The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume IV (of 8)
Author: William Wordsworth
Date: 2010-05-20T05:00:00+00:00

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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume IV (of 8)

Author: William Wordsworth

Editor: William Knight

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Language: English

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***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, VOLUME IV (OF 8)***

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Transcriber's Note:

1. Minor punctuation errors have been corrected.

2. All spelling inconsistencies have been retained. A list appears at the end of this text together with other notes.

3. All footnotes have been moved to the chapter or sub-chapter ends and cross links provided.

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THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

EDITED BY

WILLIAM KNIGHT

VOL. IV

London

MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd.

NEW YORK: MACMILLAN & CO.

1896

CONTENTS

1806

| PAGE
To the Spade of a Friend | 2
Character of the Happy Warrior | 7
The Horn of Egremont Castle | 12
A Complaint | 17
Stray Pleasures | 18
Power of Music | 20
Star-gazers | 22
"Yes, it was the mountain Echo" | 25
"Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room" | 27
Personal Talk | 30
Admonition | 34
"'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall con'" | 35
"How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks" | 36
"Those words were uttered as in pensive mood" | 37
"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky" | 38
"The world is too much with us; late and soon" | 39
"With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh" | 40
"Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?" | 41
To Sleep | 42
To Sleep | 43
To Sleep | 43
To the Memory of Raisley Calvert | 44
"Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne" | 46

Lines composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected

47

November, 1806 | 49
Address to a Child | 50
"Brook! whose society the Poet seeks" | 52
"There is a little unpretending Rill" | 53

1807

To Lady Beaumont | 57
A Prophecy. February, 1807 | 59
Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland | 60
To Thomas Clarkson, on the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March, 1807 | 62
The Mother's Return | 63
Gipsies | 65
"O Nightingale! thou surely art" | 67
"Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near" | 68
Composed by the side of Grasmere Lake. 1807 | 73
In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire | 74
In a Garden of the same | 76

Written at the request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., and in his name, for an Urn, placed by him at the termination of a newly-planted Avenue in the same Grounds

78

For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton | 80
Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle | 82

1808

The White Doe of Rylstone | 100
The Force of Prayer | 204
Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a Tract, occasioned by the Convention of Cintra. 1808 | 210
Composed at the same time and on the same occasion | 211

1809

Tyrolese Sonnets— |
Hoffer | 213
"Advance—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground" | 214
Feelings of the Tyrolese | 215
"Alas! what boots the long laborious quest" | 216
On the final Submission of the Tyrolese | 217
"The martial courage of a day is vain" | 217
"And is it among rude untutored Dales" | 222
"O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain" | 223
"Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye" | 224
"Say, what is Honour?—'Tis the finest sense" | 225
"Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight" | 226
"Call not the royal Swede unfortunate" | 227
"Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid" | 228
"Is there a power that can sustain and cheer" | 228
Epitaphs translated from Chiabrera— |
"Weep not, belovèd Friends! nor let the air" | 230
"Perhaps some needful service of the State" | 230
"O Thou who movest onward with a mind" | 231
"There never breathed a man who, when his life" | 232
"True is it that Ambrosio Salinero" | 233
"Destined to war from very infancy" | 234
"O flower of all that springs from gentle blood" | 235
"Not without heavy grief of heart did He" | 236
"Pause, courteous Spirit!—Balbi supplicates" | 237

1810

"Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen" | 240
"In due observance of an ancient rite" | 241
Feelings of a noble Biscayan at one of those Funerals, 1810 | 242
On a celebrated Event in Ancient History | 242
Upon the same Event | 244
The Oak of Guernica | 245
Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard, 1810 | 246
"Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind" | 247
"O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied" | 247
The French and the Spanish Guerillas | 248
Maternal Grief | 248

1811

Characteristics of a Child three years old | 252
Spanish Guerillas, 1811 | 253
"The power of Armies is a visible thing" | 254
"Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise" | 255
Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart. | 256
Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its composition | 267
Upon the sight of a Beautiful Picture | 271
To the Poet, John Dyer | 273

1812

Song for the Spinning Wheel | 275
Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a Friend in the Vale of Grasmere, 1812 | 276
Water-fowl | 277

1813

View from the Top of Black Comb | 279
Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on the side of the Mountain of Black Comb | 281
November, 1813 | 282

WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS

1806

Wordsworth left Grasmere with his household for Coleorton in November 1806, and there is no evidence that he returned to Westmoreland till April 1808; although his sister spent part of the winter of 1807-8 at Dove Cottage, while he and Mrs. Wordsworth wintered at Stockton with the Hutchinson family. Several of the sonnets which are published in the "Poems" of 1807 refer, however, to Grasmere, and were probably composed there. I have conjecturally assigned a good many of them to the year 1806. Some may have been composed earlier than 1806, but it is not likely that any belong to a later year.

In addition to these, the poems of 1806 include the Character of the Happy Warrior, unless it should be assigned to the close of the previous year (see the note to the poem, p. 11), The Horn of Egremont Castle, the three poems composed in London in the spring of the year (April or May)—viz. Stray Pleasures, Power of Music, and Star-gazers—the lines on the Mountain Echo, those composed in expectation of the death of Mr. Fox, and the Ode, Intimations of Immortality.[A] Southey, in writing to Sir Walter Scott, on the 4th of February 1806, said, "Wordsworth has of late been more employed in correcting his poems than in writing others."—Ed.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] For reasons stated in the preface to vol. i. this Ode is printed in vol. viii. at the close of the poems.—Ed.

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND

(An Agriculturist)

COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING[A] TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[This person was Thomas Wilkinson, a Quaker by religious profession; by natural constitution of mind—or, shall I venture to say, by God's grace? he was something better. He had inherited a small estate, and built a house upon it, near Yanwath, upon the banks of the Emont. I have heard him say that his heart used to beat, in his boyhood, when he heard the sound of a drum and fife. Nevertheless the spirit of adventure in him confined itself in tilling his ground, and conquering such obstacles as stood in the way of its fertility. Persons of his religious persuasion do now, in a far greater degree than formerly, attach themselves to trade and commerce. He kept the old track. As represented in this poem, he employed his leisure hours in shaping pleasant walks by the side of his beloved river, where he also built something between a hermitage and a summer house, attaching to it inscriptions after the manner of Shenstone at his Leasowes. He used to travel from time to time, partly from love of Nature, and partly with religious friends, in the service of humanity. His admiration of genius in every department did him much honour. Through his connection with the family in which Edmund Burke was educated, he became acquainted with that great man, who used to receive him with great kindness and condescension; and many times I have heard Wilkinson speak of those interesting interviews. He was honoured also by the friendship of Elizabeth Smith, and of Thomas Clarkson and his excellent wife, and was much esteemed by Lord and Lady Lonsdale, and every member of that family. Among his verses (he wrote many) are some worthy of preservation; one little poem in particular, upon disturbing, by prying curiosity, a bird while hatching her young in his garden. The latter part of this innocent and good man's life was melancholy. He became blind, and also poor, by becoming surety for some of his relations. He was a bachelor. He bore, as I have often witnessed, his calamities with unfailing resignation. I will only add, that while working in one of his fields, he unearthed a stone of considerable size, then another, then two more; observing that they had been placed in order, as if forming the segment of a circle, he proceeded carefully to uncover the soil, and brought into view a beautiful Druid's temple, of perfect, though small dimensions. In order to make his farm more compact, he exchanged this field for another, and, I am sorry to add, the new proprietor destroyed this interesting relic of remote ages for some vulgar purpose. The fact, so far as concerns Thomas Wilkinson, is mentioned in the note on a sonnet on Long Meg and her Daughters.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,
And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.

Rare master has it been thy lot to know; 5
Long hast Thou served a man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and low,
The labouring[1] many and the resting few;

Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,[2]
And industry of body and of mind; 10
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As nature is;—too pure to be refined.

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his river murmuring by;
Or in some silent field, while timid spring 15
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.

Who shall inherit Thee when death has[3] laid
Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord?
That man will have a trophy, humble Spade!
A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword.[4]
20

If he be one that feels, with skill to part
False praise from true, or, greater from the less,
Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day— 25
Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate![5]
And, when thou art past service, worn away,
No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate.[6]

His thrift thy uselessness[7] will never scorn;
An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be:— 30
High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn[8]
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

Thomas Wilkinson of Yanwath, the friend of Wordsworth and the subject of these verses, deserves more than a passing note.

He was a man
Whom no one could have passed without remark.

One of the old race of Cumbrian "Statesmen"—men who owned, and themselves cultivated, small bits of land (see Wordsworth's letter on The Brothers and Michael, vol. ii. p. 234)—he was Wordsworth's senior by nineteen years, and lived on a patrimonial farm of about forty acres, on the banks of the Emont,—the stream which, flowing out of Ullswater, divides Cumberland from Westmoreland. He was a Friend, and used to travel great distances to attend religious conferences, or engage in philanthropic work,—on one occasion riding on his pony from Yanwath to London, to the yearly meeting of the Friends; and, on another, walking the 300 miles to town, in eight days, for the same purpose. A simple, genuine nature; serene, refined, hospitable, naïve, and humorous withal; a quaint original man, with a true eye for Nature, a keen relish for rural life (especially for gardening) and a happy knack of characterization, whether he undertook descriptions of scenery in the course of his travels, or narrated the incidents which befell him on the way. This is how he writes of his farm, and his work upon it:—"We have at length some traces of spring (6th April 1784); the primrose under the hedge begins to open her modest flower, the buds begin to swell, and the birds to build; yet we have still a wide horizon, the mountain tops resign not their snows. The happiest season of the year with me is now commencing—I mean that in which I am at the plough; my horses pace slowly on before, the larks sing above my head, and the furrow falls at my side, and the face of Nature and my own mind seem to wear a sweet and cheerful tranquillity."

The following extract shows the interest which he took in the very implements of his industry, and may serve as an illustration of Wordsworth's stanzas on his "spade." "Eighth month, 16th, 1789. Yesterday I parted without regret from an old acquaintance—I set by my scythe for this year. I have often this season seen the dark blue mountains before the sun and his rising embroider them with gold. I have had many a good sleep in the shade among fragrant grass and refreshing breezes, and though closely engaged in what may be thought heavy work, I was sensible of the enjoyments of life with uninterrupted health." In the closing years of the last century, when the spirit of patriotic ardour was so thoroughly roused in England by the restlessness of France and the ambition of Napoleon, he lived on at his pastoral farm, "busy with his husbandry." In London, he made the acquaintance of Edmund Burke; and Thomas Clarkson, the philanthropist,—whose labours for the abolition of the slave trade are matter of history,—became his intimate friend, and was a frequent visitor at Yanwath. Clarkson afterwards bought an estate near to Wilkinson's home, on the shores of Ullswater, where he built a house, and named it Eusemere, and there the Wordsworths were not infrequent guests. (See the note to the poem beginning "I wandered lonely as a cloud," vol. iii. p. 5.) Wordsworth stayed at Yanwath for two days in 1806. The Tours to the British Mountains, with the Descriptive Poems of Lowther and Emont Vale (London, 1824), have been referred to in the note to The Solitary Reaper, vol. ii. p. 399, one of the poems in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803." It is an interesting volume—the prose much superior to the verse—and might be reprinted with advantage. Wilkinson was urged repeatedly to publish his "Tour through the Highlands," but he always declined, and it was printed at last without his knowledge, by some one to whom he had lent his MS.

Wilkinson's relations to Wordsworth are alluded to in the note to The Solitary Reaper. He is occasionally referred to in Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal of January and March 1802, e.g.:—"Monday, 12th March.—The ground covered with snow. Walked to T. Wilkinson's and sent for letters. The woman brought me one from Wm. and Mary. It was a sharp windy night. Thomas Wilkinson came with me to Barton, and questioned me like a catechiser all the way. Every question was like the snapping of a little thread about my heart. I was so full of thought of my half-read letter and other things."

The following are extracts from letters of Wilkinson to Miss Mary Leadbeater of Ballintore:—"Yanwath, 15. 2. 1801.—I had lately a young Poet seeing me that sprang originally from the next village. He has left the College, turned his back on all preferment, and settled down contentedly among our Lakes, with his Sister and his Muse. He ... writes in what he conceives to be the language of Nature in opposition to the finery of our present poetry. He has published two volumes of Poems, mostly of the same character. His name is William Wordsworth." In a letter, dated 29. 1. 1809, the following occurs:—"Thou hast wished to have W. Wordsworth's Lines on my Spade, which I shall transcribe thee. I had promised Lord Lonsdale to take him to Lowther, when he came to see me, but when we arrived he was gone to shoot moor-game with Judge Sutton. William and I then returned, and wrought together at a walk I was then forming, which gave birth to his Verses." The expression "sprang from the next village" might not be intended to mean that he was born there; or, if it did, the fact that Wordsworth's mother was a native of Penrith, and his own visits to that town, might account for the mistake of one who had made no minute enquiry as to the poet's birthplace. He was born at Cockermouth. Compare an interesting account of Thomas Wilkinson, by Mary Carr, reprinted from the Friends' Quarterly Examiner, 1882.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... toiling ... 1807.

[2] 1827.

Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, 1807.

[3] 1815.

... hath ... 1807.

[4] 1815.

More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword. 1807.

[5] 1837.

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! 1807.

[6] 1837.

Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate. 1807.

[7] 1815.

... usefulness ... 1807.

The text of 1832 resumes that of 1807, but the edition of 1837 returns to the final text of 1815.

[8] 1837.

... and will adorn 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In a letter to Wilkinson, accompanying a copy of these verses, which Wordsworth sent from Coleorton, in November 1806, he wrote: "They are supposed to have been composed that afternoon when you and I were labouring together in your pleasure-ground." I think that Professor Dowden is right in supposing that they were written in 1806.—Ed.

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[The course of the great war with the French naturally fixed one's attention upon the military character, and, to the honour of our country, there were many illustrious instances of the qualities that constitute its highest excellence. Lord Nelson carried most of the virtues that the trials he was exposed to in his department of the service necessarily call forth and sustain, if they do not produce the contrary vices. But his public life was stained with one great crime, so that though many passages of these lines were suggested by what was generally known as excellent in his conduct, I have not been able to connect his name with the poem as I could wish, or even to think of him with satisfaction in reference to the idea of what a warrior ought to be. For the sake of such of my friends as may happen to read this note, I will add that many elements of the character here pourtrayed were found in my brother John, who perished by shipwreck, as mentioned elsewhere. His messmates used to call him the Philosopher, from which it must be inferred that the qualities and dispositions I allude to had not escaped their notice. He often expressed his regret, after the war had continued some time, that he had not chosen the Naval, instead of the East India Company's, service, to which his family connection had led him. He greatly valued moral and religious instruction for youth, as tending to make good sailors. The best, he used to say, came from Scotland; the next to them, from the North of England, especially from Westmoreland and Cumberland, where, thanks to the piety and local attachments of our ancestors, endowed, or, as they are commonly called, free, schools abound.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That[1] every man in arms should wish to be?
—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish[2] thought: 5
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes[3] the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 10
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power 15
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 20
Is placable—because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress; 25
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
—'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix,[4] and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
—Who, if he rise to station of command, 35
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:[A]
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 46
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 50
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed, 55
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
—He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 60
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:—
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 65
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last, 75
From well to better, daily self-surpast:[B]
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,[5]
And leave a dead unprofitable name— 80
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is He
That[6] every Man in arms should wish to be. 85

The following note was appended by Wordsworth in the edition of 1807. "The above Verses were written soon after tidings had been received of the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author's thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is well aware that the Verses must suffer from any connection in the Reader's mind with a Name so illustrious."

This note would seem to warrant our removing the date of the composition of the poem from 1806 to 1805; since Lord Nelson died at the battle of Trafalgar, on the 21st of October 1805. On the other hand, Wordsworth himself gave the date 1806; and the "soon after" of the above note may perhaps be stretched to include two months and a half. In writing to Sir George Beaumont on the 11th of February 1806, and enclosing a copy of these verses, he says, "they were written several weeks ago." Southey, writing to Sir Walter Scott, from Keswick, on the 4th of February 1806, says, "Wordsworth was with me last week; he has of late been more employed in correcting his poems than in writing others; but one piece he has written, upon the ideal character of a soldier, than which I have never seen anything more full of meaning and sound thought. The subject was suggested by Nelson's most glorious death, though having no reference to it. He had some thoughts of sending it to The Courier, in which case you will easily recognise his hand." (The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, vol. iii. p. 19.) As it is impossible to decide with accuracy, in the absence of more definite data, I follow the poet's own statement, and assign it to the year 1806.

