left him, Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures Not one of which could help him while alive, Or mourn him dead. |
| Marmaduke | A man by men cast off, Left without burial! nay, not dead nor dying, But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms, In all things like ourselves, but in the agony With which he called for mercy; and—even so— He was forsaken? |
| Oswald | There is a power in sounds: The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat That bore us through the water— |
| Marmaduke | You returned Upon that dismal hearing—did you not? |
| Oswald | Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery, And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea Did from some distant region echo us. |
| Marmaduke | We all are of one blood, our veins are filled At the same poisonous fountain! |
| Oswald | 'Twas an island Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, Which with their foam could cover it at will. I know not how he perished; but the calm, The same dead calm, continued many days. |
| Marmaduke | But his own crime had brought on him this doom, His wickedness prepared it; these expedients Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. |
| Oswald | The man was famished, and was innocent! |
| Marmaduke | Impossible! |
| Oswald | The man had never wronged me. |
| Marmaduke | Banish the thought, crush it, and be at peace. His guilt was marked—these things could never be Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, Where ours are baffled. |
| Oswald | I had been deceived. |
| Marmaduke | And from that hour the miserable man No more was heard of? |
| Oswald | I had been betrayed. |
| Marmaduke | And he found no deliverance! |
| Oswald | The Crew Gave me a hearty welcome; they had laid The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. So we pursued our voyage: when we landed, The tale was spread abroad; my power at once Shrunk from me; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes— All vanished. I gave way—do you attend? |
| Marmaduke | The Crew deceived you? |
| Oswald | Nay, command yourself. |
| Marmaduke | It is a dismal night—how the wind howls! |
| Oswald | I hid my head within a Convent, there Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. That was no life for me—I was o'erthrown But not destroyed. |
| Marmaduke | The proofs—you ought to have seen The guilt—have touched it—felt it at your heart— As I have done. |
| Oswald | A fresh tide of Crusaders Drove by the place of my retreat: three nights Did constant meditation dry my blood; Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way; And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld A slavery compared to which the dungeon And clanking chains are perfect liberty. You understand me—I was comforted; I saw that every possible shape of action Might lead to good—I saw it and burst forth Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. [Marking Marmaduke's countenance.] Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity Subsided in a moment, like a wind That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. And yet I had within me evermore A salient spring of energy; I mounted From action up to action with a mind That never rested—without meat or drink Have I lived many days—my sleep was bound To purposes of reason—not a dream But had a continuity and substance That waking life had never power to give. |
| Marmaduke | O wretched Human-kind!—Until the mystery Of all this world is solved, well may we envy The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight Would crush the lion's paw with mortal anguish, Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors? |
| Oswald | Give not to them a thought. From Palestine We marched to Syria: oft I left the Camp, When all that multitude of hearts was still, And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams; Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea: In these my lonely wanderings I perceived What mighty objects do impress their forms To elevate our intellectual being; And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms A thing so great to perish self-consumed. —So much for my remorse! |
| Marmaduke | Unhappy Man! |
| Oswald | When from these forms I turned to contemplate The World's opinions and her usages, I seemed a Being who had passed alone Into a region of futurity, Whose natural element was freedom— |
| Marmaduke | Stop— I may not, cannot, follow thee. |
| Oswald | You must. I had been nourished by the sickly food Of popular applause. I now perceived That we are praised, only as men in us Do recognise some image of themselves, An abject counterpart of what they are, Or the empty thing that they would wish to be. I felt that merit has no surer test Than obloquy; that, if we wish to serve The world in substance, not deceive by show, We must become obnoxious to its hate, Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. |
| Marmaduke | I pity, can forgive, you; but those wretches— That monstrous perfidy! |
| Oswald | Keep down your wrath. False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised, Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin Their veil, but not for me—'twas in fit place Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, And in that dream had left my native land, One of Love's simple bondsmen—the soft chain Was off for ever; and the men, from whom This liberation came, you would destroy: Join me in thanks for their blind services. |
| Marmaduke | 'Tis a strange aching that, when we would curse And cannot.—You have betrayed me—I have done— I am content—I know that he is guiltless— That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man! And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst Her who from very infancy had been Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood!—Together [Turning to Oswald.] We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both. |
| Oswald | Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant; Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge Man's intellectual empire. We subsist In slavery; all is slavery; we receive Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come; We need an inward sting to goad us on. |
| Marmaduke | Have you betrayed me? Speak to that. |
| Oswald | The mask, Which for a season I have stooped to wear, Must be cast off.—Know then that I was urged, (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, To seek for sympathy, because I saw In you a mirror of my youthful self; I would have made us equal once again, But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, With a few drops of blood cut short the business; Therein for ever you must yield to me. But what is done will save you from the blank Of living without knowledge that you live: Now you are suffering—for the future day, 'Tis his who will command it.—Think of my story— Herbert is innocent. |
| Marmaduke | (in a faint voice, and doubtingly) You do but echo My own wild words? |
| Oswald | Young Man, the seed must lie Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest; 'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness I will avow before the face of day. Herbert is innocent. |
| Marmaduke | What fiend could prompt This action? Innocent!—oh, breaking heart!— Alive or dead, I'll find him. [Exit.] |
| Oswald | Alive—perdition! [Exit.] |
| Idonea | The storm beats hard—Mercy for poor or rich, Whose heads are shelterless in such a night! |
| A Voice Without |
Holla! to bed, good Folks, within! |
| Eleanor | O save us! |
| Idonea | What can this mean? |
| Eleanor | Alas, for my poor husband!— We'll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow; The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights: Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers [The voices die away in the distance.] Returning from their Feast—my heart beats so— A noise at midnight does so frighten me. |
| Idonea | Hush! [Listening.] |
| Eleanor | They are gone. On such a night, my husband, Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon, Where, hid from me, he counted many years, A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs— Not even in theirs—whose brutal violence So dealt with him. |
| Idonea | I have a noble Friend First among youths of knightly breeding, One Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. There again! [Listening.] |
| Eleanor | 'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment Has made him fearful, and he'll never be The man he was. |
| Idonea | I will retire;—good night! [She goes within.] |
| [Enter Eldred (hides a bundle)] | |
| Eldred | Not yet in bed, Eleanor!—there are stains in that frock which must be washed out. |
| Eleanor | What has befallen you? |
| Eldred | I am belated, and you must know the cause— (speaking low) that is the blood of an unhappy Man. |
| Eleanor | Oh! we are undone for ever. |
| Eldred | Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to think of it. |
| Eleanor | Where, where is he? |
| Eldred | I have done him no harm, but——it will be forgiven me; it would not have been so once. |
| Eleanor | You have not buried anything? You are no richer than when you left me? |
| Eldred | Be at peace; I am innocent. |
| Eleanor | Then God be thanked— [A short pause; she falls upon his neck.] |
| Eldred | Tonight I met with an old Man lying stretched upon the ground—a sad spectacle: I raised him up with a hope that we might shelter and restore him. |
| Eleanor | (as if ready to run) Where is he? You were not able to bring him all the way with you; let us return, I can help you. |
| [Eldred shakes his head.] | |
| Eldred | He did not seem to wish for life: as I was struggling on, by the light of the moon I saw the stains of blood upon my clothes—he waved his hand, as if it were all useless; and I let him sink again to the ground. |
| Eleanor | Oh that I had been by your side! |
| Eldred | I tell you his hands and his body were cold—how could I disturb his last moments? he strove to turn from me as if he wished to settle into sleep. |
| Eleanor | But, for the stains of blood— |
| Eldred | He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head was cut; but I think his malady was cold and hunger. |
| Eleanor | Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall tremble. |
| Eldred | Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept me abroad to-night till this hour? I come home, and this is my comfort! |
| Eleanor | But did he say nothing which might have set you at ease? |
| Eldred | I thought he grasped my hand while he was muttering something about his Child—his Daughter—(starting as if he heard a noise). What is that? |
| Eleanor | Eldred, you are a father. |
| Eldred | God knows what was in my heart, and will not curse my son for my sake. |
| Eleanor | But you prayed by him? you waited the hour of his release? |
| Eldred | The night was wasting fast; I have no friend; I am spited by the world—his wound terrified me—if I had brought him along with me, and he had died in my arms!——I am sure I heard something breathing—and this chair! |
| Eleanor | Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will have nobody to close your eyes—no hand to grasp your dying hand—I shall be in my grave. A curse will attend us all. |
| Eldred | Have you forgot your own troubles when I was in the dungeon? |
| Eleanor | And you left him alive? |
| Eldred | Alive!—the damps of death were upon him—he could not have survived an hour. |
| Eleanor | In the cold, cold night. |
| Eldred | (in a savage tone) Ay, and his head was bare; I suppose you would have had me lend my bonnet to cover it.—You will never rest till I am brought to a felon's end. |
| Eleanor | Is there nothing to be done? cannot we go to the Convent? |
| Eldred | Ay, and say at once that I murdered him! |
| Eleanor | Eldred, I know that ours is the only house upon the Waste; let us take heart; this Man may be rich; and could he be saved by our means, his gratitude may reward us. |
| Eldred | 'Tis all in vain. |
| Eleanor | But let us make the attempt. This old Man may have a wife, and he may have children—let us return to the spot; we may restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon those that love him. |
| Eldred | He will never open them more; even when he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as if he had been blind. |
| Idonea | (rushing out) It is, it is, my Father— |
| Eldred | We are betrayed (looking at Idonea). |
| Eleanor | His Daughter!—God have mercy! (turning to Idonea) |
| Idonea | (sinking down) Oh! lift me up and carry me to the place. You are safe; the whole world shall not harm you. |
| Eleanor | This Lady is his Daughter. |
| Eldred | (moved) I'll lead you to the spot. |
| Idonea | (springing up) Alive!—you heard him breathe? quick, quick— |
| [Exeunt.] |
| Forester | He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen, And down into the bottom cast his eye, That fastened there, as it would check the current. |
| Oswald | He listened too; did you not say he listened? |
| Forester | As if there came such moaning from the flood As is heard often after stormy nights. |
| Oswald | But did he utter nothing? |
| Forester | See him there! |
| [Marmaduke appearing.] | |
| Marmaduke | Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters; That is no substance which ye settle on! |
| Forester | His senses play him false; and see, his arms Outspread, as if to save himself from falling!— Some terrible phantom I believe is now Passing before him, such as God will not Permit to visit any but a man Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. |
| [Marmaduke disappears.] | |
| Oswald | The game is up!— |
| Forester | If it be needful, Sir, I will assist you to lay hands upon him. |
| Oswald | No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business— 'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, Who has a trick of straying from his keepers; We must be gentle. Leave him to my care. [Exit Forester.] If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine; The goal is reached. My Master shall become A shadow of myself—made by myself. |
| Marmaduke | (raising his eyes and perceiving Eldred) In any corner of this savage Waste, Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man? |
| Eldred | I heard— |
| Marmaduke | You heard him, where? when heard him? |
| Eldred | As you know The first hours of last night were rough with storm: I had been out in search of a stray heifer; Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, I hurried on, when straight a second moan, A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. So guided, distant a few steps, I found An aged Man, and such as you describe. |
| Marmaduke | You heard!—he called you to him? Of all men The best and kindest!—but where is he? guide me, That I may see him. |