Wordsworth tells us that features in the character, both of Lord Nelson and of his own brother John, are delineated in this poem. Mr. William Davies writes to me, "He might very well have set the name of Cuthbert, Lord Collingwood, Nelson's contemporary, at the head of the poem, as embodying its spirit and lofty rule of life."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

Whom ... 1807.

[2] 1845.

... childish ... 1807.

[3] 1832.

... make ... 1807.

[4] 1837.

He fixes good on good alone, ... 1807.

[5]
C. and 1840.

Or He must go to dust without his fame, 1807.

Or he must fall and sleep without his fame, 1837.

[6] 1845.

Whom ... 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Pope's Temple of Fame (ll. 513, 514)—

Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all.

And Carew's Epistle to the Countess of Anglesie (ll. 57, 58)—

He chose not in the active stream to swim,
Nor hunted Honour, which yet hunted him.Ed.

[B] In the edition of 1807, the following note was added to these lines:—

For Knightes ever should be persevering,
To seeke honour without feintise or slouth,
Fro wele to better in all manner thinge.

Chaucer—The Floure and the Leafe.—Ed.

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[A Tradition transferred from the ancient mansion of Hutton John, the seat of the Huddlestones, to Egremont Castle.—I. F.]

In 1815 this poem was placed among those "of the Imagination"; in 1845 it was transferred to the class of "Miscellaneous Poems."—Ed.

Ere the Brothers through the gateway
Issued forth with old and young,
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
Which for ages there had hung.[1]
Horn it was which none could sound, 5
No one upon living ground,
Save He who came as rightful Heir
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

Heirs from times of earliest record[2]
Had the House of Lucie born, 10
Who of right had held the Lordship
Claimed by proof upon the Horn:[3]
Each at the appointed hour
Tried the Horn,—it owned his power;
He was acknowledged: and the blast, 15
Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last.

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And to Hubert thus said he,
"What I speak this Horn shall witness
For thy better memory. 20
Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,
The words are uttered from my heart,
As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.

"On good service we are going 25
Life to risk by sea and land,
In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,
Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day; 30
Return, and sound the Horn, that we
May have a living House still left in thee!"

"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert;
"As I am thy Father's son,
What thou askest, noble Brother, 35
With God's favour shall be done."
So were both right well content:
Forth they from the Castle went,[4]
And at the head of their Array
To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 40

Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour famed)
And where'er their strokes alighted,
There the Saracens were tamed.
Whence, then, could it come—the thought— 45
By what evil spirit brought?
Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake?

"Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,
"Deep he lies in Jordan flood." 50
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings."—Oh! that I
Could have seen[5] my Brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then; 55
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered. 60
To his Castle Hubert sped;
Nothing has he[6] now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time, 65
Night or day, at even or morn;
No one's eye had seen him enter,
No one's ear had heard the Horn.[7]
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly; 70
With plenty was his table spread;
And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded, 75
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the Horn,
Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown 85
He is helpless and alone:
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.

Speak!—astounded Hubert cannot;
And, if power to speak he had, 90
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 95
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.[8]

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name, 100
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 105
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:
And through ages, heirs of heirs, 110
A long posterity renowned,
Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.

The following note is appended to this poem in the edition of 1807, and in those of 1836 to 1850:—

"This Story is a Cumberland tradition; I have heard it also related of the Hall of Hutton John, an antient residence of the Huddlestones, in a sequestered Valley upon the River Dacor."

Egremont Castle, to which this Cumberland tradition was transferred, is close to the town of Egremont, an ancient borough on the river Ehen, not far from St. Bees. The castle was founded about the beginning of the twelfth century, by William, brother of Ranulph de Meschines, who bestowed on William the whole of the extensive barony of Copeland. The gateway of the castle is vaulted with semi-circular arches, and defended by a strong tower. Westward from the castle area is an ascent to three narrow gates, standing in a line, and close together. These communicated with the outworks, each being defended by a portcullis. Beyond the gates is an artificial mound, seventy-eight feet above the moat; and on this stood an ancient circular tower. (See a description of the castle in Britton and Brayley's Cumberland.) The river Dacor, or Dacre, referred to in Wordsworth's note, joins the Emont a short way below Ullswater; and the hall of Hutton John, which in the reign of Edward III. belonged to the barony of Graystock, passed in the time of Elizabeth to the Huddlestones. The famous Catholic father, John Huddlestone, chaplain to Charles II. and James II., was of this family.

In the edition of 1815, there is the following footnote to the title of the poem:—"This Poem and the Ballad which follows it" (it was that of Goody Blake and Harry Gill), "as they rather refer to the imagination than are produced by it, would not have been placed here" (i.e. among the "Poems of the Imagination"), "but to avoid a needless multiplication of the Classes."

The text of 1807 underwent no change until 1845. But—as is shown by the notes in the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836—the alterations subsequently adopted in 1845 were made in the interval between these years.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1]
C. and 1845.

When the Brothers reach'd the gateway,
Eustace pointed with his lance
To the Horn which there was hanging;
Horn of the inheritance. 1807.

When the Brothers reached the gateway,
With their followers old and young,
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
That for ages there had hung. C.

[2]
C. and 1845.

Heirs from ages without record 1807.

[3]
C. and 1845.

Who of right had claim'd the Lordship
By the proof upon the Horn: 1807.

... held ...
Claimed by proof ... C.

[4]
C. and 1845.

From the Castle forth they went. 1807.

[5]
Italics were first used in 1815.

[6] 1845.

He has nothing 1807.

[7]
C. and 1845.

For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn. 1807.

[8] 1807.

... slipped away. MS.

A COMPLAINT

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested by a change in the manner of a friend.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.

There is a change—and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed 5
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that[1] consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 10
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love—it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep 15
In silence and obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

It is highly probable that the friend was S. T. Coleridge. See the Life of Wordsworth (1889), vol. ii. pp. 166, 167.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1836.

... this ... 1807.

STRAY PLEASURES

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[Suggested on the Thames by the sight of one of those floating mills that used to be seen there. This I noticed on the Surrey side between Somerset House and Blackfriars' Bridge. Charles Lamb was with me at the time; and I thought it remarkable that I should have to point out to him, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so interesting as the happy group dancing on the platform. Mills of this kind used to be, and perhaps still are, not uncommon on the continent. I noticed several upon the river Saone in the year 1799, particularly near the town of Chalons, where my friend Jones and I halted a day when we crossed France; so far on foot; there we embarked, and floated down to Lyons.—I. F.]

"——Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."

One of the "Poems of the Fancy." The title Stray Pleasures was first given in the edition of 1820. In 1807 and 1815 the poem had no title; but in the original MS. it was called "Dancers."—Ed.

By their floating mill,
That[1] lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
The platform is small, but gives room[2] for them all; 5
And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, 10
They from morning to even take whatever is given;—
And many a blithe day they have past.[3]

In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest, 15
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance,—there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel, 20
And their music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,—what matter? 'tis theirs;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"

They dance not for me,25
Yet mine is their glee!
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 30

The showers of the spring
Rouse the birds, and they sing;
If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;[A]
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother; 35
They are happy, for that is their right!

Wordsworth went up to London in April 1806, where he stayed two months. It was, doubtless, on that occasion that these lines were written. The year mentioned in the Fenwick note is incorrect. It was in 1790 that Wordsworth crossed France with his friend Jones.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Which ... 1807.

[2] 1820.

... but there's room ... 1807.

[3] 1807.

... with whatever be given;—
Full many a blithe day have past. MS.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Michael Drayton, The Muse's Elysium, nymphal vi. ll. 4-7—

The wind had no more strength than this,
That leisurely it blew,
To make one leaf the next to kiss
That closely by it grew.

Wordsworth frequently confessed his obligation to Dr. Anderson—the editor of the British Poets—for enabling him to acquaint himself with the poetry of Drayton, and other early English writers.—Ed.

POWER OF MUSIC

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[Taken from life.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of the Imagination." The original title in MS. was "A Street Fiddler (in London)."—Ed.

An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,
And take to herself all the wonders of old;—
Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

His station is there; and he works on the crowd, 5
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim—
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; 10
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed[1] Jack, 15
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste—
What matter! he's caught—and his time runs to waste;
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret;
And the half-breathless Lamplighter—he's in the net! 20

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;[2]—
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees! 24

He stands, backed by the wall;—he abates not his din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there!
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 29
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is!—all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he! 35
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

Mark that Cripple[3] who leans on his crutch; like a tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!—
That Mother,[4] whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. 40

Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:
They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor[5] what ye pursue!

This must be assigned to the same London visit, in the spring of 1806, referred to in the note to the previous poem.

Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, "Your Power of Music reminded me of his" (Bourne's) "poem of The Ballad Singer in the Seven Dials."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... dusky-faced ... 1807.

[2] 1815.

... for store;— 1807.

[3] 1827.

There's a Cripple ... 1807.

[4] 1827.

A Mother, ... 1807.

[5] 1815.

... or ... 1807.

STAR-GAZERS

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[Observed by me in Leicester-square, as here described.—I. F.]

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

What crowd[1] is this? what have we here! we must not[2] pass it by;
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat,
Some little pleasure skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.

The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square; 5
And is[3] as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
Calm, though impatient, is[4] the crowd; each stands ready[5] with the fee,
And envies him that's looking[6];—what an insight must it be!

Yet, Show-man, where can lie[7] the cause? Shall thy Implement have blame,
A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? 10
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon[8] resplendent vault?

Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame, 15
Doth she betray us when they're seen? or[9] are they but a name?

Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,
And bounty never yields[10] so much but it seems to do her wrong?
Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had
And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?[A]
20

Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude,
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie?
No, no, this cannot be;—men thirst for power and majesty![11]

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought[12] the blissful mind employ 25
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,
Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

Whatever be the cause,[13] 'tis sure that they who pry and pore
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: 30
One after One they take their turn,[14] nor have I one espied
That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.

Doubtless "observed" during the visit to London in April and May 1806.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

What throng ... MS.

[2] 1807

... we cannot ... MS.

[3] 1827.

And he's ... 1807.

[4] 1807.

... are ...

MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[5] 1827.

... Each is ready ... 1807.

[6] 1807.

Impatient till his moment comes— ... 1827.

... come;— ... 1836.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.

[7] 1807.

... be ... MS.

[8] 1832.

... this ... 1807.

And MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[9] 1827.

Do they betray us when they're seen? and ... 1807.

And MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[10] 1807.

... cannot yield ... MS.

[11] 1807.

Or is it but unwelcome thought! that these Spectators rude,
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie,
Not to be lifted up at once to power and majesty?

MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[12] 1807.

Or does some deep and earnest joy ...

MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[13] 1807.

Whate'er the cause may be, ...

MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[14] 1827.

... turns, ... 1807.

And MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] "Compare Shelley's statement in Julian and Maddalo—where he speaks of material not spiritual voyaging—that coming homeward 'always makes the spirit tame'" (Professor Dowden).

"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The echo came from Nab-scar, when I was walking on the opposite side of Rydal Mere. I will here mention, for my dear Sister's sake, that, while she was sitting alone one day high up on this part of Loughrigg Fell, she was so affected by the voice of the Cuckoo heard from the crags at some distance that she could not suppress a wish to have a stone inscribed with her name among the rocks from which the sound proceeded. On my return from my walk I recited these verses to Mrs. Wordsworth.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

Yes, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound![1]
[2]

Unsolicited reply 5
To a babbling wanderer sent;[3]
Like her ordinary cry,
Like—but oh, how different!

Hears not also mortal Life?
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! 10
Slaves of folly, love, or strife—
Voices of two different natures?

Have not we[4] too?—yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave, 15
Recognised intelligence!

Such rebounds our inward ear[A]
Catches sometimes from afar—[5]
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;[6]
For of God,—of God they are. 20

The place where this echo was heard can easily be identified by any one walking along the southern or Loughrigg shore of Rydal. The Fenwick note refers to a wish of Dorothy Wordsworth to have her name inscribed on a stone among the rocks of Loughrigg Fell. It is impossible to know whether it was ever carried out or not. If it was, the place is undiscoverable, like the spot on the banks of the Rotha, where Joanna's name was graven "deep in the living rock," or the place where Wordsworth carved his wife's initials (as recorded in Mrs. Hemans' Memoirs), or where the daisy was found, which suggested the lines beginning

Small service is true service while it lasts;
and it is well that they are undiscoverable. It is so easy for posterity to vulgarise, by idle and unappreciative curiosity, spots that are sacred only to the few who feel them to be shrines. The very grave where Wordsworth rests runs the risk of being thus abused by the unthinking crowd. But, in the hope that no one will desecrate it, as the Rock of Names has been injured, I may mention that there is a stone near Rydal Mere, on the north-eastern slope of Loughrigg, with the initial "M." deeply cut. The exact locality I need not more minutely indicate.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!
Giving to thee Sound for Sound. 1807.

[2]

Whence the Voice? from air or earth?
This the Cuckoo cannot tell;
But a startling sound had birth,
As the Bird must know full well;

Only in the edition of 1807.

[3] 1815.

Like the voice through earth and sky
By the restless Cuckoo sent; 1807.

[4]
Italics were first used in the edition of 1836.

[5] 1836.

Such within ourselves we hear
Oft-times, ours though sent from far; 1807.

Such rebounds our inward ear
Often catches from afar;— 1827.

Often as thy inward ear
Catches such rebounds, beware,— 1832.

[6] 1807.

Giddy Mortals! hold them dear; 1827.

The edition of 1832 returns to the text of 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Writing to Barron Field about this stanza of the poem in 1827, Wordsworth said, "The word 'rebounds' I wish much to introduce here; for the imaginative warning turns upon the echo, which ought to be revived as near the conclusion as possible."—Ed.

"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occasion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them,—in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote, except an irregular one at school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is—"I grieved for Buonaparté." One was never written down; the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot particularise.—I. F.]

From 1807 to 1820 this was named Prefatory Sonnet, as introducing the series of "Miscellaneous Sonnets" in these editions. In 1827 it took its place as the first in that series, following the Dedication To ——.—Ed.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,5
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is:[A] and hence for me,[1]
In sundry moods,'twas pastime to be bound 10
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,[B]
Should find brief[2] solace there, as I have found.

In Wordsworth's time "Furness-fells" was a generic phrase for all the hills east of the Duddon, south of the Brathay, and west of Windermere; including the Coniston group, Wetherlam, with the Yewdale and Tilberthwaite fells. The district of Furness, like that of Craven in Yorkshire, being originally ecclesiastical, had a wide area, of which the abbey of Furness was the centre.

In the Fenwick note prefixed to this sonnet, Wordsworth refers to his earliest attempt at sonnet writing. He says he wrote an irregular one at school, and the next were three sonnets written one afternoon in Dove Cottage in the year 1801, after his sister had read the sonnets of Milton. This note is not, however, to be trusted. It was not in 1801, but on the 21st of May 1802, that his sister read to him these sonnets of Milton; and he afterwards wrote not one but two sonnets on Buonaparte. What the irregular sonnet written at school was it is impossible to say, unless he refers to the one entitled, in 1807 and subsequent editions, Written in Very Early Youth; and beginning—

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

But on a copy of An Evening Walk (1793 edition) Wordsworth wrote:—"This is the first of my published poems, with the exception of a sonnet, written when I was a schoolboy, and published in the European Magazine in June or July 1786, and signed Axiologus." Even as to this date his memory was at fault. It was published in 1787, when he was seventeen years of age. Its full title may be given; although, for reasons already stated, it would be unjustifiable to republish the sonnet, except in an appendix to the poems, and mainly for its biographical interest. It was entitled, Sonnet, on seeing Miss Maria Williams weep at a Tale of Distress. But, fully ten years before the date mentioned by Dorothy Wordsworth in her Grasmere Journal—as the day on which she read Milton's sonnets to her brother, and on which he wrote the two on Buonaparte—he had written others, the existence of which he had evidently forgotten. On the 6th of May 1792, his sister wrote thus from Forncett Rectory in Norfolk to her friend, Miss Jane Pollard:—"I promised to transcribe some of William's compositions. As I made the promise, I will give you a little sonnet.... I take the first that offers. It is very valuable to me, because the cause which gave birth to it was the favourite evening walk of William and me.... I have not chosen this sonnet from any particular beauty it has. It was the first I laid my hands upon." From the clause I have italicised, it would almost seem that other sonnets belong to that period, viz. before 1793, when An Evening Walk appeared. She would hardly have spoken of it as she did, if this was the only sonnet her brother had then written. Though very inferior to his later work, this sonnet may be preserved as a specimen of Wordsworth's earlier manner, before he had broken away, by the force of his own imagination, from the trammels of the conventional style, which he inherited. It is printed in the Appendix to volume viii.

It will be seen that Wordsworth's memory cannot be always relied upon, in reference to dates, and similar details, in the Fenwick memoranda.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1849.

... to me, 1807.

[2] 1827.

... short ... 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare in Lovelace's poem, To Althea from Prison—

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage.Ed.

[B] Compare the line in the Ode to Duty vol. iii. p. 40—

Me this unchartered freedom tires.Ed.

PERSONAL TALK

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The last line but two stood, at first, better and more characteristically, thus:—

"By my half-kitchen and half-parlour fire."

My sister and I were in the habit of having the tea-kettle in our little sitting room; and we toasted the bread ourselves, which reminds me of a little circumstance not unworthy to be set down among these minutiæ. Happening both of us to be engaged a few minutes one morning when we had a young prig of a Scotch lawyer to breakfast with us, my dear Sister, with her usual simplicity, put the toasting fork with a slice of bread into the hands of this Edinburgh genius. Our little book-case stood on one side of the fire. To prevent loss of time, he took down a book, and fell to reading, to the neglect of the toast, which was burnt to a cinder. Many a time have we laughed at this circumstance, and other cottage simplicities of that day. By the bye, I have a spite at one of this series of Sonnets (I will leave the reader to discover which) as having been the means of nearly putting off for ever our acquaintance with dear Miss Fenwick, who has always stigmatized one line of it as vulgar, and worthy only of having been composed by a country squire.—I. F.]

In 1815, this was classed among the "Poems proceeding from Sentiment and Reflection." From 1820 to 1843, it found a place among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets," and in 1845 was restored to its earlier one among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

I

I am not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,—
Of[1] friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, 5
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,[A]
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,[2]
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

II

"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, 15
And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 20
Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them:—sweetest melodies 25
Are those that are by distance made more sweet;[B]
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet![C]

III

Wings have we,—and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, 30
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 36
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
Matter wherein right voluble I am,
To which I listen with a ready ear;
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,—[3]
40
The gentle Lady married to the Moor;[D]
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

IV

Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, 45
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50
Blessings be with them—and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares—
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, 55
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

The text of the poem was little altered, and was fixed in 1827. It had no title in 1807 and 1815.

The reading of 1807,

my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,
was a reminiscence of Dove Cottage, which we regret to lose in the later editions.

In the Baptistery of Westminster Abbey, there is a statue of Wordsworth by Frederick Thrupp of great merit, placed there by the late Dean Stanley, beside busts of Keble, Maurice, and Kingsley. Underneath the statue of Wordsworth are the four lines from Personal Talk—

Blessings be with them—and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares—
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!

Dean Stanley found it difficult to select from Wordsworth's poems the lines most appropriate for inscription, and adopted these at the suggestion of his friend, Principal Shairp.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

About ... 1807.

[2] 1815.

By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire, 1807.

[3] 1827.

There do I find a never-failing store
Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
Matter wherein right voluble I am:
Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] This is the line referred to by Wordsworth in the Fenwick note. Compare Midsummer Night's Dream, act I. scene i. ll. 75-78.—Ed.

[B] Compare Collins, The Passions, l. 60, and An Evening Walk, l. 237 and note (vol. i. p. 22).—Ed.

[C] Compare The Prelude, book xii. l. 151 (vol. iii. p. 349)—

I knew a maid,
A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds;
Her eye was not the mistress of her heart.Ed.

[D] Wordsworth said on one occasion, as Professor Dowden has reminded us, that he thought Othello, the close of the Phædo, and Walton's Life of George Herbert, the three "most pathetic" writings in the world.—Ed.

ADMONITION

Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Well may'st thou halt—and gaze with brightening eye![1]
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky![A]
But covet not the Abode;—forbear to sigh,[2]
5
As many do, repining while they look;
Intruders—who would tear[3] from Nature's book
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.[4]
Think what the Home must[5] be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door, 10
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt away.[6]

The cottage at Town-end, Grasmere—where this sonnet was composed—may have suggested it. Some of the details, however, are scarcely applicable to Dove Cottage; the "brook" (referred to elsewhere) is outside the orchard ground, and there is scarcely anything in the garden to warrant the phrase, "its own small pasture." It is unnecessary to localise the allusions.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! 1807.

[2] 1827.

... oh! do not sigh, 1807.

[3] 1827.

Sighing a wish to tear ... 1807.

[4] 1827.

This blissful leaf, with worst impiety. 1807.

... with harsh impiety. 1815.

[5] 1827.

... would ... 1807.

[6] 1838.

... would melt, and melt away! 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare the lines in Peter Bell, vol. ii. p. 13—

Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars.Ed.

"'BELOVED VALE!' I SAID, 'WHEN I SHALL CON'"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down: to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 5
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;[1]
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.[2]
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost[3]
I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;[A]
10
So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small![4]
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

Doubtless the "Vale" referred to is that of Hawkshead; the "brooks" may refer to the one that feeds Esthwaite lake, or to Sawrey beck, or (more likely) to the streamlet, "the famous brook within our garden boxed," described in The Prelude, books i. and ii. (vol. iii.) See also The Fountain, vol. ii. p. 92.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Distress'd me; I look'd round, I shed no tears; 1807.

[2] 1837.

... or awful vision, I had none. 1807.

... had I none. 1827.

[3] 1827.

By thousand petty fancies I was cross'd, 1807.

[4] 1827.

To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,
Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small. 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Hart-Leap Well, l. 117 (vol. ii. p. 134).—Ed.

"HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN MOTHER FANCY ROCKS"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, 5
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks[1]
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,—
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 10
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks 1807.

"THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED AS IN PENSIVE MOOD"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

——"they are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away."[A]

Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Those[1] words were uttered as in pensive mood[2]
We turned, departing from[3] that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to[4] gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood; 5
It is unstable as a dream of night;[5]
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,[6]
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, 10
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1838.

These ... 1807.

[2] 1827.

... utter'd in a pensive mood. 1807.

[3] 1827.

Even while mine eyes were on ... 1807.

Mine eyes yet lingering on ... 1815.

[4] 1807.

A silent counter part of ... MS.

[5] 1827.

It is unstable, and deserts me quite; ... 1807.

[6] 1827.

The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome, 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See the sonnet Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire, vol. ii. p. 349.—Ed.

"WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, THOU CLIMB'ST THE SKY"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

In the edition of 1815, this was placed among the "Poems of the Fancy." In 1820 it became one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
"How silently, and with how wan a face!"[A]
Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high[1]
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh 5
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I
The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,[2]
10
Should sally forth, to keep thee company,[3]
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven;[4]
But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

The sonnet of Sir Philip Sidney's, from which the two first lines are taken, is No. XXXI. in Astrophel and Stella. In the edition of 1807 these lines were printed, not as a sonnet, but as No. III. in the series of "Poems composed during a Tour, chiefly on foot;" and in 1807 and 1815 the first two lines were placed within quotation marks.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... Thou whom I have seen on high 1807.

[2] 1837.

And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven, 1807.

And the keen Stars, fast as the clouds were riven, 1820.

[3] 1807.

Should sally forth, an emulous Company, 1820.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.

[4] 1840.

What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n
Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee! 1807.

Sparkling, and hurrying through the clear blue heaven; 1820.

All hurrying with thee through the clear blue heaven; 1832.

In that keen sport along the plain, of heaven; 1837.

... in emulous company
Sparkling, and hurrying through the clear blue heaven; 1838 and C.

Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue Heaven. C.

With emulous brightness through the clear blue Heaven. C.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.—W. W. 1807.

"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This[1] Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 5
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,[A]
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising[2] from the sea;[B]
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.[C]

The "pleasant lea" referred to in this sonnet is unknown. It may have been on the Cumbrian coast, or in the Isle of Man.

I am indebted to the Rev. Canon Ainger for suggesting an (unconscious) reminiscence of Spenser in the last line of the sonnet. Compare Dr. Arnold's commentary (Miscellaneous Works of Thomas Arnold, p. 311), and that of Sir Henry Taylor in his Notes from Books.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

The ... MS.

[2] 1827.

... coming ... 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Spenser's Colin Clout's come Home againe, l. 283—

"A goodly pleasant lea."Ed.

[B] Compare Paradise Lost, book iii. l. 603.

[C] See Colin Clout's come Home againe, ll. 244-5—

Of them the shepheard which hath charge in chief,
Is Triton, blowing loud his wreathèd horne.Ed.

"WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,[A]
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly Vessel did I then espy 5
Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.[B]
This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; 10
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir:
On went She, and due north her journey took.[C]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare The Excursion, book iv. l. 1197—

... sea with ships
Sprinkled ...Ed.

[B] In the editions of 1815 to 1832 (but not in 1807) this line was printed within inverted commas. The quotation marks were dropped, however, in subsequent editions (as in the quotation from Spenser, in the poem Beggars). In a note at the end of the volumes of 1807, Wordsworth says, "From a passage in Skelton, which I cannot here insert, not having the Book at hand."

The passage is as follows—

Her takelynge ryche, and of hye apparayle.
Skelton's Bowge of Courte, stanza vi.—Ed.

[C] See Professor H. Reed's note to the American edition of Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 335; and Wordsworth's comment on Mrs. Fermor's criticism of this sonnet in his letter to Lady Beaumont, May 21, 1807.—Ed.

"WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;[1]
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?—Neither friend nor foe 5
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 10
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a Lark at break of day: 1807.

TO SLEEP

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

O gentle sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me 5
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;[A]
Hence am I[1] cross and peevish as a child: 10
Am[2] pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

I am ... 1815.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.

[2] 1807.

And ... 1815.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare—"Et c'est encore ce qui me fâche, de n'etre pas même en droit de ... fâcher."—Rousseau, La Nouvelle Héloïse.

"Vixque tenet lacrymas; quia nil lacrymabile cernit."
Ovid, Metamorphoses, lib. ii. l. 796.—Ed.

TO SLEEP

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,[1]
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep 5
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made, 10
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

The very sweetest words that fancy frames 1807.

TO SLEEP

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie[1]
5
Sleepless[A]! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: 10
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between[2] day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Compare Ovid, Metamorphoses, book xi. l. 623; Macbeth, act II. scene ii. l. 39; King Henry IV., Part II., act III. scene i. l. 5; Midsummer Night's Dream, act III. scene ii. l. 435.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1845.

I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie 1807.

By turns have all been thought of; yet I lie 1827.

I thought of all by turns, and yet I lie 1837.

I have thought ... 1838.

[2]1832.

... betwixt ... 1807.

... between night and day, MS.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare The Faërie Queene, book I. canto i. stanza 41—

And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne.Ed.

TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[This young man, Raisley Calvert, to whom I was so much indebted, died at Penrith, 1795.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Calvert! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem— 5
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where'er I liked; and finally array
My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, 10
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
Of higher mood, which now I meditate;—
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
To think how much of this will be thy praise.

Raisley Calvert was the son of R. Calvert, steward to the Duke of Norfolk. Writing to Sir George Beaumont, on the 20th February 1805, Wordsworth said, "I should have been forced into one of the professions" (the church or law) "by necessity, had not a friend left me £900. This bequest was from a young man with whom, though I call him friend, I had but little connection; and the act was done entirely from a confidence on his part that I had powers and attainments which might be of use to mankind.... Upon the interest of the £900, and £100 legacy to my sister, and £100 more which the 'Lyrical Ballads' have brought me, my sister and I contrived to live seven years, nearly eight." To his friend Matthews he wrote, November 7th, 1794, "My friend" (Calvert) "has every symptom of a confirmed consumption, and I cannot think of quitting him in his present debilitated state." And in January 1795 he wrote to Matthews from Penrith (where Calvert was staying), "I have been here for some time. I am still much engaged with my sick friend; and am sorry to add that he worsens daily ... he is barely alive." In a letter to Dr. Joshua Stanger of Keswick, written in the year 1842, Wordsworth referred thus to Raisley Calvert. Dr. Calvert—a nephew of Raisley, and son of the W. Calvert whom the poet accompanied to the Isle of Wight and Salisbury in 1793—had just died. "His removal (Dr. Calvert's) has naturally thrown my mind back as far as Dr. Calvert's grandfather, his father, and sister (the former of whom was, as you know, among my intimate friends), and his uncle Raisley, whom I have so much cause to remember with gratitude for his testamentary remembrance of me, when the greatest part of my patrimony was kept back from us by injustice. It may be satisfactory to your wife for me to declare that my friend's bequest enabled me to devote myself to literary pursuits, independent of any necessity to look at pecuniary emolument, so that my talents, such as they might be, were free to take their natural course. Your brothers Raisley and William were both so well known to me, and I have so many reasons to respect them, that I cannot forbear saying, that my sympathy with this last bereavement is deepened by the remembrance that they both have been taken from you...." On October 1, 1794, Wordsworth wrote from Keswick to Ensign William Calvert about his brother Raisley. (The year is not given in the letter, but it must have been 1794.) He tells him that Raisley was determined to set out for Lisbon; but that he (Wordsworth) could not brook the idea of his going alone; and that he wished to accompany his friend and stay with him, till his health was re-established. He adds, "Reflecting that his return is uncertain, your brother requests me to inform you that he has drawn out his will, which he means to get executed in London. The purport of his will is to leave you all his property, real and personal, chargeable with a legacy of £600 to me, in case that, on inquiry into the state of our affairs in London, he should think it advisable to do so. It is at my request that this information is communicated to you." Calvert did not live to go south; and he changed the sum left to Wordsworth from £600 to £900. The relationship of the two men suggests the somewhat parallel one between Spinoza and Simon de Vries.—Ed.

"METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE"

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

[The latter part of this sonnet was a great favourite with my sister S. H. When I saw her lying in death, I could not resist the impulse to compose the Sonnet that follows it.—I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud—
Nor view of who might sit[1] thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone 5
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave[2]
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 10
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

"The Sonnet that follows," referred to in the Fenwick note, is one belonging to the year 1836, beginning—

Even so for me a Vision sanctified.

See the note to that sonnet.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... of him who sate ... 1807.

[2] 1845.

I seem'd to mount those steps; the vapours gave 1807.

Those steps I mounted, as the vapours gave 1837.

... while the vapours gave 1838.

Those steps I clomb; the opening vapours gave C. and 1840.

LINES

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.

Composed September 1806.—Published 1807

This poem was ranked among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."—Ed.

Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale;—this inland Depth 5
In peace is roaring like the Sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load![A]
10
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad—
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay, 15
Their glory disappear.

A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the great and good depart[1]
What is it more than this— 20

That Man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return?—
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?

Charles James Fox died September 13, 1806. He was Minister for Foreign Affairs at the time, having assumed office on the 5th February, shortly after the death of William Pitt. Wordsworth's sadness on this occasion, his recognition of Fox as great and good, and as "a Power" that was "passing from the earth," may have been due partly to personal and political sympathy, but also probably to Fox's appreciation of the better side of the French Revolution, and to his welcoming the pacific proposals of Talleyrand, perhaps also to his efforts for the abolition of slavery.