| Eldred | On a ridge of rocks A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now: The bell is left, which no one dares remove; And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak, It rings, as if a human hand were there To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it; And it had led him towards the precipice, To climb up to the spot whence the sound came; But he had failed through weakness. From his hand His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink Of a small pool of water he was laid, As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained Without the strength to rise. |
| Marmaduke | Well, well, he lives, And all is safe: what said he? |
| Eldred | But few words: He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, Who, so he feared, would never see him more; And of a Stranger to him, One by whom He had been sore misused; but he forgave The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled— Perhaps you are his son? |
| Marmaduke | The All-seeing knows, I did not think he had a living Child.— But whither did you carry him? |
| Eldred | He was torn, His head was bruised, and there was blood about him— |
| Marmaduke | That was no work of mine. |
| Eldred | Nor was it mine. |
| Marmaduke | But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him A thousand miles. |
| Eldred | I am in poverty, And know how busy are the tongues of men; My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light; And, though it smote me more than words can tell, I left him. |
| Marmaduke | I believe that there are phantoms, That in the shape of man do cross our path On evil instigation, to make sport Of our distress—and thou art one of them! But things substantial have so pressed on me— |
| Eldred | My wife and children came into my mind. |
| Marmaduke | Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us, And we shall howl together. [After a pause and in a feeble voice.] I am deserted At my worst need, my crimes have in a net (Pointing to Eldred) Entangled this poor man.— Where was it? where? [Dragging him along.] |
| Eldred | 'Tis needless; spare your violence. His Daughter— |
| Marmaduke | Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge: This old man had a Daughter. |
| Eldred | To the spot I hurried back with her.—Oh save me, Sir, From such a journey!—there was a black tree, A single tree; she thought it was her Father.— Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now— Nay; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it— As we approached, a solitary crow Rose from the spot;—the Daughter clapped her hands, And then I heard a shriek so terrible [Marmaduke shrinks back.] The startled bird quivered upon the wing. |
| Marmaduke | Dead, dead!— |
| Eldred | (after a pause) A dismal matter, Sir, for me, And seems the like for you; if 'tis your wish, I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 'twere best That she should be prepared; I'll go before. |
| Marmaduke | There will be need of preparation. |
| [Eldred goes off.] | |
| Eleanor | (enters) Master! Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you? |
| Marmaduke | (taking her arm) Woman, I've lent my body to the service Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was. |
| Eleanor | Oh, why have I to do with things like these? |
| [Exeunt.] |
| Eldred | Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me, And you remember such was my report: From what has just befallen me I have cause To fear the very worst. |
| Idonea | My Father is dead; Why dost thou come to me with words like these? |
| Eldred | A wicked Man should answer for his crimes. |
| Idonea | Thou seest me what I am. |
| Eldred | It was most heinous, And doth call out for vengeance. |
| Idonea | Do not add, I prith'ee, to the harm thou'st done already. |
| Eldred | Hereafter you will thank me for this service. Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were You should prepare to meet him. |
| Idonea | I have nothing To do with others; help me to my Father— [She turns and sees Marmaduke leaning on Eleanor—throws herself upon his neck, and after some time,] In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; And thus we meet again; one human stay Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. |
| Marmaduke | In such a wilderness—to see no thing, No, not the pitying moon! |
| Idonea | And perish so. |
| Marmaduke | Without a dog to moan for him. |
| Idonea | Think not of it, But enter there and see him how he sleeps, Tranquil as he had died in his own bed. |
| Marmaduke | Tranquil—why not? |
| Idonea | Oh, peace! |
| Marmaduke | He is at peace; His body is at rest: there was a plot, A hideous plot, against the soul of man: It took effect—and yet I baffled it, In some degree. |
| Idonea | Between us stood, I thought, A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence, Alone partake of it?—Beloved Marmaduke! |
| Marmaduke | Give me a reason why the wisest thing That the earth owns shall never choose to die, But some one must be near to count his groans. The wounded deer retires to solitude, And dies in solitude: all things but man, All die in solitude. [Moving towards the cottage door.] Mysterious God, If she had never lived I had not done it!— |
| Idonea | Alas! the thought of such a cruel death Has overwhelmed him.—I must follow. |
| Eldred | Lady! You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion may Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering, The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side Uplift his hand—that would be evidence. |
| Eleanor | Shame! Eldred, shame! |
| Marmaduke | (both returning) The dead have but one face. (To himself.) And such a Man—so meek and unoffending— Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man, By obvious signal to the world's protection, Solemnly dedicated—to decoy him!— |
| Idonea | Oh, had you seen him living!— |
| Marmaduke | I (so filled With horror is this world) am unto thee The thing most precious, that it now contains: Therefore through me alone must be revealed By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea! I have the proofs!— |
| Idonea | O miserable Father! Thou didst command me to bless all mankind; Nor to this moment, have I ever wished Evil to any living thing; but hear me, Hear me, ye Heavens!—(kneeling)—may vengeance haunt the fiend For this most cruel murder: let him live And move in terror of the elements; The thunder send him on his knees to prayer In the open streets, and let him think he sees, If e'er he entereth the house of God, The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head; And let him, when he would lie down at night, Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow! |
| Marmaduke | My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee. |
| Idonea | (leaning on Marmaduke) Left to the mercy of that savage Man! How could he call upon his Child!—O Friend! [Turns to Marmaduke.] My faithful true and only Comforter. |
| Marmaduke | Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.) (To Eldred.) Yes, Varlet, look, The devils at such sights do clap their hands. [Eldred retires alarmed.] |
| Idonea | Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale; Hast thou pursued the monster? |
| Marmaduke | I have found him.— Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames! |
| Idonea | Here art thou, then can I be desolate?— |
| Marmaduke | There was a time, when this protecting hand Availed against the mighty; never more Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. |
| Idonea | Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan, Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven; And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine For closer care;—here, is no malady. [Taking his arm.] |
| Marmaduke | There, is a malady— (Striking his heart and forehead.) And here, and here, A mortal malady.—I am accurst: All nature curses me, and in my heart Thy curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare. It must be told, and borne. I am the man, (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me, Thy Father perished. |
| Idonea | Perished—by what mischance? |
| Marmaduke | Belovèd!—if I dared, so would I call thee— Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. [He gives her a letter.] |
| Idonea | (reads)
The writing Oswald's; the signature my Father's: (Looks steadily at the paper.) And here is yours,—or do my eyes deceive me? You have then seen my Father? |
| Marmaduke | He has leaned Upon this arm. |
| Idonea | You led him towards the Convent? |
| Marmaduke | That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither We were his guides. I on that night resolved That he should wait thy coming till the day Of resurrection. |
| Idonea | Miserable Woman, Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, I put denial on thy suit, and hence, With the disastrous issue of last night, Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. Be calm, I pray thee! |
| Marmaduke | Oswald— |
| Idonea | Name him not. |
| [Enter Female Beggar.] | |
| Beggar | And he is dead!—that Moor—how shall I cross it? By night, by day, never shall I be able To travel half a mile alone.—Good Lady! Forgive me!—Saints forgive me. Had I thought It would have come to this!— |
| Idonea | What brings you hither? speak! |
| Beggar | (pointing to Marmaduke) This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told him Such tales of your dead Father!—God is my judge, I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man, He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. Mercy! I said I know not what—oh pity me— I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter— Pity me, I am haunted;—thrice this day My conscience made me wish to be struck blind; And then I would have prayed, and had no voice. |
| Idonea | (to Marmaduke) Was it my Father?—no, no, no, for he Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life —But hear me. For one question, I have a heart That will sustain me. Did you murder him? |
| Marmaduke | No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process: Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth And innocence, embodied in his looks, His words and tones and gestures, did but serve With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. Then pity crossed the path of my resolve: Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal Of the bleak Waste—left him—and so he died!— [Idonea sinks senseless; Beggar, Eleanor, etc., crowd round, and bear her off.] Why may we speak these things, and do no more; Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power, And words that tell these things be heard in vain? She is not dead. Why!—if I loved this Woman, I would take care she never woke again; But she will wake, and she will weep for me, And say, no blame was mine—and so, poor fool, Will waste her curses on another name. [He walks about distractedly.] [Enter Oswald.] |
| Oswald | (to himself) Strong to o'erturn, strong also to build up. [To Marmaduke.] The starts and sallies of our last encounter Were natural enough; but that, I trust, Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains That fettered your nobility of mind— Delivered heart and head! Let us to Palestine; This is a paltry field for enterprise. |
| Marmaduke | Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue— 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness, And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!— Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. (ironically) Start not!—Here is another face hard by; Come, let us take a peep at both together, And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, Resound the praise of your morality— Of this too much. [Drawing Oswald towards the Cottage—stops short at the door.] Men are there, millions, Oswald, Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised Above, or sunk below, all further sense Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. Coward I have been; know, there lies not now Within the compass of a mortal thought, A deed that I would shrink from;—but to endure, That is my destiny. May it be thine: Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth To feed remorse, to welcome every sting Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. When seas and continents shall lie between us— The wider space the better—we may find In such a course fit links of sympathy, An incommunicable rivalship Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. [Confused voices—several of the Band enter—rush upon Oswald and seize him.] |
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I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell— |
| Oswald | Ha! is it so!—That vagrant Hag!—this comes Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside.] |
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Despatch him! |
| Oswald | If I pass beneath a rock And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, A Fool and Coward blended to my wish! [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at Marmaduke.] |
| Wallace | 'Tis done! (Stabs him.) |
| One of the Band |
The ruthless traitor! |
| Marmaduke | A rash deed!— With that reproof I do resign a station Of which I have been proud. |
| Wilfred | (approaching Marmaduke) O my poor Master! |
| Marmaduke | Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred, Why art thou here? [Turning to Wallace.] Wallace, upon these Borders, Many there be whose eyes will not want cause To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms! Raise on that dreary Waste a monument That may record my story: nor let words— Few must they be, and delicate in their touch As light itself—be there withheld from Her Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan By One who would have died a thousand times, To shield her from a moment's harm. To you, Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, By lowly nature reared, as if to make her In all things worthier of that noble birth, Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve Of restoration: with your tenderest care Watch over her, I pray—sustain her— |
| Several of the Band | (eagerly) Captain! |
| Marmaduke | No more of that; in silence hear my doom: A hermitage has furnished fit relief To some offenders; other penitents, Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point. They had their choice: a wanderer must I go, The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide. No human ear shall ever hear me speak; No human dwelling ever give me food, Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild, In search of nothing, that this earth can give, But expiation, will I wander on— A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, Yet loathing life—till anger is appeased In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die. |
"W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity, and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four times in the Robbers of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W. there are no inequalities."