The "lonely road" referred to in these Lines, was, in all likelihood, the path from Town-end towards the Swan Inn past the Hollins, Grasmere. A "mighty unison of streams" may be heard there any autumn evening after a stormy day, and especially after long continued rain, the sound of waters from Easdale, from Greenhead Ghyll, and the slopes of Silver How, blending with that of the Rothay in the valley below. Compare Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, in 1803, p. 229 (edition 1874).—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

But when the Mighty pass away 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Importuna e grave salma. (Michael Angelo.)—W. W. 1807.

NOVEMBER, 1806

Composed 1806.—Published 1807

Classed among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," re-named in 1845, "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."—Ed.

Another year!-another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare[1] to struggle with the Foe.
'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know 5
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard whom such foretaste[2] doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 10
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile[3] band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.[A]

Napoleon won the battle of Jena on the 14th October 1806, entered Potsdam on the 25th, and Berlin on the 28th; Prince Hohenlohe laid down his arms on the 6th November; Blücher surrendered at Lübeck on the 7th; Magdeburg was taken on the 8th; on the 14th the French occupied Hanover; and on the 21st Napoleon issued his Berlin decree for the blockade of England—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

... dares ... 1807.

[2] 1807.

... knowledge ... MS.

[3] 1820.

... venal ... 1807.

FOOTNOTES:

[A]

Who are to judge of danger which they fear
And honour which they do not understand.

These two lines from Lord Brooke's Life of Sir Philip Sydney—W. W. 1807.

"Danger which they fear, and honour which they understand not." Words in Lord Brooke's Life of Sir P. Sidney.—W. W. 1837.

ADDRESS TO A CHILD

During a Boisterous Winter Evening

By my Sister

Composed 1806.—Published 1815

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

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

What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree, 5
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring[1] a sharp 'larum;—but, if you should look, 10
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock; 15
—Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to[2] beggars or thieves!
As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me 20
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big 25
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 30
Drive them down, like men in a battle:
—But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light; 35
Books have we to read,—but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! tis the sound[3] of the eight o'clock bell.
—Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
He may knock at the door,—we'll not let him in; 40
May drive at the windows,—we'll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

Wordsworth dated this poem 1806, and said to Miss Fenwick that it was written at Grasmere. If it was written "during a boisterous winter evening" in 1806, it could not have been written at Grasmere; because the Wordsworths spent most of that winter at Coleorton. I am inclined to believe that the date which the poet gave is wrong, and that the Address really belongs to the year 1805; but, as it is just possible that—although referring to winter—it may have been written at Town-end in the summer of 1806, it is placed among the poems belonging to the latter year.

This Address was translated into French by Mme. Amable Tastu, and published in a popular school-book series of extracts, but Wordsworth's name is not given along with the translation.

From 1815 to 1843 the authorship was veiled under the title, "by a female Friend of the Author." In 1845, it was disclosed, "by my Sister."

In 1815 Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, "We were glad to see the poems 'by a female friend.' The one of the Wind is masterly, but not new to us. Being only three, perhaps you might have clapt a D. at the corner, and let it have past as a printer's mark to the uninitiated, as a delightful hint to the better instructed. As it is, expect a formal criticism on the poems of your female friend, and she must expect it." (The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 285.)—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1845.

... rings ... 1815.

[2] 1827.

... for ... 1815.

[3] 1827.

... —hush! that half-stifled knell,
Methinks 'tis the sound ... 1815.

"BROOK! WHOSE SOCIETY THE POET SEEKS"

Composed 1806?—Published 1815

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Brook! whose society the Poet seeks,
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks; 5
If wish were mine some type of thee to view,[1]
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,—
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs: 10
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good;[2]
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

If I some type of thee did wish to view, 1815.

[2] 1845.

... a better good; 1815.

"THERE IS A LITTLE UNPRETENDING RILL"

Composed 1806?—Published 1820

[This Rill trickles down the hill-side into Windermere, near Low-wood. My sister and I, on our first visit together to this part of the country, walked from Kendal, and we rested to refresh ourselves by the side of the lake where the streamlet falls into it. This sonnet was written some years after in recollection of that happy ramble, that most happy day and hour.—I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

There is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught[1]
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name!—It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will; 5
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought[2]
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still![3]
Months perish with their moons; year treads on year;
But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say 10
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they,[4]
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill,[5] in vision clear.[6]

One of the MS. readings of the ninth line of this sonnet gives the date of the incident as "now seven years gone"; but I leave the date of composition undetermined. If we could know accurately the date of the "first visit" to the district with his sister (referred to in the Fenwick note), and if we could implicitly trust this MS. reading, it might be possible to fix it; but we can do neither. Wordsworth visited the Lake District with his sister as early as 1794, and in December 1799 he took up his abode with her at Dove Cottage. I have no doubt that the sonnet belongs to the year 1806, or was composed at an earlier date. As to the locality of the rill, the late Rev. R. Perceval Graves, of Dublin, wrote to me:—

"It was in 1843, when quitting the parsonage at Bowness, I went to reside at Dovenest, that, calling one day at Rydal Mount, I was told by both Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, as a fact in which I should take a special interest, that the 'little unpretending rill' associated by the poet with 'the immortal spirit of one happy day,' was the rill which, rising near High Skelgill at the back of Wansfell, descends steeply down the hill-side, passes behind the house at Dovenest, and crossing beneath the road, enters the lake near the gate of the drive which leads up to Dovenest.

"The authority on which I give this information is decisive of the question. I have often traced upwards the course of the rill; and the secluded hollow, which by its source is beautified with fresh herbage and wild straggling bushes, was a favourite haunt of mine."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

There is a tiny water, neither rill,
Motionless well, nor running brook, nor aught MS.

There is a noiseless water, neither rill,
Nor spring enclosed in sculptured stone, nor aught MS.

There is a trickling water, neither rill,
Fountain inclosed, or rivulet, nor aught MS. 1806.

[2] 1820.

... It trickles down the hill,
So feebly, just for love of power and will,
Yet to my mind the nameless thing is brought MS.

... It totters down the hill,
So feebly, quite forlorn of power and will;
Yet nameless Thing it to my mind is brought MS.

[3] 1827.

Oftener than mightiest Floods, whose path is wrought
Through wastes of sand, and forests dark and chill. 1820.

[4] 1827.

Do thou, even thou, O faithful Anna! say
Why this small Streamlet is to me so dear;
Thou know'st, that while enjoyments disappear
And sweet remembrances like flowers decay, 1820.

[5] 1827.

Lingers upon its marge, ... 1820.

[6] 1820.

For on that day, now seven years gone, when first
Two glad foot-travellers, through sun and shower
My Love and I came hither, while thanks burst
Out of our hearts ...
We from that blessed water slaked our thirst. MS.

... seven years back, ...

... hearts to God for that good hour,
Eating a traveller's meal in shady bower,
We ... MS.

1807

In few instances is it more evident that the dates which Wordsworth affixed to his poems, in the editions of 1815, 1820, 1836, and 1845,—and those assigned in the Fenwick notes—cannot be absolutely relied upon, than in the case of the poems referring to Coleorton. Trusting to these dates, in the absence of contrary evidence, one would naturally assign the majority of the Coleorton poems to the year 1808. But it is clear that, while the sonnet To Lady Beaumont may have been written in 1806, the "Inscription" For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton, beginning—

Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
was written, not in 1808 (as stated by Wordsworth himself), but in 1811; and that the other "Inscription" designed for a Niche in the Winter-garden at Coleorton, belongs (I think) to the same year; a year in which he also wrote the sonnet on Sir George Beaumont's picture of Bredon Hill and Cloud Hill, beginning—

Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay.

When the dates are so difficult to determine, there is a natural fitness in bringing all the poems referring to Coleorton together, so far as this can be done without seriously interfering with chronological order. The two "Inscriptions" intended for the Coleorton grounds, which were written at Grasmere in 1811, are therefore printed along with the poems of 1807; the precise date of each being given—so far as it can be ascertained—underneath its title.

Several political sonnets, and others, were written in 1807; also the Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, and the first and larger part of The White Doe of Rylstone, with a few minor fragments. But, for reasons stated in the notes to The White Doe of Rylstone (see p. 191), I have assigned that poem to the year 1808. The Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle forms as natural a preface to The White Doe, as The Force of Prayer, a Tradition of Bolton Abbey, is its natural appendix. The latter was written, however, before The White Doe of Rylstone was finished.

It would be easier to fix the date of some of the poems written between the years 1806 and 1808, if we knew the exact month in which the two volumes of 1807 were published; but this, I fear, it is impossible to discover now.

On November 10th, 1806, Wordsworth wrote to Sir George Beaumont from Coleorton, "In a day or two I mean to send a sheet or two of my intended volume to the press" (evidently referring to the "Poems" of 1807). On the following day—11th November 1806—Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Lady Beaumont, "William has written two other poems, which you will see when they are printed. He composes frequently in the grove.... We have not yet received a sheet from the printer." On the 15th November 1806 she again wrote to Lady Beaumont (from Coleorton), "My brother works very hard at his poems, preparing them for the press. Miss Hutchinson is the transcriber." In a subsequent letter from Coleorton, undated, but bearing the post-mark February 18, 1807, she is speaking of her brother's poetical labour, and says, "He must go on, when he begins: and any interruptions (such as attending to the progress of the workmen and planning the garden) are of the greatest use to him; for, after a certain time, the progress is by no means proportioned to the labour in composition; and if he is called from it by other thoughts, he returns to it with ten times the pleasure, and the work goes on proportionately the more rapidly." From this we may infer that the years 1806-7 were productive ones, but it is disappointing that the dates of the composition of the poems are so difficult to determine.—Ed.

TO LADY BEAUMONT

Composed 1807.—Published 1807

[The winter garden of Coleorton, fashioned out of an old quarry, under the superintendence and direction of Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister Dorothy, during the winter and spring we resided there.—I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove
While I was shaping beds for[1] winter flowers;
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs—to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove 5
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 10
Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.

The title, To Lady Beaumont, was first given in 1845. In 1807 it was To the ——; in 1815, To the Lady ——; and from 1820 to 1843, To the Lady Beaumont.

This winter garden, fashioned by the Wordsworths out of the old quarry at Coleorton, during Sir George and Lady Beaumont's absence in 1807, exists very much as it was at the beginning of the century. The "perennial bowers and murmuring pines" may still be seen, little altered since 1807. The late Sir George Beaumont (whose grandfather was first-cousin to the artist Sir George, Wordsworth's friend), with strong reverence for the past, and for the traditions of literary men which have made the district famous since the days of his ancestor Beaumont the dramatist, and especially for the memorials of Wordsworth's ten months' residence at Coleorton,—took a pleasure in preserving these memorials, very much as they were when he entered in possession of the estates of his ancestors. Such a reverence for the past is not only consistent with the "improvement" of an estate, and its belongings; it is a part of it. Wordsworth, and his wife and sister, were adepts in the laying out of grounds. (See the reference to the poet's joint labour with Wilkinson at Yanwath, p. 2.) It was the Wordsworths also, I believe, who designed the grounds of Fox How—Dr. Arnold's residence, near Ambleside. Similar memorials of the poet survive at Hallsteads, Ullswater. The following is an extract from the letter of Dorothy Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont above referred to, and having the post-mark of February 18, 1807. "For more than a week we have had the most delightful weather. If William had but waited a few days, it would have been no anticipation when he said to you, 'the songs of Spring were in the grove;' for all this week the birds have chanted from morn till evening, larks, blackbirds, thrushes, and far more than I can name, and the busy rooks have joined their happy voices."

Wordsworth, writing to Sir George Beaumont, November 16, 1811, says, "I remember, Mr. Bowles, the poet, objected to the word 'ravishment' at the end of the sonnet to the winter-garden; yet it has the authority of all the first-rate poets, for instance, Milton:

'In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment,
Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze'...." Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... framing beds of ... 1807.

... for ... 1815.

A PROPHECY. FEBRUARY, 1807

Composed 1807.—Published 1807

Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," re-named in 1845, "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."—Ed.

High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!
Thus in your books the record shall be found,
"A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound—
Arminius![A]—all the people quaked like dew
Stirred by the breeze; they rose, a Nation, true, 5
True to herself[1]—the mighty Germany,
She of the Danube and the Northern Sea,
She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw.
All power was given her in the dreadful trance;
Those new-born Kings she withered like a flame."[B]
10
—Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame
To that Bavarian who could[2] first advance
His banner in accursed league with France,[C]
First open traitor to the German name![3]

VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

... itself ... 1807.

[2] 1837.

... did ... 1807.

[3] 1837.

... to her sacred name! 1807.

... to a ... 1820.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Arminius, or Hermann, the liberator of Germany from the Roman power, A.D. 9-17. Tacitus says of him, "He was without doubt the deliverer of Germany; and, unlike other kings and generals, he attacked the Roman people, not at the commencement, but in the fullness of their power: in battles he was not always successful, but he was invincible in war. He still lives in the songs of the barbarians."—Ed.

[B] The "new-born Kings" were the lesser German potentates, united in the Confederation of the Rhine. By a treaty signed at Paris (July 12th, 1806), by Talleyrand, and the ministers of twelve sovereign houses of the Empire, these princes declared themselves perpetually severed from Germany, and united together as the Confederate States of the Rhine, of which the Emperor of the French was declared Protector.—Ed.

[C] On December 11, 1806, Napoleon concluded a treaty with Frederick Augustus, the Elector of Saxony—who had been secretly on the side of France for some time—to whom he gave additional territories, and the title of King, admitting him into "the Confederation of the Rhine." He had fallen, as one of the Prussian statesmen put it, into "that lowest of degradations, to steal at another man's bidding."—Ed.

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND

Composed 1807.—Published 1807

[This was composed while pacing to and fro between the Hall of Coleorton, then rebuilding, and the principal Farmhouse of the Estate, in which we lived for nine or ten months. I will here mention that the Song on the Restoration of Lord Clifford, as well as that on the Feast of Brougham Castle, were produced on the same ground.—I. F.]

This sonnet was classed among those "dedicated to Liberty," re-named in 1845, "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."—Ed.

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 5
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; 10
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

In 1807 the whole of the Continent of Europe was prostrate under the power of Napoleon. It is impossible to say to what special incident, if to any in particular, Wordsworth refers in the phrase, "with holy glee thou fought'st against him;" but, as the sonnet was composed at Coleorton in 1807—after the battles of Austerlitz and Jena, and Napoleon's practical mastery of Europe—our knowing the particular event or events in Swiss history to which he refers, would not add much to our understanding of the poem.

In the Fenwick note Wordsworth incorrectly separates his Song on the Restoration of Lord Clifford from the Feast of Brougham Castle. They are the same song.—Ed.

TO THOMAS CLARKSON, ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE, MARCH, 1807

Composed 1807.—Published 1807

One of the "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."—Ed.

Clarkson! it was an obstinate hill to climb:
How toilsome—nay, how dire—it was, by thee
Is known; by none, perhaps, so feelingly:
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,
Didst first lead forth that enterprise[1] sublime, 5
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,
Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,
First roused thee.—O true yoke-fellow of Time,
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see,[2] the palm
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn! 10
The blood-stained Writing is for ever torn;
And thou henceforth wilt have[3] a good man's calm,
A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
Repose at length, firm friend of human kind!

On the 25th of March 1807, the Royal assent was given to the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade. The movement for its abolition was begun by Wilberforce, and carried on by Clarkson. Its abolition was voted by the House of Lords on the motion of Lord Grenville, and by the Commons on the motion of Charles James Fox, on the 10th of June 1806. The bill was read a second time in the Lords on the 5th of February, and became law on the 25th of March 1807.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... this pilgrimage ... 1807.

[2] 1837.

With unabating effort, see, ...1807.

[3] 1837.

The bloody Writing is for ever torn,
And Thou henceforth shalt have ... 1807.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN

By My Sister

Composed 1807.—Published 1815

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

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

A month, sweet Little-ones, is past
Since your dear Mother went away,—
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy! 5
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,—
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near; 10
"Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;—
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 15
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity. 20

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note, 25
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower; 30
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,—
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool, 35
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And all "since Mother went away!" 40

To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

—But, see, the evening star comes forth! 45
To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:

'Tis gone—and in a merry fit
They run up stairs in gamesome race; 50
I, too, infected by their mood,
I could have joined the wanton chase.

Five minutes past—and, O the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 55
And closed the sparkling eye.

The Fenwick note is inaccurate. These lines were written by Dorothy Wordsworth at Coleorton, on the eve of her brother and sister's return from London, in the spring of 1807, whither they had gone for a month—Dorothy remaining at Coleorton, in charge of the children. Previous to 1845, the poem was attributed to "a female Friend of the Author."—Ed.

GIPSIES

Composed 1807.—Published 1807

[Composed at Coleorton. I had observed them, as here described, near Castle Donnington, on my way to and from Derby.—I. F.]

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

Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea the frame
Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, 5
Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
—Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
Have been a traveller under open sky, 10
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary Sun betook himself to rest;—
Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible God 15
The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty Moon! this way
She looks as if at them—but they 20
Regard not her:—oh better wrong and strife
(By nature transient) than this torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove[A]
As on their silent tasks they move![1][B]
Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or[2] earth! 25
In scorn I speak not;—they are what their birth
And breeding suffer[3] them to be;
Wild outcasts of society![4]

See S. T. Coleridge's criticism of this poem in his Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. p. 156 (edition 1847).—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1836.

Regard not her:—oh better wrong and strife
Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
The silent Heavens have goings on;[C]
The stars have tasks—but these have none. 1807.

... wrong and strife,
(By nature transient) than such torpid life!
The silent Heavens have goings-on;
The stars have tasks—but these have none! 1820.

(By nature transient) than such torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move! 1827.

[2] 1827.

... and ... 1820.

[3] 1836.

... suffers ... 1820.

[4] The last four lines were added in 1820.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare the Ode to Duty, l. 47 (vol. iii. p. 41).—Ed.

[B] Compare, in the Ode to Duty, l. 48—

And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.—Ed.

[C] Compare, in the Fragment, vol. viii., beginning "No doubt if you in terms direct had asked," the phrase—

... the goings on
Of earth and sky.Ed.

"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART"

Composed 1807 (probably).—Published 1807

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. (Mrs. W. says, in a note,—"At Coleorton.")—I. F.]

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

O Nightingale! thou surely art
A creature of a "fiery heart:"—[A][1]
These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 5
Had helped thee to a Valentine;[B]
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 10

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come-at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed—and cooed; 15
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song—the song for me! 20

Mrs. Wordsworth corrected her husband's note to Miss Fenwick, by adding in the MS., "at Coleorton"; and at Coleorton the Wordsworths certainly spent the winter of 1806, the Town-end Cottage at Grasmere being too small for their increasing household. It is more likely that Wordsworth wrote the poem at Coleorton than at Grasmere, and it looks as if it had been an evening impromptu, after hearing both the nightingale and the stock-dove. There are no nightingales at Grasmere,—they are not heard further north than the Trent valley,—while they used to abound in the "peaceful groves" of Coleorton. If the locality was—as Mrs. Wordsworth states—Coleorton, and if the lines were written after hearing the nightingale, the year would be 1807, and not 1806 (the poet's own date). The nightingale is a summer visitor in this country, and could not have been heard by Wordsworth at Coleorton in 1806, as he did not go south to Leicestershire till November in that year. But it is quite possible that it was "the stock-dove's voice" that alone suggested the lines, and that they were written either in 1806, or (as I think more likely), very early in 1807. In the month of January Wordsworth was corresponding with Scott about the poems in this edition of 1807.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

A Creature of ebullient heart:— 1815.

The text of 1820 returns to that of 1807.[C]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Shakespeare's King Henry VI., Part III., act I. scene iv. l. 87.—Ed.

[B] Compare the lines in The Cuckoo and the Nightingale, vol. ii. p. 255—

I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
Echoing through all the green wood wide.Ed.

[C] Henry Crabb Robinson, in his Diary (May 9, 1815), anticipates this return to the text of 1807.—Ed.

"THOUGH NARROW BE THAT OLD MAN'S CARES, AND NEAR"

Composed 1807.—Published 1807

——"gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."

[Written at Coleorton. This old man's name was Mitchell. He was, in all his ways and conversation, a great curiosity, both individually and as a representative of past times. His chief employment was keeping watch at night by pacing round the house, at that time building, to keep off depredators. He has often told me gravely of having seen the Seven Whistlers, and the Hounds as here described. Among the groves of Coleorton, where I became familiar with the habits and notions of old Mitchell, there was also a labourer of whom, I regret, I had no personal knowledge; for, more than forty years after, when he was become an old man, I learned that while I was composing verses, which I usually did aloud, he took much pleasure, unknown to me, in following my steps that he might catch the words I uttered; and, what is not a little remarkable, several lines caught in this way kept their place in his memory. My volumes have lately been given to him by my informant, and surely he must have been gratified to meet in print his old acquaintances.—I. F.]

In 1815 this sonnet was one of the "Poems belonging to the Period of Old Age"; in 1820 it was transferred to the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near,
The poor old Man is greater than he seems:
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; 5
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds and monitory gleams
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, 10
And counted them: and oftentimes will start—
For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Hounds[A]
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart
To chase for ever, on aërial grounds!

To bring all the poems referring to Coleorton together, so far as possible, this and the next sonnet are transferred from their places in the chronological list, and placed beside the Coleorton "Inscriptions."

I am indebted to Mr. William Kelly of Leicester for the following note on the Leicestershire superstition of the Seven Whistlers.

"There is an old superstition, which it is not easy to get to the bottom of, concerning a certain cry or sound heard in the night, supposed to be produced by the Seven Whistlers. What or who those whistlers are is an unsolved problem. In some districts they are popularly believed to be witches, in others ghosts, in others devils, while in the Midland Counties they are supposed to be birds, either plovers or martins—some say swifts. In Leicestershire it is deemed a bad omen to hear the Seven Whistlers, and our old writers supply many passages illustrative of the popular credulity. Spenser, in his Faërie Queene, book II. canto xii. stanza 36, speaks of

The whistler shrill, that whoso hears doth die.

Sir Walter Scott, in The Lady of the Lake, names the bird with which his character associated the cry—

And in the plover's shrilly strain
The signal whistlers heard again.

"When the colliers of Leicestershire are flush of money, we are told, and indulge in a drinking bout, they sometimes hear the warning voice of the Seven Whistlers, get sobered and frightened, and will not descend the pit again till next day. Wordsworth speaks of a countryman who

... the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds,
And counted them.

"A few years ago, during a thunderstorm which passed over Leicestershire, and while vivid lightning was darting through the sky, immense flocks of birds were seen flying about, uttering doleful, affrighted cries as they passed, and keeping up for a long time a continual whistling like that made by some kinds of sea-birds. The number must have been immense, for the local newspapers mentioned the same phenomenon in different parts of the neighbouring counties of Northampton, Leicester, and Lincoln. A gentleman, conversing with a countryman on the following day, asked him what kind of birds he supposed them to have been. The man answered, 'They are what we call the Seven Whistlers,' and added that 'whenever they are heard it is considered a sign of some great calamity, and that the last time he had heard them was on the night before the deplorable explosion of fire damp at the Hartley Colliery.'"

In Notes and Queries there are several allusions to this local superstition. In the Fifth Series (vol. ii. p. 264), Oct. 3, 1874, the editor gives a summary of several notes on the subject in vol. viii. of the Fourth Series (pp. 68, 134, 196, and 268), with additional information. He says "record was made of their having been heard in Leicestershire; and that the develin or martin, the swift, and the plover were probably of the whistling fraternity that frightened men. At p. 134 it was shown that Wordsworth had spoken of one who

... the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds,
And counted them.

On the same page, the swift is said to be the true whistler (but, as noted at page 196, the swifts never make nightly rounds), and the superstition is said to be common in our Midland Counties. At page 268, Mr. Pearson put on record that in Lancashire the plovers, whistling as they fly, are accounted heralds of ill, though sometimes of trivial accident, and that they are there called 'Wandering Jews,' and are said to be, or to carry with them, the ever-restless souls of those Jews who assisted at the Crucifixion. At page 336, the whistlers are chronicled as having been the harbingers of the great Hartley Colliery explosion. A correspondent, Viator, added, that on the Bosphorus there are flocks of birds, the size of a thrush, which fly up and down the channel, and are never seen to rest on land or water. The men who rowed Viator's caique told him that they were the souls of the damned, condemned to perpetual motion. The Seven Whistlers have not furnished chroniclers with later circumstances of their tuneful and awful progresses till a week or two ago.... The whistlers are also heard and feared in Portugal. See The New Quarterly for July 1874, for a record of some travelling experience in that country."

Another extract from Notes and Queries is to the following effect:—

"'Your Excellency laughs at ghosts. But there is no lie about the Seven Whistlers. Many a man besides me has heard them.'

"'Who are the Seven Whistlers? and have you seen them yourself?'

"'Not seen, thank Heaven; but I have heard them plenty of times. Some say they are the ghosts of children unbaptized, who are to know no rest till the judgment day. Once last winter I was going with donkeys and a mule to Caia. Just at the moment I stopped by the river bank to tighten the mule's girth, I heard the accursed whistlers coming down the wind along the river. I buried my head under the mule, and never moved till the danger was over; but they passed very near, for I heard the flap and rustle of their wings.'

"'What was the danger?'

"'If a man once sees them, heaven only knows what will not happen to him—death and damnation at the very least.'

"'I have seen them many times. I shot, or tried to shoot them!'

"'Holy Mother of God! you English are an awful people! You shot the Seven Whistlers?'

"'Yes; we call them marecos (teal or widgeon) in our country, and shoot them whenever we can. They are better to eat than wild ducks.'"

Gabriel's Hounds.—"At Wednesbury in Staffordshire, the colliers going to their pits early in the morning hear the noise of a pack of hounds in the air, to which they give the name of Gabriel's Hounds, though the more sober and judicious take them only to be wild geese making this noise in their flight." Kennet MS., Lansd. 1033. (See Halliwell's Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words, vol. i. p. 388.) The peculiar cry or cackle, both of the Brent Goose and of the Bean or Harvest Goose (Anser Segetum), has often been likened to that of a pack of hounds in full cry—especially when the birds are on the wing during night. For some account of the superstition of "Gabriel's Hounds," see Notes and Queries, First Series, vol. v. pp. 534 and 596; and vol. xii. p. 470; Second Series, vol. i. p. 80; and Fourth Series, vol. vii. p. 299. In the last note these hounds are said to be popularly believed to be "the souls of unbaptized children wandering in the air till the day of judgment." They are also explained as "a thing in the air, that is said in these parts (Sheffield) to foretell calamity, sounding like a great pack of beagles in full cry." This quotation is from Charles Reade's Put yourself in his place, which contains many scraps of local folk-lore. The following is from the Statistical History of Kirkmichael, by the Rev. John Grant. "In the autumnal season, when the moon shines from a serene sky, often is the wayfaring traveller arrested by the music of the hills. Often struck with a more sober scene, he beholds the visionary hunters engaged in the chase, and pursuing the deer of the clouds, while the hollow rocks in long sounding echoes reverberate their cries." "There are several now living who assert that they have seen and heard this aërial hunting." See the Statistical History of Scotland, edited by Sir J. Sinclair, vol. xii. pp. 461, 462. Compare note to An Evening Walk, vol. i. p. 19.—Ed.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Both these superstitions are prevalent in the midland Counties of England: that of "Gabriel's Hounds" appears to be very general over Europe; being the same as the one upon which the German Poet, Bürger, has founded his Ballad of The Wild Huntsman.—W. W. 1807.

COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE. 1807

Composed 1806.—Published 1819

This sonnet was first published along with The Waggoner in 1819. In 1820 it was classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets," and in 1827 it was transferred to the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty." Previous to 1837 this sonnet had no title.—Ed.

Clouds, lingering yet, extend[1] in solid bars
Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
A vivid repetition[2] of the stars;
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 5
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
At happy distance from earth's groaning field,
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
Is it a mirror?—or the nether Sphere
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds 10
Her own calm fires?[3]—But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,
"Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Eve's lingering clouds extend ... MS. and 1819.

[2] 1819.

A bright re-duplication ... MS.

[3] 1837.

Opening a vast abyss, while fancy feeds
On the rich show? ... MS.

Opening its vast abyss, ... 1819.

Opening to view the abyss in which it feeds
Its own calm fires?—... 1827.

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE

Composed 1808.—Published 1815

[In the grounds of Coleorton these verses are engraved on a stone placed near the Tree, which was thriving and spreading when I saw it in the summer of 1841.—I. F.]

Included among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.

The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
Will[1] not unwillingly their place resign;
If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands.
One wooed the silent Art with studious pains: 5
These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury! 10
And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
[2]Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned 15
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, 20
Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.

About twelve years after the last visit of Wordsworth to Coleorton, referred to in the Fenwick note—of which the date should, I think, be 1842, not 1841—this cedar tree fell, uprooted during a storm. It was, however, as the Coleorton gardener who was then on the estate told me, replanted with much labour, and protected with care; although, the top branches being injured, it was never quite the same as it had been. During the night of the great storm on the 13th October 1880, however, it fell a second time, and perished irretrievably. The memorial stone remains, injured a good deal by the wear and tear of time; and the inscription is more than half obliterated. It is in a situation much more exposed to the elements than the other two inscriptions at Coleorton. He

who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field,
was Sir John Beaumont, the brother of the dramatist, who wrote a poem on the battle of Bosworth. (See one of Wordsworth's notes to the Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, p. 98.) The

famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth,
was Francis Beaumont, the dramatist, who wrote in conjunction with Fletcher. He died at the age of twenty-nine.

In an undated letter addressed to Sir George Beaumont, Wordsworth wrote, "I like your ancestor's verses the more, the more I see of them. They are manly, dignified, and extremely harmonious. I do not remember in any author of that age such a series of well-tuned couplets."

In another letter written from Grasmere (probably in 1811) to Sir George, he says in reference to his own poems, "These inscriptions have all one fault, they are too long; but I was unable to do justice to the thoughts in less room. The second has brought Sir John Beaumont and his brother Francis so livelily to my mind that I recur to the plan of republishing the former's poems, perhaps in connection with those of Francis."

On November 16, 1811, he wrote to him again, "I am glad that the inscriptions please you. It did always appear to me, that inscriptions, particularly those in verse, or in a dead language, were never supposed necessarily to be the composition of those in whose name they appeared. If a more striking or more dramatic effect could be produced, I have always thought, that in an epitaph or memorial of any kind, a father or husband, etc., might be introduced speaking, without any absolute deception being intended; that is, the reader is understood to be at liberty to say to himself,—these verses, or this Latin, may be the composition of some unknown person, and not that of the father, widow, or friend, from whose hand or voice they profess to proceed.... I have altered the verses, and I have only to regret that the alteration is not more happily done. But I never found anything more difficult. I wished to preserve the expression patrimonial grounds,[A] but I found this impossible, on account of the awkwardness of the pronouns, he and his, as applied to Reynolds, and to yourself. This, even when it does not produce confusion, is always inelegant. I was, therefore, obliged to drop it; so that we must be content, I fear, with the inscription as it stands below. I hope it will do. I tried a hundred different ways, but cannot hit upon anything better...."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

Shall ... 1820.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1815.

[2]

And to a favourite resting-place invite,
For coolness grateful and a sober light;

Inserted only in the editions of 1815 and 1820, and in a MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1811.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See p. 79, l. 13.—Ed.

IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME

Composed 1811.—Published 1815

[This Niche is in the sandstone-rock in the winter-garden at Coleorton, which garden, as has been elsewhere said, was made under our direction out of an old unsightly quarry. While the labourers were at work, Mrs. Wordsworth, my sister and I used to amuse ourselves occasionally in scooping this seat out of the soft stone. It is of the size, with something of the appearance, of a stall in a Cathedral. This inscription is not engraven, as the former and the two following are, in the grounds.—I. F.]

Classed by Wordsworth among his "Inscriptions."—Ed.