"I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W.'s tragedy, of which I have heard so much and seen so little." Shortly afterwards, August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection that somebody, I think you, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess, is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison, or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off, with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family; but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices."—Ed.
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Written 1801 or 1802. This arose out of my observations of the affecting music of these birds, hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning.—I. F.
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| At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! |
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Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once more
The house of thy Father will open its door,
And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,
May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its owni.
"Susan stood for the representative of poor 'Rus in urbe.' There was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten; 'bright volumes of vapour,' etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got rid of, at all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral conduct. Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her mop, and contemplating the whirling phenomenon through blurred optics; but to term her 'a poor outcast' seems as much as to say that poor Susan was no better than she should be, which I trust was not what you meant to express."
Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described,—'He looks up, the clouds are split,' etc.—I. F.
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| —The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split Asunder,—and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;—still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. |
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"Went to Poole's after tea. The sky spread over with one continuous cloud, whitened by the light of the moon, which, though her dim shape was seen, did not throw forth so strong a light as to chequer the earth with shadows. At once the clouds seemed to cleave asunder, and lift her in the centre of a black-blue vault. She sailed along, followed by multitudes of stars, small, and bright, and sharp; their brightness seemed concentrated."
Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, under circumstances somewhat remarkable. The little girl who is the heroine, I met within the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left the Isle of Wight, and crost Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to Guilt and Sorrow, I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to N. Wales to the Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer under the roof of the father of my friend, Robert Jones.
In reference to this poem, I will here mention one of the most remarkable facts in my own poetic history, and that of Mr. Coleridge. In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near it; and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem, to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine, set up by Philips, the bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet; and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of The Ancient Mariner, founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain parts I myself suggested: for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime, and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's Voyages, a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. 'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us at the time; at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought. We began the composition together, on that to me memorable evening: I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular—These trifling contributions, all but one (which Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded), slipt out of his mind, as well they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respective manners proved so widely different, that it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. We returned after a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have many pleasant, and some of them droll enough, recollections. We returned by Dulverton to Alfoxden. The Ancient Mariner grew and grew till it became too important for our first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to talk of a volume which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of Poems chiefly on natural subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as much as might be, through an imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote The Idiot Boy, Her eyes are wild, etc., We are Seven, The Thorn, and some others. To return to We are Seven, the piece that called forth this note, I composed it while walking in the grove at Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, that while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having begun with the last line. When it was all but finished, I came in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, "A prefatory stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal with greater pleasure if my task was finished." I mentioned in substance what I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge immediately threw off the stanza, thus;And listen'd like a three years' child;
The Mariner had his will.I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous; but we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend James Tobin's name, who was familiarly called Jem. He was the brother of the dramatist; and this reminds me of an anecdote which it may be worth while here to notice. The said Jem got a sight of the "Lyrical Ballads" as it was going through the press at Bristol, during which time I was residing in that city. One evening he came to me with a grave face, and said, "Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that Coleridge and you are about to publish. There is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you will cancel, for, if published, it will make you everlastingly ridiculous." I answered, that I felt much obliged by the interest he took in my good name as a writer, and begged to know what was the unfortunate piece he alluded to. He said, 'It is called We are Seven.' 'Nay,' said I, 'that shall take its chance, however'; and he left me in despair. I have only to add, that in the springA of 1841, I revisited Goodrich Castle, not having seen that part of the Wye since I met the little girl there in 1793. It would have given me greater pleasure to have found in the neighbouring hamlet traces of one who had interested me so much, but that was impossible, as unfortunately I did not even know her name. The ruin, from its position and features, is a most impressive object. I could not but deeply regret that its solemnity was impaired by a fantastic new Castle set up on a projection of the same ridge, as if to show how far modern art can go in surpassing all that could be done by antiquity and nature with their united graces, remembrances, and associations. I could have almost wished for power, so much the contrast vexed me, to blow away Sir —— Meyrick's impertinent structure and all the fopperies it contains.—I. F.A little child, dear brother Jem,
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| —A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree." "You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. "So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" |
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This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. The boy was a son of my friend, Basil Montagu, who had been two or three years under our care. The name of Kilve is from a village on the Bristol Channel, about a mile from Alfoxden; and the name of Liswyn Farm was taken from a beautiful spot on the Wye, where Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and I had been visiting the famous John Thelwall, who had taken refuge from politics, after a trial for high treason, with a view to bring up his family by the profits of agriculture, which proved as unfortunate a speculation as that he had fled from. Coleridge and he had both been public lecturers; Coleridge mingling, with his politics, Theology, from which the other elocutionist abstained, unless it was for the sake of a sneer. This quondam community of public employment induced Thelwall to visit Coleridge at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my way. He really was a man of extraordinary talent, an affectionate husband, and a good father. Though brought up in the city, on a tailor's board, he was truly sensible of the beauty of natural objects. I remember once, when Coleridge, he, and I were seated together upon the turf, on the brink of a stream in the most beautiful part of the most beautiful glen of Alfoxden, Coleridge exclaimed, 'This is a place to reconcile one to all the jarrings and conflicts of the wide world.' 'Nay,' said Thelwall, 'to make one forget them altogether.' The visit of this man to Coleridge was, as I believe Coleridge has related, the occasion of a spy being sent by Government to watch our proceedings; which were, I can say with truth, such as the world at large would have thought ludicrously harmless.—I. F.
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| I have a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we strolled on our dry walk, Our quiet home all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do. My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, Our pleasant home when spring began, A long, long year before. A day it was when I could bear Some fond regrets to entertain; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain. The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade. Birds warbled round me—and each trace Of inward sadness had its charm; Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place, And so is Liswyn farm. My boy beside me tripped, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And, as we talked, I questioned him, In very idleness. "Now tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm, "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be Than here at Liswyn farm." "Now, little Edward, say why so: My little Edward, tell me why."— "I cannot tell, I do not know."— "Why, this is strange," said I; "For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea." At this, my boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; And three times to the child I said, "Why, Edward, tell me why?" His head he raised—there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain— Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane. Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And eased his mind with this reply: "At Kilve there was no weather-cock; And that's the reason why." O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. |
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"The Fenwick note is most puzzling.
- If Coleridge went to visit Thelwall, with Wordsworth and Dorothy in July 1798, this is the only record; but I suppose that he did.
- How could the poem have been suggested in front of Alfoxden? The visit to Liswyn took place after the Wordsworths had left Alfoxden never to return. If little Montagu ever did compare Kilve and Liswyn Farm, he must have done so after he left Alfoxden. The scene is laid at Liswyn, and if the poem was written at Alfoxden, before the party visited Liswyn, the supposed reply was invented to a supposed question which might be put to the child when he got to Liswyn. How unlike Wordsworth.
- Thelwall came to Alfoxden at the commencement of Wordsworth's tenancy; and the visit to Wales took place when the tenancy was over, July 3-10."