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust
When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;
And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
That things obscure and small outlive the great:
Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim 5
Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,
And all its stately trees, are passed away,
This little Niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive. And be it known
That it was scooped within[1] the living stone,— 10
Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains
Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,
But by an industry that wrought in love;
With help from female hands, that proudly strove[2]
To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers 15
Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.[3]

This niche is still to be seen, although not quite "unconscious of decay." The growth of yew-trees, over and around it, has darkened the seat; and constant damp has decayed the soft stone. The niche having been scooped out by Mrs. Wordsworth and Dorothy, as well as by Wordsworth, suggests the cutting of the inscriptions on the Rock of Names in 1800, in which they all took part. (See vol. iii. pp. 61, 62.) On his return to Grasmere from Coleorton, Wordsworth wrote thus to Sir George Beaumont, in an undated letter, about this inscription:—"What follows I composed yesterday morning, thinking there might be no impropriety in placing it so as to be visible only to a person sitting within the niche, which is hollowed out of the sandstone in the winter-garden. I am told that this is, in the present form of the niche, impossible; but I shall be most ready, when I come to Coleorton, to scoop out a place for it, if Lady Beaumont think it worth while." Then follows the—

Inscription

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust.

On Nov. 16, 1811, writing again to Sir George on this subject of the "Inscriptions," and evidently referring to this one on the "Niche," he says, "As to the 'Female,' and 'Male,' I know not how to get rid of it; for that circumstance gives the recess an appropriate interest.... On this account, the lines had better be suppressed, for it is not improbable that the altering of them might cost me more trouble than writing a hundred fresh ones."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

That it was fashioned in ... MS.

[2] 1815.

But by prompt hands of Pleasure and of Love,
Female and Male; that emulously strove MS.

[3] 1827.

To shape the work, what time these walks and bowers
Were framed to cheer dark winter's lonely hours. 1815.

... bleak ... MS.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS

Composed 1808.—Published 1815

One of the "Inscriptions."—Ed.

Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return;
And be not slow a stately growth to rear
Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle;— 5
That may recal to mind that awful Pile[1]
Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,
In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
—There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep, 10
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private tear:
Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
From youth a zealous follower of the Art[2]
15
That he professed; attached to him in heart;
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.

These Lime-trees now form "a stately growth of pillars," "a darksome aisle"; and the urn remains, as set up in 1807, at the end of the avenue.

The "awful Pile," where Reynolds lies, and where—

... Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
is, of course, Westminster Abbey.

After Wordsworth's return from Coleorton and Stockton to Grasmere, he wrote thus to Sir George Beaumont:—

"My Dear Sir George,

"Had there been room at the end of the small avenue of lime-trees for planting a spacious circle of the same trees, the Urn might have been placed in the centre, with the inscription thus altered,

"Ye lime-trees ranged around this hallowed urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at spring's return!
And be not slow a stately growth to rear,
Bending your docile boughs from year to year,
Till in a solemn concave they unite;
Like that Cathedral Dome beneath whose height
Reynolds, among our country's noble Dead,
In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
Here may some Painter sit in future days.
Some future poet meditate his lays!
Not mindless of that distant age, renowned,
When inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang, how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth field,
And of that famous youth (full soon removed
From earth!) by mighty Shakespeare's self approved,
Fletcher's associate, Jonson's friend beloved.

"The first couplet of the above, as it before stood, would have appeared ludicrous, if the stone had remained after the trees might have been gone. The couplet relating to the household virtues did not accord with the painter and the poet; the former being allegorical figures; the latter, living men."

This letter—which is not now in the Beaumont collection at Coleorton Hall—seems to imply that Wordsworth thought of combining the first couplet on the Urn with the last nine lines of the inscription for the stone behind the Cedar tree. But this was never carried out. The inscriptions are printed in the text as they were carved at Coleorton.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

Till ye have framed, at length, a darksome aisle,
Like a recess within that sacred pile

MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1811.

Till they at length have framed a darksome Aisle;—
Like a recess within that awful Pile 1815.

[2] 1815.

Hence, an obscure Memorial, without blame,
In these domestic Grounds, may bear his name;
Unblamed this votive Urn may oft renew
Some mild sensations to his Genius due
From One—a humble Follower of the Art

Five lines instead of three in MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 16th November, 1811.

FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON

Composed November 19, 1811.—Published 1815

One of the "Inscriptions."—Ed.

Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground,
Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view
The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu;
Erst a religious House, which[1] day and night 5
With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite:
And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth
To honourable Men of various worth:[2]
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild,
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; 10
There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks,
Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;
Unconscious prelude to heroic themes,
Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams
Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, 15
With which his genius shook[3] the buskined stage.
Communities are lost, and Empires die,
And things of holy use unhallowed lie;[A]
They perish;—but the Intellect can raise,[4]
From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays. 20

Charnwood forest, in Leicestershire, is an almost treeless wold of between fifteen and sixteen thousand acres. The

eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Rugged and high,

refers probably to High Cadmon. The nunnery of Grace Dieu was a religious house, in a retired spot near the centre of the forest; and was built between 1236 and 1242. The English monasteries were suppressed in 1536; but Grace Dieu, with thirty others of the smaller monasteries, was allowed to continue some time longer. It was finally suppressed in 1539, when the site of the priory, with the demesne lands, was granted to Sir Humphrey Foster, who conveyed the whole to John Beaumont. Francis Beaumont, the dramatic poet, was born at Grace Dieu in 1586. He died in 1615, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

"William and I went to Grace Dieu last week. We were enchanted with the little valley and its nooks, and the rocks of Charnwood upon the hill."—Dorothy Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, November 17, 1806.

This "Inscription" was composed at Grasmere, November 19, 1811, as the following extract from a letter of Wordsworth's to Lady Beaumont indicates:—"Grasmere, Wednesday, November 20, 1811.—My Dear Lady Beaumont—When you see this you will think I mean to overrun you with inscriptions. I do not mean to tax you with putting them up, only with reading them. The following I composed yesterday morning in a walk from Brathay, whither I had been to accompany my sister:—

For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton.

Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound.

The thought of writing this inscription occurred to me many years ago."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

... that ... 1815.

[2] 1815.

But, when the formal Mass had long been stilled,
And wise and mighty changes were fulfilled;
That Ground gave birth to men of various Parts
For Knightly Services and liberal Arts.

MS. letter to Lady Beaumont, 20th November, 1811.

[3] 1815.

With which his skill inspired ... MS.

[4] 1815.

But Truth and Intellectual Power can raise,

MS. letter to Lady Beaumont, 20th November, 1811.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In the editions of 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth appended the following line from Daniel, as a note to the third last line of this "Inscription"—

Strait all that holy was unhallowed lies.
Daniel.Ed.

SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,

Upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors

Composed 1807.—Published 1807

[See the note. This poem was composed at Coleorton while I was walking to and fro along the path that led from Sir George Beaumont's Farmhouse, where we resided, to the Hall, which was building at that time.—I. F.]

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

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.—
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long:—

"From town to town, from tower to tower, 5
The red rose is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming:[A]
10
Both roses flourish, red and white:
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles[1] now are ended.—
Joy! joy to both! but most to her 15
Who is the flower of Lancaster!
Behold her how She smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array!
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the hall; 20
But chiefly from above the board
Where sits in state our rightful Lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!

"They came with banner, spear, and shield;
And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 25
Not long the Avenger was withstood—
Earth helped him with the cry of blood:[B]
St George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the Land has[2] uttered forth, 30
We loudest in the faithful north:
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming;
Our strong-abodes and castles see
The glory of their loyalty.[3]
35

"How glad is Skipton at this hour—
Though lonely, a deserted Tower;[4]
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom:[5]
We have them at the feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon—though the sleep 40
Of years be on her!—She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream; 45
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely Tower:—
But here is perfect joy and pride 50
For one fair House by Emont's side,
This day, distinguished without peer
To see her Master and to cheer—
Him, and his Lady-mother dear!

"Oh! it was a time forlorn 55
When the fatherless was born—
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die!
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the Mother and the Child. 60
Who will take them from the light?
—Yonder is a man in sight—
Yonder is a house—but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks, 65
To the clouds of heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
Maid and Mother undefiled, 70
Save a Mother and her Child!

"Now Who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass. 75
Can this be He who hither came
In secret, like a smothered flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the Child; and God hath willed 80
That those dear words should be fulfilled,
The Lady's words, when forced away
The last she to her Babe did say:
'My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest
I may not be; but rest thee, rest, 85
For lowly shepherd's life is best!'

"Alas! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,[C]
90
And quit the flowers that summer brings[D]
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heaviness and fear.
—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! 95
Hear it, good man, old in days!
Thou tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest;
Among thy branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play, 100
When falcons were abroad for prey.

"A recreant harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
I said, when evil men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long, 105
A weak and cowardly untruth!
Our Clifford was a happy Youth,
And thankful through a weary time,
That brought him up to manhood's prime.
—Again he wanders forth at will, 110

And tends a flock from hill to hill:[6]
His garb is humble; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien;
Among the shepherd grooms no mate
Hath he, a Child of strength and state! 115
Yet lacks not friends for simple[7] glee,
Nor yet for higher sympathy.[8]
To his side the fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The eagle, lord of land and sea, 120
Stooped down to pay him fealty;[E]
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him;[F]
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality; 125
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro, for his delight.[9]
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon[10] the mountains visitant;
He hath kenned[11] them taking wing: 130
And into caves[12] where Faeries sing
He hath entered; and been told
By Voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
The face of thing[13] that is to be; 135
And, if that men report him right,
His tongue could whisper words of might.[14]
—Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom;
He hath thrown aside his crook, 140
And hath buried deep his book;
Armour rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls;—[G]
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance—
Bear me to the heart of France, 145
Is the longing of the Shield—
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day, and mighty hour, 150
When our Shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his ancestors restored
Like a re-appearing Star,
Like a glory from afar, 155
First shall head the flock of war!"

Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed:
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,[15]
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 160

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in[16] the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 165
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
The wisdom which adversity had bred.

Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth;
The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more; 170
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.

The original text of this Song was altered but little in succeeding editions, and was not changed at all till 1836 and 1845. The following is Wordsworth's explanatory note, appended to the poem in all the editions:—

"Henry Lord Clifford, etc. etc., who is the subject of this Poem, was the son of John, Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field,[H] which John, Lord Clifford, as is known to the Reader of English History, was the person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, Son of the Duke of York who had fallen in the battle, 'in part of revenge' (say the Authors of the History of Cumberland and Westmoreland); 'for the Earl's Father had slain his.' A deed which worthily blemished the author (saith Speed); But who, as he adds, 'dare promise any thing temperate of himself in the heat of martial fury? chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line standing; for so one maketh this Lord to speak.' This, no doubt, I would observe by the bye, was an action sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altogether so bad as represented; 'for the Earl was no child, as some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of the Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she was born); that he was the next Child to King Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then eighteen years of age: and for the small distance betwixt her Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622, where he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that Lord Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five years of age, had been a leading Man and Commander, two or three years together in the Army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to mercy from his youth.—But, independent of this act, at best a cruel and savage one, the Family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them the vehement hatred of the House of York: so that after the Battle of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of the Poem, was deprived of his estate and honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, 'when called to parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but otherwise came seldom to London or the Court; and rather delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of his Castles, which had gone to decay during the late troubles.' Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicholson and Burn; and I can add, from my own knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in the course of his shepherd life, he had acquired great astronomical knowledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon the subject of those numerous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of in the Poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an ornament to that interesting country. The Cliffords had always been distinguished for an honourable pride in these Castles; and we have seen that after the wars of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt; in the civil Wars of Charles the First, they were again laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, etc. etc. Not more than twenty-five years after this was done, when the Estates of Clifford had passed into the Family of Tufton, three of these Castles, namely Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, were demolished, and the timber and other materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that, when this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah, 58th Chap. 12th Verse, to which the inscription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his Grandmother) at the time she repaired that structure, refers the reader. 'And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations, and thou shalt be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell in.' The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of the Estates, with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all depredations."

Compare the reference to the "Shepherd-lord" in the first canto of The White Doe of Rylstone, p. 116, and the topographical allusions there, with this Song. Compare also the life of Anne Clifford, in Hartley Coleridge's Lives of Distinguished Northerners.

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.

Brougham Castle, past which the river Emont flows, is about two miles out of Penrith, on the Appleby Road. It is now a ruin, but was once a place of importance. The larger part of it was built by Roger, Lord Clifford, son of Isabella de Veteripont, who placed over the inner door the inscription, "This made Roger." His grandson added the eastern part. The castle was frequently laid waste by the Scottish Bands, and during the Wars of the Roses. The Earl of Cumberland entertained James I. within it, in 1617, on the occasion of the king's last return from Scotland; but it seems to have "layen ruinous" from that date, and to have suffered much during the civil wars in the reign of Charles I. In 1651-52 it was repaired by Lady Anne Clifford, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, who wrote thus—"After I had been there myself to direct the building of it, did I cause my old decayed castle of Brougham to be repaired, and also the tower called the "Roman Tower," in the same old castle, and the court-house, for keeping my courts in, with some dozen or fourteen rooms to be built in it upon the old foundation." (Pembroke Memoirs, i. p. 216.) After the time of the Countess Anne, the castle was neglected, and much of the stone, timber, and lead disposed of at public sales: the wainscotting being purchased by the neighbouring villagers.

Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last.

This refers to the thirty years interval between 1455 (the first battle of St. Albans in the wars of the Roses) and 1485 (the battle of Bosworth and the accession of Henry VII.)

Both roses flourish, red and white,

Alluding to the marriage of Henry VII. with Elizabeth, which united the two warring lines of York and Lancaster.

And it was proved in Bosworth-field.

The battle of Bosworth Field, in Leicestershire, was fought in 1485.

Not long the Avenger was withstood—
Earth helped him with the cry of blood.

Henry VII.—who, as Henry, Earl of Richmond, last scion of the line of Lancaster, had fled to Brittany—returned with Morton, the exiled Bishop of Ely, landed at Milford, advanced through Wales, and met the royal army at Bosworth, where Richard was slain, and Henry crowned king on the battlefield. The "cry of blood" refers, doubtless, to the murder of the young princes in the Tower.

How glad is Skipton at this hour—
Though lonely, a deserted Tower.

Skipton is the "capital" of the Craven district of Yorkshire, as Barrow is the capital of the Furness district of Lancashire and Westmoreland. The castle of Skipton was the chief residence of the Cliffords. Architecturally it is of two periods: the round tower dating from the reign of Edward II., and the rest from that of Henry VIII. From the time of Robert de Clifford, who fell at Bannockburn (1314), until the seventeenth century, the estates of the Cliffords extended from Skipton to Brougham Castle—seventy miles—with only a short interruption of ten miles. The "Shepherd-lord" Clifford of this poem was attainted—as explained in Wordsworth's note—by the triumphant House of York. He was "committed by his mother to the care of certain shepherds, whose wives had served her," and who kept him concealed both in Cumberland, and at Londesborough, in Yorkshire, where his mother's (Lady Margaret Vesci) own estates lay. The old "Tower" of Skipton Castle was "deserted" during these years when the "Shepherd-lord" was concealed in Cumberland.

How glad Pendragon—though the sleep
Of years be on her!

Pendragon Castle, in a narrow dell in the forest of Mallerstang, near the source of the Eden, south of Kirkby-Stephen, was another of the castles of the Cliffords. Its building was traditionally ascribed to Uter Pendragon, of Stonehenge celebrity, who was fabled to have tried to make the Eden flow round the castle of Pendragon: hence the distich—

Let Uter Pendragon do what he can,
Eden will run where Eden ran.

In the Countess of Pembroke's Memoirs (vol. i. pp. 22, 228), we are told that Idonea de Veteripont "made a great part of her residence in Westmoreland at Brough Castle, near Stanemore, and at Pendragon Castle, in Mallerstang." The castle was burned and destroyed by Scottish raiders in 1341, and for 140 years it was in a ruinous state. It is probably to this that reference is made in the phrase, "though the sleep of years be on her." During the attainder of Henry Lord Clifford, in the reign of Edward IV., part of this estate of Mallerstang was granted to Sir William Parr of Kendal Castle. It was again destroyed during the civil wars of the Stuarts, and was restored, along with Skipton and Brougham, by Lady Anne Clifford, in 1660, who put up an inscription "... Repaired in 1660, so as she came to lye in it herself for a little while in October 1661, after it had lain ruinous without timber or any other covering since 1541. Isaiah, chap. lviii. ver. 12." It was again demolished in 1685.

Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream.

Brough—the Verterae of the Romans—is called, for distinction's sake, "Brough-under-Stainmore" (or "Stanemore"). The "little humble stream" is Hillbeck, formerly Hellebeck—(it was said to derive its name from the waters rushing or "helleing" down the channel)—which descends from Warcop Fell, runs through Market Brough, and joins the Eden below it. The date of the building of the castle of Brough is uncertain, but it is probably older than the Conquest. It was sacked by the Scottish King William in 1174. It was "one of the chief residences" of Idonea de Veteripont (above referred to); for "then it was in its prime." (Pemb. Mem., vol. i. p. 22.) Probably she rebuilt it, and changed it from a tower—like Pendragon—into a castle. In the Pembroke Memoirs (i. p. 108), we read of its subsequent destruction by fire. "A great misfortune befell Henry Lord Clifford, some two years before his death, which happened in 1521; his ancient and great castle of Brough-under-Stanemore was set on fire by a casual mischance, a little after he had kept a great Christmas there, so as all the timber and lead were utterly consumed, and nothing left but the bare walls, which since are more and more consumed, and quite ruinated." This same Countess Anne Pembroke began to repair it in April 1660, "at her exceeding great charge and cost." She put up an inscription over the gate similar to the one which she inscribed at Pendragon.

And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard.

Doubtless Appleby Castle. Its origin is equally uncertain. Before 1422, John Lord Clifford, "builded that strong and fine artificial gate-house, all arched with stone, and decorated with the arms of the Veteriponts, Cliffords, and Percys, which with several parts of the castle walls was defaced and broken down in the civil war of 1648." His successor, Thomas, Lord Clifford, "built the chiefest part of the castle towards the east, as the hall, the chapel, and the great chamber." This was in 1454. The Countess Anne Pembroke wrote of Appleby Castle thus (Pemb. Mem., vol. i. p. 187): "In 1651 I continued to live in Appleby Castle a whole year, and spent much time in repairing it and Brougham Castle, to make them as habitable as I could, though Brougham was very ruinous, and much out of repair. And in this year, the 21st of April, I helped to lay the foundation stone of the middle wall of the great tower of Appleby Castle, called "Cæsar's Tower," to the end it might be repaired again, and made habitable, if it pleased God (Is. lviii. 12), after it had stood without a roof or covering, or one chamber habitable in it, since about 1567," etc. etc.

One fair House by Emont's side.

Brougham Castle.

Him, and his Lady-mother dear!

Lady Margaret, daughter and heiress of Lord Vesci, who married John, Lord Clifford—the Clifford of Shakespeare's Henry VI. He was killed at Ferrybridge near Knottingley in 1461. Their son was Henry, "the Shepherd-lord." His mother is buried in Londesborough Church, near Market Weighton.

Now Who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy?

Carrock-fell is three miles south-west from Castle Sowerby, in Cumberland.

The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves.

There are many "Mosedales" in the English Lake District. The one referred to here is to the north of Blencathara or Saddleback.

And quit the flowers that summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs.

The river Glenderamakin rises in the lofty ground to the north of Blencathara.

—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
·······
Thou tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest.

It was on Sir Lancelot Threlkeld's estates in Cumberland that the young Lord was concealed, disguised as a shepherd-boy. He was the "tree of covert" for the young "Bird" Henry Clifford. Compare The Waggoner, ll. 628-39 (vol. iii. p. 100)—

And see, beyond that hamlet small,
The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall,
Lurking in a double shade,
By trees and lingering twilight made!
There, at Blencathara's rugged feet,
Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat
To noble Clifford; from annoy
Concealed the persecuted boy,
Well pleased in rustic garb to feed
His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed
Among this multitude of hills,
Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills.

The old hall of Threlkeld has long been a ruin. Its only habitable part has been a farmhouse for many years.

And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him.

Bowscale Tarn is to the north of Blencathara. Its stream joins the Caldew river.

And into caves where Faeries sing
He hath entered.

Compare the previous reference to Blencathara's "rugged coves." There are many such on this mountain.

Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed:
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.

After restoration to his ancestral estates, the Shepherd-lord preferred to live in comparative retirement. He spent most of his time at Barden Tower (see notes to The White Doe of Rylstone), which he enlarged, and where he lived with a small retinue. He was much at Bolton (which was close at hand), and there he studied astronomy and alchemy, aided by the monks. It is to the time when he lived at Threlkeld, however—wandering as a shepherd-boy, over the ridges and around the coves of Blencathara, amongst the groves of Mosedale, and by the lofty springs of Glenderamakin—that Wordsworth refers in the lines,

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

He was at Flodden in 1513, when nearly sixty years of age, leading there the "flower of Craven."

From Penigent to Pendle Hill,
From Linton to long Addingham,
And all that Craven's coasts did till,
They with the lusty Clifford came.

Compare, in the first canto of The White Doe of Rylstone (p. 117)—

when he, with spear and shield,
Rode full of years to Flodden-field.

He died in 1523, and was buried in the choir of Bolton Priory.

The following is Sarah Coleridge's criticism of the Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, in the editorial note to her father's Biographia Literaria (vol. ii. ch. ix. p. 152, ed. 1847):—

"The transitions and vicissitudes in this noble lyric I have always thought rendered it one of the finest specimens of modern subjective poetry which our age has seen. The ode commences in a tone of high gratulation and festivity—a tone not only glad, but comparatively even jocund and light-hearted. The Clifford is restored to the home, the honours and estates of his ancestors. Then it sinks and falls away to the remembrance of tribulation—times of war and bloodshed, flight and terror, and hiding away from the enemy—times of poverty and distress, when the Clifford was brought, a little child, to the shelter of a northern valley. After a while it emerges from those depths of sorrow—gradually rises into a strain of elevated tranquillity and contemplative rapture; through the power of imagination, the beautiful and impressive aspects of nature are brought into relationship with the spirit of him, whose fortunes and character form the subject of the piece, and are represented as gladdening and exalting it, whilst they keep it pure and unspotted from the world. Suddenly the Poet is carried on with greater animation and passion: he has returned to the point whence he started—flung himself back into the tide of stirring life and moving events. All is to come over again, struggle and conflict, chances and changes of war, victory and triumph, overthrow and desolation. I know nothing, in lyric poetry, more beautiful or affecting than the final transition from this part of the ode, with its rapid metre, to the slow elegiac stanzas at the end, when, from the warlike fervour and eagerness, the jubilant strain which has just been described, the Poet passes back into the sublime silence of Nature, gathering amid her deep and quiet bosom a more subdued and solemn tenderness than he had manifested before; it is as if from the heights of the imaginative intellect, his spirit had retreated into the recesses of a profoundly thoughtful Christian heart."

Professor Henry Reed said of this poem—"Had he never written another ode, this alone would set him at the head of the lyric poets of England."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... sorrows ... 1807.

[2] 1827.

... hath ... 1807.

[3] 1807.

... royalty. 1815.

The text of 1820 returns to that of 1807.

[4] 1845.

Though she is but a lonely Tower!
Silent, deserted of her best,
Without an Inmate or a Guest, 1807.

Deserted, emptied of her best. MS.

To vacancy and silence left;
Of all her guardian sons bereft— 1820.

[5] 1836.

Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; 1807.

[6] 1807.

... on vale and hill: MS.

[7] 1845.

... solemn ... 1807.

[8] 1845. This line was previously three lines—

And a chearful company,
That learn'd of him submissive ways;
And comforted his private days. 1807.

A spirit-soothing company, 1836.

[9] 1836.

They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight. 1807.

[10] 1836.

On ... 1807.

[11] 1807.

... heard ... MS.

[12] 1836.

And the Caves ... 1807.

[13] 1836.

Face of thing ... 1807.

[14]
C. and 1840.

And, if Men report him right,
He can whisper words of might. 1807.

He could whisper ... 1827.

And, if that men report him right,
He could whisper ... 1836.

[15] 1845.

Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,
Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go, 1807.

[16] 1807.

... of ... MS.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Hudibras, part II. canto i. ll. 567-8—

That shall infuse Eternal Spring
And everlasting flourishing.Ed.

[B] This line is from The Battle of Bosworth Field, by Sir John Beaumont (Brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with so much spirit, elegance, and harmony, that it is supposed, as the Book is very scarce, a new edition of it would be acceptable to Scholars and Men of taste, and, accordingly, it is in contemplation to give one.—W. W. 1807.

Beaumont's line in The Battle of Bosworth Field is—

The earth assists thee with the cry of blood.Ed.

[C] "No three words could better describe the gulfs on the side of Saddleback." (H. D. Rawnsley.)

[D] "Rugged patches of Hawkweed, golden rod, and white water ranunculus in the pools." (H. D. Rawnsley.)

[E] The eagle nested in Borrowdale as late as 1785.—Ed.

[F] It is imagined by the people of the Country that there are two immortal Fish, Inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld. Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back.—W. W. 1807.

[G] The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers of English History; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of comment on these lines and what follows, that, besides several others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate Progenitors of the person in whose hearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the Field.—W. W. 1807.

Compare The Borderers, act III. l. 56 (vol. i. p. 173)—

They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man.Ed.

[H] He was killed at Ferrybridge the day before the battle of Towton.—Ed.

1808

The poems referring to Coleorton are all transferred to the year 1807, and The Force of Prayer was written in that year. Those composed in 1808 were few in number. With the exception of The White Doe of Rylstone—to which additions were made in that year—they include only the two sonnets Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a Tract, occasioned by the Convention of Cintra, and the fragment on George and Sarah Green. The latter poem Wordsworth gave to De Quincey, who published it in his "Recollections of Grasmere," which appeared in Tait's Edinburgh Magazine in September 1839; but it never found a place in any edition of Wordsworth's own poems. In this edition it is printed in the appendix to volume viii.

The reasons which have led me to assign The White Doe of Rylstone to the year 1808, are stated in a note to the poem (see p. 191). I infer that it was practically finished in April 1808, because Dorothy Wordsworth, in a letter to Lady Beaumont, dated April 20, 1808, says, "The poem is to be published. Longman has consented—in spite of the odium under which my brother labours as a poet—to give him 100 guineas for 1000 copies, according to his demand." She gives no indication of the name of the poem referred to. As it must, however, have been one which was to be published separately, she can only refer to The White Doe or to The Excursion; but the latter poem was not finished in 1808.

It is probable, from the remark made in a subsequent letter to Lady Beaumont, February 1810, that Wordsworth intended either to add to what he had written in 1808, or to alter some passages before publication; or by "completing" the poem, he may have meant simply adding the Dedication, which was not written till 1815.

All things considered, it seems the best arrangement that the poems of 1808 should begin with The White Doe of Rylstone. In the year 1891 I edited this poem for the Clarendon Press. A few additional details have come to light since then, and are introduced into the notes. S. T. Coleridge's criticism of the poem in Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. chap. xxii. p. 176 (edition 1817), should be consulted.—Ed.

THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE;

Or, The Fate of the Nortons

Composed 1807-10.—Published 1815

ADVERTISEMENT

During the Summer of 1807, I visited, for the first time, the beautiful country that surrounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire; and the Poem of the White Doe, founded upon a Tradition connected with that place, was composed at the close of the same year.—W. W.[A]

[The earlier half of this poem was composed at Stockton-upon-Tees, when Mrs. Wordsworth and I were on a visit to her eldest brother, Mr. Hutchinson, at the close of the year 1807. The country is flat, and the weather was rough. I was accustomed every day to walk to and fro under the shelter of a row of stacks, in a field at a small distance from the town, and there poured forth my verses aloud as freely as they would come. Mrs. Wordsworth reminds me that her brother stood upon the punctilio of not sitting down to dinner till I joined the party; and it frequently happened that I did not make my appearance till too late, so that she was made uncomfortable. I here beg her pardon for this and similar transgressions during the whole course of our wedded life. To my beloved sister the same apology is due.

When, from the visit just mentioned, we returned to Town-end, Grasmere, I proceeded with the poem; and it may be worth while to note, as a caution to others who may cast their eye on these memoranda, that the skin having been rubbed off my heel by my wearing too tight a shoe, though I desisted from walking, I found that the irritation of the wounded part was kept up, by the act of composition, to a degree that made it necessary to give my constitution a holiday. A rapid cure was the consequence. Poetic excitement, when accompanied by protracted labour in composition, has throughout my life brought on more or less bodily derangement. Nevertheless, I am at the close of my seventy-third year, in what may be called excellent health; so that intellectual labour is not necessarily unfavourable to longevity. But perhaps I ought here to add that mine has been generally carried on out of doors.

Let me here say a few words of this poem in the way of criticism. The subject being taken from feudal times has led to its being compared to some of Walter Scott's poems that belong to the same age and state of society. The comparison is inconsiderate. Sir Walter pursued the customary and very natural course of conducting an action, presenting various turns of fortune, to some outstanding point on which the mind might rest as a termination or catastrophe. The course I have attempted to pursue is entirely different. Everything that is attempted by the principal personages in The White Doe fails, so far as its object is external and substantial. So far as it is moral and spiritual it succeeds. The heroine of the poem knows that her duty is not to interfere with the current of events, either to forward or delay them, but

to abide
The shock, and finally secure
O'er pain and grief a triumph pure.

This she does in obedience to her brother's injunction, as most suitable to a mind and character that, under previous trials, has been proved to accord with his. She achieves this not without aid from the communication with the inferior Creature, which often leads her thoughts to revolve upon the past with a tender and humanising influence that exalts rather than depresses her. The anticipated beatification, if I may so say, of her mind, and the apotheosis of the companion of her solitude, are the points at which the Poem aims, and constitute its legitimate catastrophe, far too spiritual a one for instant or widely-spread sympathy, but not, therefore, the less fitted to make a deep and permanent impression upon that class of minds who think and feel more independently, than the many do, of the surfaces of things and interests transitory, because belonging more to the outward and social forms of life than to its internal spirit. How insignificant a thing, for example, does personal prowess appear compared with the fortitude of patience and heroic martyrdom; in other words, with struggles for the sake of principle, in preference to victory gloried in for its own sake.—I. F.]

DEDICATION

I

In trellised shed with clustering roses gay,[B]
And, Mary! oft beside our blazing fire,
When years of wedded life were as a day
Whose current answers to the heart's desire,
Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 5
How Una, sad of soul—in sad attire,
The gentle Una, of celestial birth,[1]
To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.

II

Ah, then, Belovèd! pleasing was the smart,
And the tear precious in compassion shed 10
For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,
Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;
Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,—[C]
And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 15
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.

III

Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;
Free Fancy prized each specious miracle,
And all its finer inspiration caught; 20
Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell,
We by a lamentable change were taught
That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide:"[D]
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

IV

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 25
For us the voice of melody was mute.
—But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 30
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

V

It soothed us—it beguiled us—then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;
And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 35
The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel:
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
High over hill and low adown the dell
Again we wandered, willing to partake
All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. 40

VI

Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please,
Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep,
Is tempered and allayed by sympathies
Aloft ascending, and descending deep,
Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees 45
Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep
Of the sharp winds;—fair Creatures!—to whom Heaven
A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

VII

This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks
Of female patience winning firm repose; 50
And, of the recompense that[2] conscience seeks,
A bright, encouraging, example shows;
Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks,
Needful amid life's ordinary woes;—
Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 55
A happy hour with holier happiness.

VIII

He serves the Muses erringly and ill,
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
O, that my mind were equal to fulfil
The comprehensive mandate which they give— 60
Vain aspiration of an earnest will!
Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,
Belovèd Wife! such solace to impart
As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

Rydal Mount, Westmoreland,

April 20, 1815.