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| A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Then—all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There's not a breeze—no breath of air— Yet here, and there, and every where Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy. |
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Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease
That I may never cease to find,
Even in appearances like these
Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!
"March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William wrote a description of the storm."
"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a mood when it was probable that I should write it well.—The character which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small independent income to some village or country town of which he was not a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and by accumulated imagery.
"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly; yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly. The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full effect.
"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words closely connected with The Thorn and many other Poems in these Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers, or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as symbols of the passion, but as things, active and efficient, which are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every nation.See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem.Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.
At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.
Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his Chariot?
(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th.)
"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the story."
Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?" I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to paint the same subject over again.' The sky in this picture is nobly done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however, of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.—I. F.
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| I | "There is a Thorn—it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens is it overgrown. |
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| II | "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; And all have joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever. |
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| III | "High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water—never dry Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. |
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| IV | "And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye. |
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| V | "Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. |
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| VI | "Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap So like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!' |
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| VII | "At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" |
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| VIII | "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky, Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry?— O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?" |
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| IX | "I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But would you gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like an infant's grave, The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door—'tis seldom shut— And, if you see her in her hut— Then to the spot away! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there." |
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| X | "But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" "Full twenty years are past and gone Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. |
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| XI | "And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And, with this other Maid, to church Unthinking Stephen went— Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest. |
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| XII | "They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, And there was often seen. What could she seek?—or wish to hide? Her state to any eye was plain; She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father—would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! |
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| XIII | "Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again: And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear. |
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| XIV | "More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you; For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; Nay—if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell; And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said; But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. |
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| XV | "And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek: For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate'er they say, They had to do with Martha Ray. |
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| XVI | "But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I will be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height:— A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee. |
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| XVII | "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in sooth, it was A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag,—and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground. |
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| XVIII | "I did not speak—I saw her face; Her face!—it was enough for me: I turned about and heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And, when the little breezes make The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!'" |
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| XIX | "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes The little pond to stir?" "I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree; Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. |
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| XX | "I've heard, the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain The baby looks at you again. |
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| XXI | "And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. But instantly the hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass—it shook upon the ground! Yet all do still aver The little Babe lies buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. |
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| XXII | "I cannot tell how this may be But plain it is the Thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss that strive To drag it to the ground; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" |
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"Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?" said Jeanie, who began to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods, and more remote from the highroad.
"Do I ken the road? Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them try it as muckle as they like."
By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland. The trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the poet of Grasmere has described in the motto to our chapter. So soon as she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her hands above her head, with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at once upon the spot, and remained there lying motionless.
Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With an effort, which, in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and tried to raise up the forlorn creature. She effected this with difficulty, and as she placed her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise, that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger, Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude.
"Let me alane!—let me alane!" said the poor young woman, as her paroxysm of sorrow began to abate. "Let me alane; it does me good to weep. I canna shed tears but maybe anes or twice a-year, and I aye come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and the grass may be green."
"But what is the matter with you?" said Jeanie. "Why do you weep so bitterly?"
"There's matter enow," replied the lunatic; "mair than ae puir mind can bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I like ye, Jeanie Deans; a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the Pleasaunts. And I mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when I had been on Arthur's Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the ship that somebody was sailing in."
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Nay rack your brain—'tis all in vain,
I'll tell you every thing I know;
But to the thorn, and to the pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that you would go:
Perhaps when you are at the place
You something of her tale may trace.
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I'll give you the best help I can:
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
I'll tell you all I know.
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"March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted Thorn"
"April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes. Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond"
Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zoönomia'.—I. F.
"I received good information of the truth of the following case, which was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the blessing to be warm.' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the cold air, till at length he died."
"The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire."
"Ipswich, April 2, 1799.
"To the Editors of the Ipswich Magazine.
"Gentlemen—The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and which has, a short time since', been turned by a lyric poet into that excellent ballad."
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| Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still! Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine. In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still! Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; His voice was like the voice of three. Old Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had. All day she spun in her poor dwelling: And then her three hours' work at night, Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. Remote from sheltered village-green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; But she, poor Woman! housed alone. 'Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the canty Dame Would sit, as any linnet, gay. But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh then how her old bones would shake; You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed; And then for cold not sleep a wink. O joy for her! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout; And scattered many a lusty splinter And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Enough to warm her for three days. Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could anything be more alluring Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detected— That he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take; And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand: The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble land. —He hears a noise—he's all awake— Again?—on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps—'tis Goody Blake; She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! Right glad was he when he beheld her: Stick after stick did Goody pull: He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The by-way back again to take; He started forward, with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed To God that is the judge of all. She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm— "God! who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!" The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray; Young Harry heard what she had said: And icy cold he turned away. He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three. 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinned; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say, 'tis plain That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again. No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! |
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Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of Bristol, who had seen the poor creature.—I. F.
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| I | Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone: And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the greenwood stone, She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. |
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| II | "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear! I pray thee have no fear of me; But safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be: To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe. |
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| III | "A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces, one, two, three, Hung at my breast, and pulled at me; But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he. |
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| IV | "Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree: It comes to cool my babe and me. |
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| V | Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie; for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die. |
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| VI | "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion will I be; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower; I know The leaves that make the softest bed: And, if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shall sing As merry as the birds in spring. |
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| VII | "Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest; 'Tis all thine own!—and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little child, is flown, But thou wilt live with me in love; And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. |
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| VIII | "Dread not their taunts, my little Life; I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stayed: From him no harm my babe can take; But he, poor man! is wretched made; And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away. |
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| IX | "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. —Where art thou gone, my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad. |
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| X | "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am: My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade; I know the earth-nuts fit for food: Then, pretty dear, be not afraid: We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." |
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"For myself, I would rather have written The Mad Mother than all the works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors, that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the loss of Paradise."
This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love their voice,' was word for word from his own lips.—I. F.
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| In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old Man dwells, a little man,— 'Tis said he once was tall. Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee: When Echo bandied, round and round, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, He reeled, and was stone blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices! But, oh the heavy change!—bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead,—and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. And he is lean and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what to them avails the land Which he can till no longer? Oft, working by her Husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little—all That they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle Reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And now I fear that you expect Some tale will be related. O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it: It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it. One summer-day I chanced to see This old Man doing all he could To unearth the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand; So vain was his endeavour, That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffered aid. I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I severed, At which the poor old Man so long And vainly had endeavoured. The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. —I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. |
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Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.
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Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past;
Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.
Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the Comb, in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree—an ash if I rightly remember—from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, after an interval of more than forty yearsA, this interesting feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep along without difficulty.—I. F.
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| I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? |
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The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the midday sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fanned by the waterfall!
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Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed.—I. F.
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| It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field. My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun. Edward will come with you;—and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar: We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: —It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. |
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| "Why, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? "Where are your books?—that light bequeathed To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. "You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!" One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply. "The eye—it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? "—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away." |
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"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy."
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| Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. |
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"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters."
"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit, maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet."
At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads."—I. F.
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| I | Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars, they were among my dreams; In rustling conflict through the skies, I heard, I saw the flashes drive, And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive; Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! |
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| II | My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain: All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie! Alone, I cannot fear to die. |
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| III | Alas! ye might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair; Why did ye listen to my prayer? When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; And oh, how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, Dear friends, when ye were gone away. |
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| IV | My Child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, A most strange working did I see; —As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me: And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a helpless child. |
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| V | My little joy! my little pride! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee. O wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send; Too soon, my friends, ye went away; For I had many things to say. |
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| VI | I'll follow you across the snow; Ye travel heavily and slow; In spite of all my weary pain I'll look upon your tents again. —My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood: The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I; Then wherefore should I fear to die? |
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| VII | Young as I am, my course is run, I shall not see another sun; I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken Child, if I For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then would die, And my last thought would happy be; But thou, dear Babe, art far away, Nor shall I see another day. |
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Produced at the same time as 'The Complaint', and for the same purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by Alfoxden.—I. F
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| I | In distant countries have I been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads, alone. But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad highway, I met; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet: Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a Lamb he had. |
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| II | He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: And with his coat did then essay To wipe those briny tears away. I followed him, and said, "My friend, What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" —"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock: He is the last of all my flock. |
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| III | "When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, As healthy sheep as you might see; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I numbered a full score, And every year increased my store. |
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| IV | "Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As fine a flock as ever grazed! Upon the Quantock hills they fed; They throve, and we at home did thrive: —This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. |
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| V | "Six Children, Sir! had I to feed; Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the Parish asked relief. They said, I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the uplands fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread. 'Do this: how can we give to you,' They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' |
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| VI | "I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me—it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away— For me it was a woeful day. |
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| VII | "Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopped— Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. 'Till thirty were not left alive They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say, that many a time I wished they all were gone— Reckless of what might come at last Were but the bitter struggle past. |
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| VIII | "To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies crossed my mind; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me: No peace, no comfort could I find, No ease, within doors or without; And, crazily and wearily I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam. |
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| IX | "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more. Alas! it was an evil time; God cursed me in my sore distress; I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock it seemed to melt away. |
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Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, 'The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,' was the foundation of the whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole; but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots. Let me add, that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for, in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.—I. F.
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| 'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night, The moon is up,—the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts from nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! —Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? Scarcely a soul is out of bed: Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? But Betty's bent on her intent; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, As if her very life would fail. There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess. And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale; What must be done? what will betide? And Betty from the lane has fetched Her Pony, that is mild and good; Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood. And he is all in travelling trim,— And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has on the well-girt saddle set (The like was never heard of yet) Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. And he must post without delay Across the bridge and through the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale. There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand; For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a hurly-burly now He shakes the green bough in his hand. And Betty o'er and o'er has told The Boy, who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, How turn to left, and how to right. And Betty's most especial charge, Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you Come home again, nor stop at all,— Come home again, whate'er befal, My Johnny, do, I pray you do." To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too; And then! his words were not a few, Which Betty well could understand. And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the Pony's side, On which her Idiot Boy must ride, And seems no longer in a hurry. But when the Pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He's idle all for very joy. And while the Pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left hand you may see The green bough motionless and dead: The Moon that shines above his head Is not more still and mute than he. His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship: Oh! happy, happy, happy John. And while the Mother, at the door, Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim, How quietly her Johnny goes. The silence of her Idiot Boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! He's at the guide-post—he turns right; She watches till he's out of sight, And Betty will not then depart. Burr, burr—now Johnny's lips they burr. As loud as any mill, or near it; Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, And Betty listens, glad to hear it. Away she hies to Susan Gale: Her Messenger's in merry tune; The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, As on he goes beneath the moon. His steed and he right well agree; For of this Pony there's a rumour, That, should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, He never will be out of humour. But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks, his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet, for his life, he cannot tell What he has got upon his back. So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, To comfort poor old Susan Gale. And Betty, now at Susan's side, Is in the middle of her story, What speedy help her Boy will bring, With many a most diverting thing, Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. And Betty, still at Susan's side, By this time is not quite so flurried: Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate Her life and soul were buried. But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment's store Five years of happiness or more To any that might need it. But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well; And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, Which she to Susan will not tell. Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; They'll both be here—'tis almost ten— Both will be here before eleven." Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven; 'Tis on the stroke—"He must be near," Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, As sure as there's a moon in heaven." The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight: —The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; And Susan has a dreadful night. And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast: "A little idle sauntering Thing!" With other names, an endless string; But now that time is gone and past. And Betty's drooping at the heart, That happy time all past and gone, "How can it be he is so late? The Doctor, he has made him wait; Susan! they'll both be here anon." And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad quandary; And then there's nobody to say If she must go, or she must stay! —She's in a sad quandary. The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his Guide Appears along the moonlight road; There's neither horse nor man abroad, And Betty's still at Susan's side. And Susan now begins to fear Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drowned; Or lost, perhaps, and never found; Which they must both for ever rue. She prefaced half a hint of this With, "God forbid it should be true!" At the first word that Susan said Cried Betty, rising from the bed, "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. "I must be gone, I must away: Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; Susan, we must take care of him, If he is hurt in life or limb"— "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries. "What can I do?" says Betty, going, "What can I do to ease your pain? Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; I fear you're in a dreadful way, But I shall soon be back again." "Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain." Then off she hies; but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, Till she comes back again. So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, Would surely be a tedious tale. In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, In tree and tower was Johnny seen, In bush and brake, in black and green; 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. And while she crossed the bridge, there came A thought with which her heart is sore— Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, To hunt the moon within the brook, And never will be heard of more. Now is she high upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide; There's neither Johnny nor his Horse Among the fern or in the gorse; There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. "Oh saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead; Or, sadly he has been misled, And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. "Or him that wicked Pony's carried To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; Or in the castle he's pursuing Among the ghosts his own undoing; Or playing with the waterfall." At poor old Susan then she railed, While to the town she posts away; "If Susan had not been so ill, Alas! I should have had him still, My Johnny, till my dying day." Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, The Doctor's self could hardly spare: Unworthy things she talked, and wild; Even he, of cattle the most mild, The Pony had his share. But now she's fairly in the town, And to the Doctor's door she hies; 'Tis silence all on every side; The town so long, the town so wide, Is silent as the skies. And now she's at the Doctor's door, She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; The Doctor at the casement shows His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! And one hand rubs his old night-cap. "Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?" "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, And I have lost my poor dear Boy, You know him—him you often see; "He's not so wise as some folks be": "The devil take his wisdom!" said The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, "What, Woman! should I know of him?" And, grumbling, he went back to bed! "O woe is me! O woe is me! Here will I die; here will I die; I thought to find my lost one here, But he is neither far nor near, Oh! what a wretched Mother I!" She stops, she stands, she looks about; Which way to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty! it would ease her pain If she had heart to knock again; —The clock strikes three—a dismal knell! Then up along the town she hies, No wonder if her senses fail; This piteous news so much it shocked her, She quite forgot to send the Doctor, To comfort poor old Susan Gale. And now she's high upon the down, And she can see a mile of road: "O cruel! I'm almost threescore; Such night as this was ne'er before, There's not a single soul abroad." She listens, but she cannot hear The foot of horse, the voice of man; The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can. The owlets through the long blue night Are shouting to each other still: Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob, They lengthen out the tremulous sob, That echoes far from hill to hill. Poor Betty now has lost all hope, Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, A green-grown pond she just has past, And from the brink she hurries fast, Lest she should drown herself therein. And now she sits her down and weeps; Such tears she never shed before; "Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy! Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." A thought is come into her head: The Pony he is mild and good, And we have always used him well; Perhaps he's gone along the dell, And carried Johnny to the wood. Then up she springs as if on wings; She thinks no more of deadly sin; If Betty fifty ponds should see, The last of all her thoughts would be To drown herself therein. O Reader! now that I might tell What Johnny and his Horse are doing! What they've been doing all this time, Oh could I put it into rhyme, A most delightful tale pursuing! Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! He with his Pony now doth roam The cliffs and peaks so high that are, To lay his hands upon a star, And in his pocket bring it home. Perhaps he's turned himself about, His face unto his horse's tail, And, still and mute, in wonder lost, All silent as a horseman-ghost, He travels slowly down the vale. And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, A fierce and dreadful hunter he; Yon valley, now so trim and green, In five months' time, should he be seen, A desert wilderness will be! Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, And like the very soul of evil, He's galloping away, away, And so will gallop on for aye, The bane of all that dread the devil! I to the Muses have been bound These fourteen years, by strong indentures: O gentle Muses! let me tell But half of what to him befel; He surely met with strange adventures. O gentle Muses! is this kind? Why will ye thus my suit repel? Why of your further aid bereave me? And can ye thus unfriended leave me; Ye Muses! whom I love so well? Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, Which thunders down with headlong force Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, As careless as if nothing were, Sits upright on a feeding horse? Unto his horse—there feeding free, He seems, I think, the rein to give; Of moon or stars he takes no heed; Of such we in romances read: —'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live. And that's the very Pony, too! Where is she, where is Betty Foy? She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring waterfall she hears, And cannot find her Idiot Boy. Your Pony's worth his weight in gold: Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! She's coming from among the trees, And now all full in view she sees Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. And Betty sees the Pony too: Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. She looks again—her arms are up— She screams—she cannot move for joy; She darts, as with a torrent's force, She almost has o'erturned the Horse, And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; Whether in cunning or in joy I cannot tell; but while he laughs, Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs To hear again her Idiot Boy. And now she's at the Pony's tail, And now is at the Pony's head,— On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss, A few sad tears does Betty shed. She kisses o'er and o'er again Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She's happy here, is happy there, She is uneasy every where; Her limbs are all alive with joy. She pats the Pony, where or when She knows not, happy Betty Foy! The little Pony glad may be, But he is milder far than she, You hardly can perceive his joy. "Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; You've done your best, and that is all:" She took the reins, when this was said, And gently turned the Pony's head From the loud waterfall. By this the stars were almost gone, The moon was setting on the hill, So pale you scarcely looked at her: The little birds began to stir, Though yet their tongues were still. The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, Wind slowly through the woody dale; And who is she, betimes abroad, That hobbles up the steep rough road? Who is it, but old Susan Gale? Long time lay Susan lost in thought; And many dreadful fears beset her, Both for her Messenger and Nurse; And, as her mind grew worse and worse, Her body—it grew better. She turned, she tossed herself in bed, On all sides doubts and terrors met her; Point after point did she discuss; And, while her mind was fighting thus, Her body still grew better. "Alas! what is become of them? These fears can never be endured; I'll to the wood."—The word scarce said, Did Susan rise up from her bed, As if by magic cured. Away she goes up hill and down, And to the wood at length is come; She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; Oh me! it is a merry meeting As ever was in Christendom. The owls have hardly sung their last, While our four travellers homeward wend; The owls have hooted all night long, And with the owls began my song, And with the owls must end. For while they all were travelling home, Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do, Where all this long night you have been, What you have heard, what you have seen: And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." Now Johnny all night long had heard The owls in tuneful concert strive; No doubt too he the moon had seen; For in the moonlight he had been From eight o'clock till five. And thus, to Betty's question, he Made answer, like a traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold!" —Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story. |
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Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
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Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.
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Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child. Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third yearB. The Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it can go by the Amended Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of their Christian grace and spirit, as being forced rather from the benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep all they possess from their distressed brethren.—I. F.
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| I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses down the steep rough road May thence remount at ease. The aged Man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; And scanned them with a fixed and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, He sat, and ate his food in solitude: And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, That, still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, Approached within the length of half his staff. Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary Man, So helpless in appearance, that for him The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand his alms upon the ground, But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still, when he has given his horse the rein, Watches the aged Beggar with a look Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged beggar coming, quits her work, And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned The old man does not change his course, the boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. He travels on, a solitary Man; His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, _They_ move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road,—in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet Disturb the summer dust; he is so still In look and motion, that the cottage curs, Ere he has passed the door, will turn away, Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by: Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brute, The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good, A life and soul, to every mode of being Inseparably linked. Then be assured That least of all can aught—that ever owned The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime Which man is born to—sink, howe'er depressed, So low as to be scorned without a sin; Without offence to God cast out of view; Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement Worn out and worthless. While from door to door This old Man creeps, the villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity, Else unremembered, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels To acts of love; and habit does the work Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued Doth find herself insensibly disposed To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, By their good works exalted, lofty minds And meditative, authors of delight And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds In childhood, from this solitary Being, Or from like wanderer, haply have received (A thing more precious far than all that books Or the solicitudes of love can do!) That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, In which they found their kindred with a world Where want and sorrow were. The easy man Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear That overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, The prosperous and unthinking, they who live Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove Of their own kindred;—all behold in him A silent monitor, which on their minds Must needs impress a transitory thought Of self-congratulation, to the heart Of each recalling his peculiar boons, His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are Who live a life of virtuous decency, Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel No self-reproach; who of the moral law Established in the land where they abide Are strict observers; and not negligent In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, Their kindred, and the children of their blood. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! —But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; Go, and demand of him, if there be here In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, And these inevitable charities, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life When they can know and feel that they have been, Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out Of some small blessings; have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause, That we have all of us one human heart. —Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself By her own wants, she from her store of meal Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door Returning with exhilarated heart, Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And while in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has borne him, he appears To breathe and live but for himself alone, Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of Heaven Has hung around him: and, while life is his, Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers To tender offices and pensive thoughts. —Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his grey locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never House, misnamed of Industry, Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes; And have around him, whether heard or not, The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle upon earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, Rising or setting, let the light at least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. And let him, where and when he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank Of highway side, and with the little birds Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally, As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die! |
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Os homini sublime dedit, cœlumque videre
Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus.
What end doth he fulfil!
He seems without a will.
"It appears to me a fault that the instructions conveyed in it are too direct, and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the reader while he is imagining no such matter,"
"the delicate and curious feeling in the wish of the Beggar that he may have about him the melody of birds, although he hears them not."
If I recollect right, these verses were an overflowing from The Old Cumberland Beggar.—I. F.
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| The little hedgerow birds, That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression: every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought.—He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. |
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| Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, By Pain and her sad family unfound, Sure, Nature's God that spot to man had giv'n, Where murmuring rivers join the song of ev'n; Where falls the purple morning far and wide In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; Where summer Suns in ocean sink to rest, Or moonlight Upland lifts her hoary breast; Where Silence, on her night of wing, o'er-broods Unfathom'd dells and undiscover'd woods; Where rocks and groves the power of waters shakes In cataracts, or sleeps in quiet lakes. But doubly pitying Nature loves to show'r Soft on his wounded heart her healing pow'r, Who plods o'er hills and vales his road forlorn, Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn. No sad vacuities his heart annoy, Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy; For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale; He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale; For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn, And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? Upward he looks—and calls it luxury; Kind Nature's charities his steps attend, In every babbling brook he finds a friend, While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestow'd By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road. Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bow'r, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; He views the Sun uprear his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre; Blesses the Moon that comes with kindest ray To light him shaken by his viewless way. With bashful fear no cottage children steal From him, a brother at the cottage meal, His humble looks no shy restraint impart, Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with inquiring glance, Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there. Me, lur'd by hope her sorrows to remove, A heart, that could not much itself approve, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, Her road elms rustling thin above my head, Or through her truant pathway's native charms, By secret villages and lonely farms, To where the Alps, ascending white in air, Toy with the Sun, and glitter from afar. Ev'n now I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom Weeping beneath his chill of mountain gloom. Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe Tam'd "sober Reason" till she crouch'd in fear? That breath'd a death-like peace these woods around Broke only by th' unvaried torrent's sound, Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd. The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubl'd heads, Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night o'erspreads. Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, And start th' astonish'd shades at female eyes. The thundering tube the aged angler hears, And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. From Bruno's forest screams the frighted jay, And slow th' insulted eagle wheels away. The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, By angels planted on the aëreal rock. The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of Life and Death. Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous, thro' her old woods' trackless bounds, Deepening her echoing torrents' awful peal And bidding paler shades her form conceal, Vallombre, mid her falling fanes, deplores, For ever broke, the sabbath of her bow'rs. More pleas'd, my foot the hidden margin roves Of Como bosom'd deep in chesnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain, To ringing team unknown and grating wain, To flat-roof'd towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or from the bending rocks obtrusive cling, And o'er the whiten'd wave their shadows fling; Wild round the steeps the little pathway twines, And Silence loves it's purple roof of vines. The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, mid opening cliffs, fair dark-ey'd maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades, Or, led by distant warbling notes, surveys, With hollow ringing ears and darkening gaze, Binding the charmed soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing Song and ringlet-tossing Dance, Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume The bosom'd cabin's lyre-enliven'd gloom; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch, o'er their pictur'd mirror, broad and blue, Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, As up th' opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. Here half a village shines, in gold array'd, Bright as the moon, half hides itself in shade. From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw no Rich golden verdure on the waves below. Slow glides the sail along th' illumin'd shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar. Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amourous music on the water dies. Heedless how Pliny, musing here, survey'd Old Roman boats and figures thro' the shade, Pale Passion, overpower'd, retires and woos The thicket, where th' unlisten'd stock-dove coos. How bless'd, delicious Scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales, The never-ending waters of thy vales; The cots, those dim religious groves enbow'r, Or, under rocks that from the water tow'r Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore, Each with his household boat beside the door, Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, Bright'ning the gloom where thick the forests stoop; —Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky, Thy towns, like swallows' nests that cleave on high; That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descry'd Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, Whence lutes and voices down th' enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods, While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps, Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps; —Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey Gleams, streak'd or dappled, hid from morning's ray Slow-travelling down the western hills, to fold It's green-ting'd margin in a blaze of gold; From thickly-glittering spires the matin-bell Calling the woodman from his desert cell, A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; Slow swells the service o'er the water born, While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. Farewel! those forms that, in thy noon-tide shade, Rest, near their little plots of wheaten glade; Those stedfast eyes, that beating breasts inspire To throw the "sultry ray" of young Desire; Those lips, whose tides of fragrance come, and go, Accordant to the cheek's unquiet glow; Those shadowy breasts in love's soft light array'd, And rising, by the moon of passion sway'd. —Thy fragrant gales and lute-resounding streams, Breathe o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams; While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, Her shameless timbrel shakes along thy marge, And winds between thine isles the vocal barge. Yet, arts are thine that rock th' unsleeping heart, And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. I lov'd, mid thy most desert woods astray, With pensive step to measure my slow way, By lonely, silent cottage-doors to roam, The far-off peasant's day-deserted home; Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood, The red-breast peace had bury'd it in wood, There, by the door a hoary-headed sire Touch'd with his wither'd hand an aged lyre; Beneath an old-grey oak as violets lie, Stretch'd at his feet with stedfast, upward eye, His children's children join'd the holy sound, A hermit—with his family around. Hence shall we seek where fair Locarno smiles Embower'd in walnut slopes and citron isles, Or charms that smile on Tusa's evening stream, While mid dim towers and woods her waters gleam; From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire The dull-red steeps, and darkening still, aspire, To where afar rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguish'd clouds, and rocks, and snow; Or, led where Viamala's chasms confine Th' indignant waters of the infant Rhine, Bend o'er th' abyss?—the else impervious gloom His burning eyes with fearful light illume. The Grison gypsey here her tent has plac'd, Sole human tenant of the piny waste; Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks. —The mind condemn'd, without reprieve, to go O'er life's long deserts with it's charge of woe, With sad congratulation joins the train, Where beasts and men together o'er the plain Move on,—a mighty caravan of pain; Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs. —She solitary through the desert drear Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. A giant moan along the forest swells Protracted, and the twilight storm foretells, And, ruining from the cliffs their deafening load Tumbles, the wildering Thunder slips abroad; On the high summits Darkness comes and goes, Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; The torrent, travers'd by the lustre broad, Starts like a horse beside the flashing road; In the roof'd bridge, at that despairing hour, She seeks a shelter from the battering show'r. —Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood Gives way, and half it's pines torment the flood; Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call, And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. —Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night, No star supplies the comfort of it's light, Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated, round, And one sole light shifts in the vale profound; While, opposite, the waning moon hangs still, And red, above her melancholy hill. By the deep quiet gloom appall'd, she sighs, Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes. —Breaking th' ascending roar of desert floods, And insect buzz, that stuns the sultry woods, She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, The death-dog, howling loud and long, below; On viewless fingers counts the valley-clock, Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. —Bursts from the troubl'd Larch's giant boughs The pie, and chattering breaks the night's repose. Low barks the fox; by Havoc rouz'd the bear, Quits, growling, the white bones that strew his lair; The dry leaves stir as with the serpent's walk, And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk; Behind her hill the Moon, all crimson, rides, And his red eyes the slinking Water hides; Then all is hush'd; the bushes rustle near, And with strange tinglings sings her fainting ear. —Vex'd by the darkness, from the piny gulf Ascending, nearer howls the famish'd wolf, While thro' the stillness scatters wild dismay, Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey. Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, Plunge with the Russ embrown'd by Terror's breath, Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death; By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight; Black drizzling craggs, that beaten by the din, Vibrate, as if a voice complain'd within; Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid, Unstedfast, by a blasted yew upstay'd; By cells whose image, trembling as he prays, Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys; Loose-hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide, And crosses rear'd to Death on every side, Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, And, bending, water'd with the human tear, Soon fading "silent" from her upward eye, Unmov'd with each rude form of Danger nigh, Fix'd on the anchor left by him who saves Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves. On as we move, a softer prospect opes, Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. While mists, suspended on th' expiring gale, Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale, The beams of evening, slipping soft between, Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene; Winding it's dark-green wood and emerald glade, The still vale lengthens underneath the shade; While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede, Green dewy lights adorn the freshen'd mead, Where solitary forms illumin'd stray Turning with quiet touch the valley's hay, On the low brown wood-huts delighted sleep Along the brighten'd gloom reposing deep. While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before th' admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, Huge convent domes with pinnacles and tow'rs, And antique castles seen tho' drizzling show'rs. From such romantic dreams my sould awake, Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake, By whose unpathway'd margin still and dread Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread. Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach Far o'er the secret water dark with beech, More high, to where creation seems to end, Shade above shade the desert pines ascend, And still, below, where mid the savage scene Peeps out a little speck of smilgin green, There with his infants man undaunted creeps And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps. A garden-plot the desert air perfumes, Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms, A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff Threading the painful cragg surmounts the cliff. —Before those hermit doors, that never know The face of traveller passing to and fro, No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell For whom at morning toll'd the funeral bell, Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark forgoes, Touch'd by the beggar's moan of human woes, The grass seat beneath their casement shade The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stay'd. —There, did the iron Genius not disdain The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain, There might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, 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, To guide his dangerous tread the taper's gleam. Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, Where hardly giv'n the hopeless waste to chear, Deny'd the bread of life the foodful ear, Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray, And apple sickens pale in summer's ray, Ev'n here Content has fix'd her smiling reign With Independance child of high Disdain. Exulting mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And often grasps her sword, and often eyes, Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, Strange "weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine, And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blast. 'Tis storm; and hid in mist from hour to hour All day the floods a deeper murmur pour, And mournful sounds, as of a Spirit lost, Pipe wild along the hollow-blustering coast, 'Till the Sun walking on his western field Shakes from behind the clouds his flashing shield. Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine The wood-crown'd cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, At once to pillars turn'd that flame with gold; Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun The west that burns like one dilated sun, Where in a mighty crucible expire The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. But lo! the boatman, over-aw'd, before The pictur'd fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. And who but feels a power of strong controul, Felt only there, oppress his labouring soul, Who walks, where honour'd men of ancient days Have wrought with god-like arm the deeds of praise? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or where with soften'd gaze The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys, Can guess the high resolve, the cherish'd pain Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, Where breath'd the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sun-beam fell on Bayard's eye, Where bleeding Sydney from the cup retir'd, And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" expir'd. But now with other soul I stand alone Sublime upon this far-surveying cone, And watch from pike to pike amid the sky Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly. 'Tis his with fearless step at large to roam Thro' wastes, of Spirits wing'd the solemn home, Thro' vacant worlds where Nature never gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; Thro' worlds where Life and Sound, and Motion sleep, Where Silence still her death-like reign extends, Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends: In the deep snow the mighty ruin drown'd, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound; —To mark a planet's pomp and steady light In the least star of scarce-appearing night, And neighbouring moon, that coasts the vast profound, Wheel pale and silent her diminish'd round, While far and wide the icy summits blaze Rejoicing in the glory of her rays; The star of noon that glitters small and bright, Shorn of his beams, insufferably white, And flying fleet behind his orb to view Th' interminable sea of sable blue. —Of cloudless suns no more ye frost-built spires Refract in rainbow hues the restless fires! Ye dewy mists the arid rocks o'er-spread Whose slippery face derides his deathful tread! —To wet the peak's impracticable sides He opens of his feet the sanguine tides, Weak and more weak the issuing current eyes Lapp'd by the panting tongue of thirsty skies. —At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow with angry roar Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Craz'd by the strength of hope at morn he eyes As sent from heav'n the raven of the skies, Then with despair's whole weight his spirits sink, No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, While ere his eyes can close upon the day, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades his prey. —Meanwhile his wife and child with cruel hope All night the door at every moment ope; Haply that child in fearful doubt may gaze, Passing his father's bones in future days, Start at the reliques of that very thigh, On which so oft he prattled when a boy. Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, Thunders thro' echoing pines the headlong Aar? Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's pastoral heights? —Is there who mid these awful wilds has seen The native Genii walk the mountain green? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, Soft music from th' aëreal summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. —And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, 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. How still! no irreligious sound or sight Rouzes the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, Broke only by the melancholy sound Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods steady sugh; The solitary heifer's deepen'd low; Or rumbling heard remote of falling snow. Save that, the stranger seen below, the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 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, When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread Spring up, his little all around him spread, The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale To silence leaving the deserted vale, Up the green mountain tracking Summer's feet, Each twilight earlier call'd the Sun to meet, With earlier smile the ray of morn to view Fall on his shifting hut that gleams mid smoking dew; Bless'd with his herds, as in the patriarch's age, The summer long to feed from stage to stage; O'er azure pikes serene and still, they go, And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or lost at eve in sudden mist the day Attend, or dare with minute-steps their way; Hang from the rocks that tremble o'er the steep, And tempt the icy valley yawning deep, O'er-walk the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, Rock'd on the dizzy larch's narrow tread, Whence Danger leans, and pointing ghastly, joys To mock the mind with "desperation's toys"; Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd, That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. —I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws The fodder of his herds in winter snows. Far different life to what tradition hoar Transmits of days more bless'd in times of yore. Then Summer lengthen'd out his season bland, And with rock-honey flow'd the happy land. Continual fountains welling chear'd the waste, And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste. Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had pil'd Usurping where the fairest herbage smil'd; Nor Hunger forc'd the herds from pastures bare For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. Then the milk-thistle bad those herds demand Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. But human vices have provok'd the rod Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Thus does the father to his sons relate, On the lone mountain top, their chang'd estate. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. —'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows, More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far stretch'd beneath the many-tinted hills A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose vales and mountains round Stand motionless, to awful silence bound. A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide And bottomless, divides the midway tide. Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear The pines that near the coast their summits rear; Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar; Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound. Mounts thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds, And talking voices, and the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. Think not, suspended from the cliff on high He looks below with undelighted eye. —No vulgar joy is his, at even tide Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side. For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley hardly stray, Nought round it's darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind, While Hope that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn Binds her wild wreathes, and whispers his return. Once Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was bless'd as free—for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdain'd, Walk'd none restraining, and by none restrain'd, Confess'd no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wish'd, and wish'd but what he ought. As Man in his primaeval dower array'd The image of his glorious sire display'd, Ev'n so, by vestal Nature guarded, here The traces of primaeval Man appear. The native dignity no forms debase, The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace. The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, He marches with his flute, his book, and sword, Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepar'd With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." And as on glorious ground he draws his breath, Where Freedom oft, with Victory and Death, Hath seen in grim array amid their Storms Mix'd with auxiliar Rocks, three hundred Forms; While twice ten thousand corselets at the view Dropp'd loud at once, Oppression shriek'd, and flew. Oft as those sainted Rocks before him spread, An unknown power connects him with the dead. For images of other worlds are there, Awful the light, and holy is the air. Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultur'd soul Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll; To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign. And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, He holds with God himself communion high, When the dread peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roof'd temple of th' eternal hills, And savage Nature humbly joins the rite, While flash her upward eyes severe delight. Or gazing from the mountain's silent brow, Bright stars of ice and azure worlds of snow, Where needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air, Great joy by horror tam'd dilates his heart, And the near heav'ns their own delights impart. —When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, Alps overlooking Alps their state upswell; Huge Pikes of Darkness nam'd, of Fear and Storms Lift, all serene, their still, illumin'd forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Ting'd like an angel's smile all rosy red. When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows, That hut which from the hills his eyes employs So oft, the central point of all his joys. And as a swift by tender cares oppress'd Peeps often ere she dart into her nest, So to th' untrodden floor, where round him looks His father helpless as the babe he rocks, Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, Till storm and driving ice blockade him there; There hears, protected by the woods behind, Secure, the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter, calling all his Terrors round, Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. Thro' Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide Unstain'd by envy, discontent, and pride, The bound of all his vanity to deck With one bright bell a favourite heifer's neck; Content upon some simple annual feast, Remember'd half the year, and hop'd the rest, If dairy produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board. —Alas! in every clime a flying ray Is all we have to chear our wintry way, Condemn'd, in mists and tempests ever rife, To pant slow up the endless Alp of life. "Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, 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. But, ah! th' unwilling mind may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race: The churlish gales, that unremitting blow Cold from necessity's continual snow, To us the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more; the tyrant Genius, still at strife With all the tender Charities of life, When close and closer they begin to strain, No fond hand left to staunch th' unclosing vein, Tearing their bleeding ties leaves Age to groan On his wet bed, abandon'd and alone. For ever, fast as they of strength become To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, The father, forc'd by Powers that only deign That solitary Man disturb their reign, From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, his sons as he was driven, His last dread pleasure! watches to the plain— And never, eagle-like, beholds again." When the poor heart has all its joys resign'd, Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind? Lo! by the lazy Seine the exile roves, Or where thick sails illume Batavia's groves; Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, Unlocking bleeding Thought's "memorial cell"; At once upon his heart Despair has set Her seal, the mortal tear his cheek has wet; Strong poison not a form of steel can brave Bows his young hairs with sorrow to the grave. Gay lark of hope thy silent song resume! Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn, And thou, lost fragrance of the heart return! Soon flies the little joy to man allow'd, And tears before him travel like a cloud. For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, Labour, and Pain, and Grief, and joyless Age, And Conscience dogging close his bleeding way Cries out, and leads her Spectres to their prey, 'Till Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. —Mid savage rocks and seas of snow that shine Between interminable tracts of pine, Round a lone fane the human Genii mourn, Where fierce the rays of woe collected burn. —From viewless lamps a ghastly dimness falls, And ebbs uncertain on the troubled walls, Dim dreadful faces thro' the gloom appear, Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear, While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud. Oh give not me that eye of hard disdain That views undimm'd Einsiedlen's wretched fane. Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet, While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope—Oh pass and leave it there. —The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the desert blood-red streams of fire. At such an hour there are who love to stray, And meet the gladdening pilgrims on their way. —Now with joy's tearful kiss each other greet, Nor longer naked be your way-worn feet, For ye have reach'd at last that happy shore, Where the charm'd worm of pain shall gnaw no more. How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains rear'd for you amid the waste! Yes I will see you when ye first behold Those turrets tipp'd by hope with morning gold, And watch, while on your brows the cross ye make, Round your pale eyes a wintry lustre wake. —Without one hope her written griefs to blot, Save in the land where all things are forgot, My heart, alive to transports long unknown, Half wishes your delusion were it's own. Last let us turn to where Chamouny shields, Bosom'd in gloomy woods, her golden fields, Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend, A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever vernal plains. Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand, —Red stream the cottage lights; the landscape fades, Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades. Alone ascends that mountain nam'd of white, That dallies with the Sun the summer night. Six thousand years amid his lonely bounds The voice of Ruin, day and night, resounds. Where Horror-led his sea of ice assails, Havoc and Chaos blast a thousand vales, In waves, like two enormous serpents, wind And drag their length of deluge train behind. Between the pines enormous boughs descry'd Serene he towers, in deepest purple dy'd; Glad Day-light laughs upon his top of snow, Glitter the stars above, and all is black below. At such an hour I heav'd the human sigh, When roar'd the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thee, delicious vale! unfold Thy reddening orchards, and thy fields of gold; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doom'd to pine, While no Italian arts their charms combine To teach the skirt of thy dark cloud to shine; For thy poor babes that, hurrying from the door, With pale-blue hands, and eyes that fix'd implore, Dead muttering lips, and hair of hungry white, Besiege the traveller whom they half affright. —Yes, were it mine, the cottage meal to share Forc'd from my native mountains bleak and bare; O'er Anet's hopeless seas of marsh to stray, Her shrill winds roaring round my lonely way; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; In the wide range of many a weary round, Still have my pilgrim feet unfailing found, As despot courts their blaze of gems display, Ev'n by the secret cottage far away The lilly of domestic joy decay; While Freedom's farthest hamlets blessings share, Found still beneath her smile, and only there. The casement shade more luscious woodbine binds, And to the door a neater pathway winds, At early morn the careful housewife, led To cull her dinner from it's garden bed, Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees, While hum with busier joy her happy bees; In brighter rows her table wealth aspires, And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires; Her infant's cheeks with fresher roses glow, And wilder graces sport around their brow; By clearer taper lit a cleanlier board Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard; The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, And whiter is the hospitable bed. —And thou! fair favoured region! which my soul Shall love, till Life has broke her golden bowl, Till Death's cold touch her cistern-wheel assail, And vain regret and vain desire shall fail; Tho' now, where erst the grey-clad peasant stray'd, To break the quiet of the village shade Gleam war's discordant habits thro' the trees, And the red banner mock the sullen breeze; Tho' now no more thy maids their voices suit To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute, And heard, the pausing village hum between, No solemn songstress lull the fading green, Scared by the fife, and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, Sole sound, the sourd renews his mournful cry: —Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her pow'r Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door: All nature smiles; and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roam'd where Loiret's waters glide Thro' rustling aspins heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white, Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power 'till then unheard; Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, Rock'd the charm'd thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those long long dreams the falling leaf Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail Winded in sweeter cadence down the vale; A more majestic tide the water roll'd, And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold: —Tho' Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise Red on his hills his beacon's comet blaze; Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; His larum-bell from village-tow'r to tow'r Swing on th' astounded ear it's dull undying roar: Yet, yet rejoice, tho' Pride's perverted ire Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire. Lo! from th' innocuous flames, a lovely birth! With it's own Virtues springs another earth: Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; With pulseless hand, and fix'd unwearied gaze, Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys: No more, along thy vales and viny groves, Whole hamlets disappearing as he moves, With cheeks o'erspread by smiles of baleful glow, On his pale horse shall fell Consumption go. Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, To break, the vales where Death with Famine scow'rs, And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribb'd tow'rs; Where Machination her fell soul resigns, Fled panting to the centre of her mines; Where Persecution decks with ghastly smiles Her bed, his mountains mad Ambition piles; Where Discord stalks dilating, every hour, And crouching fearful at the feet of Pow'r, Like Lightnings eager for th' almighty word, Look up for sign of havoc, Fire, and Sword; —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," Swept in their anger from th' affrighted shore, With all his creatures sink—to rise no more. To-night, my friend, within this humble cot Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot, Renewing, when the rosy summits glow At morn, our various journey, sad and slow. |
B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Aa Bb Cc Dd Ee Ff Gg Hh Ii Jj Kk Ll |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 255 260 265 270 275 280 285 290 295 300 305 310 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 355 360 365 370 375 380 385 390 395 400 405 410 415 420 425 430 435 440 445 450 455 460 465 470 475 480 485 490 495 500 505 510 515 520 525 530 535 540 545 550 555 560 565 570 575 580 585 590 595 600 605 610 615 620 625 630 635 640 645 650 655 660 665 670 675 680 685 690 695 700 705 710 715 720 725 730 735 740 745 750 755 760 765 770 775 780 785 790 795 800 805 810 |
Solo, e pensoso i più deserti campi
Vò misurando à passi tardi, e lenti.
"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft
The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd."
—And, at his heels,
Leash'd in like hounds, should Famine, Sword, and Fire,
Crouch for employment.
| month | day | location |
|---|---|---|
| July | 13 | Calais |
| 14 | Ardres | |
| 17 | Péronne | |
| 18 | village near Coucy | |
| 19 | Soissons | |
| 20 | Château Thierry | |
| 21 | Sézanne | |
| 22 | village near Troyes | |
| 23 | Bar-le-Duc | |
| 24 | Chatillon-sur-Seine | |
| 26 | Nuits | |
| 27-8 | Châlons | |
| 29 | on the Saône | |
| 30 | Lyons | |
| 31 | Condrieu | |
| August | 1 | Moreau |
| 2 | Voreppe | |
| 3 | village near Chartreuse | |
| 4 | Chartreuse | |
| 6 | Aix | |
| 7 | town in Savoy | |
| 8 | town on Lake of Geneva | |
| 9 | Lausanne | |
| 10 | Villeneuve | |
| 11 | St. Maurice in the Valais | |
| 12-3 | Chamouny | |
| 14 | Martigny | |
| 15 | village beyond Sion | |
| 16 | Brieg | |
| 17 | Spital on Alps | |
| 18 | Margozza | |
| 19 | vllage beyond Lago Maggiore | |
| 20 | village on Lago di Como. | |
| 21 | village beyond Gravedona | |
| 22 | Jones at Chiavenna; W. W. at Samolaco | |
| 23 | Sovozza | |
| 24 | Splügen | |
| 25 | Flems | |
| 26 | Dissentis | |
| 27 | village on the Reuss | |
| 28 | Fluelen | |
| 29 | Lucerne | |
| 30 | village on the Lake of Zurich | |
| 31 | Einsiedlen | |
| September | 1-2 | Glarus |
| 3 | village beyond Lake of Wallenstadt | |
| 4 | village on road to Appenzell | |
| 5 | Appenzell | |
| 6 | Keswill, on Lake of Constance | |
| 7-8 | on the Rhine | |
| 9 | on road to Lucerne | |
| 10 | Lucerne | |
| 11 | Saxeln | |
| 12 | Village on the Aar | |
| 13 | Grindelwald | |
| 14 | Lauterbrunnen | |
| 15 | Village three leagues from Berne | |
| 16 | Avranches | |
| 19 | village beyond Pierre Pertuises | |
| 20 | village four leagues from Basle | |
| 21 | Basle | |
| 22 | Town six leagues from Strasburg | |
| 23 | Spires | |
| 24 | Village on Rhine | |
| 25 | Mentz, Mayence | |
| 27 | village on Rhine, two leagues from Coblentz | |
| 28 | Cologne | |
| 29 | Village three leagues from Aix-la-Chapelle |
| l. 247 | Yet the world's business hither finds its way At times, and unsought tales beguile the day, And tender thoughts are those which Solitude |
| l. 249 | Yet tender thoughts dwell there. No Solitude Hath power Youth's natural feelings to exclude. |
With bleeding nails beside the pond,
And nightly pines the pool beside.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old man dwells, a little man,
I've heard he once was tall.
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.
Full five and twenty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common.
And he is lean and he is sick,
His little body's half awry
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
—The weakest in the village.
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the race was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb,
Is stouter of the two.
And though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can do between them.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer?
| Editions 1798 and 1800 |
Editions 1802-1815 |
Edition 1820 |
Edition 1827 |
Editions 1832-1849 |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 1 | 1a 2b |
1a 2b |
1a 2b |
| 2 | 2 | 3 | 4a 3b |
3a 5b |
| 3 | 3 | 4a 5b |
3a 5b |
6 |
| 4 | 6 | 6 | 6 | 4a 3b |
| 5 | 4 | 5a 4b |
5a 4b |
5a 4b |
| 6 | 5 | 7 | 8 | 8 |
| 7 | 7 | 8 | 7 | 7 |
| 8 | 8 | 9 | 9 | 9 |
"Vegetables, as well as animals, have internal consciousness, and are sensible of pleasure and pain."
"His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings."
"Or clock, that blind against the wanderer borne."