"Action is transitory—a step, a blow, 65
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 has the nature of infinity. 70
Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem
And irremovable) gracious openings lie,
By which the soul—with patient steps of thought
Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer—
May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds 75
Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent
Even to the fountain-head of peace divine."[E]

"They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: for certainly Man is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; and if he be not of kinn to God by his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Nature: for take an example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a Man, who to him is instead of a God, or Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly such, as that Creature without that confidence of a better Nature than his own could never attain. So Man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain."
Lord Bacon.[F]

CANTO FIRST

From Bolton's old monastic tower[G]
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun shines[3] bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, 5
Along the banks of crystal Wharf,[4]
Through the Vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company! 10
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,
That down the steep hills force their way,
Like cattle through the budded brooms;
Path, or no path, what care they?
And thus in joyous mood they hie 15
To Bolton's mouldering Priory.[H]

What would they there!—full fifty years
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers,
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste
The bitterness of wrong and waste: 20
Its courts are ravaged; but the tower
Is standing with a voice of power,[I]
That ancient voice which wont to call
To mass or some high festival;
And in the shattered fabric's heart 25
Remaineth one protected part;
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
Closely embowered and trimly drest;[5][J]
And thither young and old repair,
This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 30

Fast the church-yard fills;—anon
Look again, and they all are gone;
The cluster round the porch, and the folk
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak![K]
And scarcely have they disappeared 35
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:—
With one consent the people rejoice,
Filling the church with a lofty voice!
They sing a service which they feel:
For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal; 40
Of a pure faith the vernal prime—[6]
In great Eliza's golden time.

A moment ends the fervent din,
And all is hushed, without and within;
For though the priest, more tranquilly, 45
Recites the holy liturgy,
The only voice which you can hear
Is the river murmuring near.
—When soft!—the dusky trees between,
And down the path through the open green, 50
Where is no living thing to be seen;
And through yon gateway, where is found,
Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
Free entrance to the church-yard ground—
[7]Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 55
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary Doe!
White she is as lily of June,
And beauteous as the silver moon 60
When out of sight the clouds are driven
And she is left alone in heaven;
Or like a ship some gentle day
In sunshine sailing far away,
A glittering ship, that hath the plain 65
Of ocean for her own domain.

Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!
Lie quiet in your church-yard bed!
Ye living, tend your holy cares;
Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; 70
And blame not me if my heart and sight
Are occupied with one delight!
'Tis a work for sabbath hours
If I with this bright Creature go:
Whether she be of forest bowers, 75
From the bowers of earth below;
Or a Spirit for one day given,
A pledge[8] of grace from purest heaven.

What harmonious pensive changes
Wait upon her as she ranges 80
Round and through this Pile of state
Overthrown and desolate!
Now a step or two her way
Leads through[9] space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light 85
Brightens her that was so bright;[L]
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Falls upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath: 90
Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes,—
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell,
With perfect cunning framed as well
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 95
Of the elder's bushy head;
Some jealous and forbidding cell,
That doth the living stars repel,
And where no flower hath leave to dwell.

The presence of this wandering Doe 100
Fills many a damp obscure recess
With lustre of a saintly show;
And, reappearing, she no less
Sheds on the flowers that round her blow
A more than sunny liveliness.[10]
105
But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,
Comes she with a votary's task,
Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense 110
Of sorrow, or of reverence?
Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crushed as if by wrath divine?
For what survives of house where God
Was worshipped, or where Man abode; 115
For old magnificence undone;
Or for the gentler work begun
By Nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing?[M]
Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 120
That to the sapling ash gives birth;
For dormitory's length laid bare
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;[N]
Or altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament?[11]
125
—She sees a warrior carved in stone,
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;[O]
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation prest, 130
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast;
As little she regards the sight[12]
As a common creature might:
If she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 135
—But hers are eyes serenely bright,
And on she moves—with pace how light!
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
And thus she fares, until at last[13]
140
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave
In quietness she lays her down;
Gentle[14] as a weary wave
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
Against an anchored vessel's side; 145
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the crystal stream now flowing 150
With its softest summer sound:[15]
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant Creature lies
Couched upon the dewy grass,
Pensively with downcast eyes. 155
—But now again the people raise
With awful cheer a voice of praise;[16]
It is the last, the parting song;
And from the temple forth they throng,
And quickly spread themselves abroad, 160
While each pursues his several road.
But some—a variegated band
Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung— 165
With mute obeisance gladly paid
Turn towards the spot, where, full in view,
The white Doe, to her service true,[17]
Her sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound; 170
Which two spears' length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide:
As if in some respect of pride;
Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood; 175
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.

"Look, there she is, my Child! draw near;
She fears not, wherefore should we fear?
She means no harm;"—but still the Boy, 180
To whom the words were softly said,
Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy,
A shamed-faced blush of glowing red!
Again the Mother whispered low,
"Now you have seen the famous Doe; 185
From Rylstone she hath found her way
Over the hills this sabbath day;
Her work, whate'er it be, is done,
And she will depart when we are gone;
Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 190
Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."

[18]Bright was[19] the Creature, as in dreams
The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright;
But is she truly what she seems?
He asks with insecure delight, 195
Asks of himself, and doubts,—and still
The doubt returns against his will:
Though he, and all the standers-by,
Could tell a tragic history
Of facts divulged, wherein appear 200
Substantial motive, reason clear,
Why thus the milk-white Doe is found
Couchant beside that lonely mound;
And why she duly loves to pace
The circuit of this hallowed place. 205
Nor to the Child's inquiring mind
Is such perplexity confined:
For, spite of sober Truth that sees
A world of fixed remembrances
Which to this mystery belong, 210
If, undeceived, my skill can trace
The characters of every face,
There lack not strange delusion here,
Conjecture vague, and idle fear,
And superstitious fancies strong, 215
Which do the gentle Creature wrong.

That bearded, staff-supported Sire—
Who in his boyhood often fed[20]
Full cheerily on convent-bread
And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 220
And to his grave will go with scars,
Relics of long and distant wars—[21]
That Old Man, studious to expound
The spectacle, is mounting[22] high
To days of dim antiquity; 225
When Lady Aäliza mourned
Her Son,[P] and felt in her despair
The pang of unavailing prayer;
Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned,
The noble Boy of Egremound.[Q]
230
From which affliction—when the grace
Of God had in her heart found place—[23]
A pious structure, fair to see,
Rose up, this stately Priory!
The Lady's work;—but now laid low; 235
To the grief of her soul that doth come and go,
In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe:
Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to sustain
A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain,
Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright; 240
And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light.

Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;[R]
And, through the chink in the fractured floor
Look down, and see a griesly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright![S]
245
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;
And, in his place, among son and sire,
Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
A valiant man, and a name of dread 250
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch!
Look down among them, if you dare;
Oft does the White Doe loiter there, 255
Prying into the darksome rent;
Nor can it be with good intent:
So thinks that Dame of haughty air,
Who hath a Page her book to hold,
And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 260
Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree—
Who counts among her ancestry[24]
Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously!

That slender Youth, a scholar pale,
From Oxford come to his native vale, 265
He also hath his own conceit:
It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy,
Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet[T]
In his wanderings solitary:
Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 270
A song of Nature's hidden powers;
That whistled like the wind, and rang
Among the rocks and holly bowers.
'Twas said that She all shapes could wear;
And oftentimes before him stood, 275
Amid the trees of some thick wood,
In semblance of a lady fair;
And taught him signs, and showed him sights,
In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian[25] heights;
When under cloud of fear he lay, 280
A shepherd clad in homely grey;
Nor left him at his later day.
And hence, when he, with spear and shield,
Rode full of years to Flodden-field,
His eye could see the hidden spring, 285
And how the current was to flow;
The fatal end of Scotland's King,
And all that hopeless overthrow.
But not in wars did he delight,
This Clifford wished for worthier might; 290
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state;
Him his own thoughts did elevate,—
Most happy in the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly[26] quietness.[U]
And choice of studious friends had he 295
Of Bolton's dear fraternity;
Who, standing on this old church tower,
In many a calm propitious hour,
Perused, with him, the starry sky;
Or, in their cells, with him did pry 300
For other lore,—by keen desire
Urged to close toil with chemic fire;[27]
In quest belike of transmutations
Rich as the mine's most bright creations.[28]
But they and their good works are fled, 305
And all is now disquieted—
And peace is none, for living or dead!

Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so,
But look again at the radiant Doe!
What quiet watch she seems to keep, 310
Alone, beside that grassy heap!
Why mention other thoughts unmeet
For vision so composed and sweet?
While stand the people in a ring,
Gazing, doubting, questioning; 315
Yea, many overcome in spite
Of recollections clear and bright;
Which yet do unto some impart
An undisturbed repose of heart.
And all the assembly own a law 320
Of orderly respect and awe;
But see—they vanish one by one,
And last, the Doe herself is gone.

Harp! we have been full long beguiled
By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild;[29]
325
To which, with no reluctant strings,
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings;
And now before this Pile we stand
In solitude, and utter peace:
But, Harp! thy murmurs may not cease— 330
A Spirit, with his angelic wings,
In soft and breeze-like visitings,
Has touched thee—and a Spirit's hand:[30]
A voice is with us—a command
To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 335
A tale of tears, a mortal story!

CANTO SECOND

The Harp in lowliness obeyed;
And first we sang of the green-wood shade
And a solitary Maid;
Beginning, where the song must end,
With her, and with her sylvan Friend; 5
The Friend, who stood before her sight,
Her only unextinguished light;
Her last companion in a dearth
Of love, upon a hopeless earth.

For She it was—this Maid, who wrought[31]
10
Meekly, with foreboding thought,
In vermeil colours and in gold
An unblest work; which, standing by,
Her Father did with joy behold,—
Exulting in its[32] imagery; 15
A Banner, fashioned to fulfil[33]
Too perfectly his headstrong will:
For on this Banner had her hand
Embroidered (such her Sire's command)[34]
The sacred Cross; and figured there 20
The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;
Full soon to be uplifted high,
And float in rueful company!

It was the time when England's Queen 24
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;[V]
Nor yet the restless crown had been
Disturbed upon her virgin head;
But now the inly-working North
Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
A potent vassalage, to fight 30
In Percy's and in Neville's right,[W]
Two Earls fast leagued in discontent,
Who gave their wishes open vent;
And boldly urged a general plea,
The rites of ancient piety 35
To be triumphantly restored,
By the stern justice of the sword![35]
And that same Banner on whose breast
The blameless Lady had exprest
Memorials chosen to give life 40
And sunshine to a dangerous strife;
That[36] Banner, waiting for the Call,
Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall.

It came; and Francis Norton said,
"O Father! rise not in this fray— 45
The hairs are white upon your head;
Dear Father, hear me when I say
It is for you too late a day!
Bethink you of your own good name:
A just and gracious queen have we, 50
A pure religion, and the claim
Of peace on our humanity.—
'Tis meet that I endure your scorn;
I am your son, your eldest born;
But not for lordship or for land, 55
My Father, do I clasp your knees;
The Banner touch not, stay your hand,
This multitude of men disband,
And live at home in blameless[37] ease;
For these my brethren's sake, for me; 60
And, most of all, for Emily!"

Tumultuous noises filled the hall;[38]
And scarcely could the Father hear
That name—pronounced with a dying fall—[39][X]
The name of his only Daughter dear, 65
As on[40] the banner which stood near
He glanced a look of holy pride,
And his moist[41] eyes were glorified;
Then did he seize the staff, and say:[42]
"Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name, 70
Keep thou this ensign till the day
When I of thee require the same:
Thy place be on my better hand;—
And seven as true as thou, I see,
Will cleave to this good cause and me." 75
He spake, and eight brave sons straightway
All followed him, a gallant band!

Thus, with his sons, when forth he came
The sight was hailed with loud acclaim
And din of arms and minstrelsy,[43]
80
From all his warlike tenantry,
All horsed and harnessed with him to ride,—
A voice[44] to which the hills replied!

But Francis, in the vacant hall,
Stood silent under dreary weight,— 85
A phantasm, in which roof and wall
Shook, tottered, swam before his sight;
A phantasm like a dream of night!
Thus overwhelmed, and desolate,
He found his way to a postern-gate; 90
And, when he waked, his languid eye[45]
Was on the calm and silent sky;
With air about him breathing sweet,
And earth's green grass beneath his feet;
Nor did he fail ere long to hear 95
A sound of military cheer,
Faint—but it reached that sheltered spot;
He heard, and it disturbed him not.

There stood he, leaning on a lance
Which he had grasped unknowingly, 100
Had blindly grasped in that strong trance,
That dimness of heart-agony;
There stood he, cleansed from the despair
And sorrow of his fruitless prayer.
The past he calmly hath reviewed: 105
But where will be the fortitude
Of this brave man, when he shall see
That Form beneath the spreading tree,
And know that it is Emily?[46]

He saw her where in open view 110
She sate beneath the spreading yew—
Her head upon her lap, concealing
In solitude her bitter feeling:
[47]"Might ever son command a sire,
The act were justified to-day." 115
This to himself—and to the Maid,
Whom now he had approached, he said—
"Gone are they,—they have their desire;
And I with thee one hour will stay,
To give thee comfort if I may." 120

She heard, but looked not up, nor spake;
And sorrow moved him to partake
Her silence; then his thoughts turned round,[48]
And fervent words a passage found.

"Gone are they, bravely, though misled; 125
With a dear Father at their head!
The Sons obey a natural lord;
The Father had given solemn word
To noble Percy; and a force
Still stronger, bends him to his course. 130
This said, our tears to-day may fall
As at an innocent funeral.
In deep and awful channel runs
This sympathy of Sire and Sons;
Untried our Brothers have been loved[49]
135
With heart by simple nature moved;[50]
And now their faithfulness is proved:
For faithful we must call them, bearing
That soul of conscientious daring.
—There were they all in circle—there 140
Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher,
John with a sword that will not fail,
And Marmaduke in fearless mail,
And those bright Twins were side by side;
And there, by fresh hopes beautified, 145
Stood He,[51] whose arm yet lacks the power
Of man, our youngest, fairest flower!
I, by the right[52] of eldest born,
And in a second father's place,
Presumed to grapple with[53] their scorn, 150
And meet their pity face to face;
Yea, trusting in God's holy aid,
I to my Father knelt and prayed;
And one, the pensive Marmaduke,
Methought, was yielding inwardly, 155
And would have laid his purpose by,
But for a glance of his Father's eye,
Which I myself could scarcely brook.

"Then be we, each and all, forgiven!
Thou, chiefly thou,[54] my Sister dear, 160
Whose pangs are registered in heaven—
The stifled sigh, the hidden tear,
And smiles, that dared to take their place,
Meek filial smiles, upon thy face,
As that unhallowed Banner grew 165
Beneath a loving old Man's view.
Thy part is done—thy painful part;
Be thou then satisfied in heart!
A further, though far easier, task
Than thine hath been, my duties ask; 170
With theirs my efforts cannot blend,
I cannot for such cause contend;
Their aims I utterly forswear;
But I in body will be there.
Unarmed and naked will I go, 175
Be at their side, come weal or woe:
On kind occasions I may wait,
See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate.
Bare breast I take and an empty hand."—[Y]
Therewith he threw away the lance, 180
Which he had grasped in that strong trance;
Spurned it, like something that would stand
Between him and the pure intent
Of love on which his soul was bent.

"For thee, for thee, is left the sense 185
Of trial past without offence
To God or man; such innocence,
Such consolation, and the excess
Of an unmerited distress;
In that thy very strength must lie. 190
—O Sister, I could prophesy!
The time is come that rings the knell
Of all we loved, and loved so well:
Hope nothing, if I thus may speak
To thee, a woman, and thence weak: 195
Hope nothing, I repeat; for we
Are doomed to perish utterly:
'Tis meet that thou with me divide
The thought while I am by thy side,
Acknowledging a grace in this, 200
A comfort in the dark abyss.
But look not for me when I am gone,
And be no farther wrought upon:
Farewell all wishes, all debate,
All prayers for this cause, or for that! 205
Weep, if that aid thee; but depend
Upon no help of outward friend;
Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave
To fortitude without reprieve.
For we must fall, both we and ours— 210
This Mansion and these pleasant bowers,
Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall—
Our fate is theirs, will reach them all;[Z]
The young horse must forsake his manger,
And learn to glory in a Stranger; 215
The hawk forget his perch; the hound
Be parted from his ancient ground:
The blast will sweep us all away—
One desolation, one decay!
And even this Creature!" which words saying, 220
He pointed to a lovely Doe,
A few steps distant, feeding, straying;
Fair creature, and more white than snow!
"Even she will to her peaceful woods
Return, and to her murmuring floods, 225
And be in heart and soul the same
She was before she hither came;
Ere she had learned to love us all,
Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall.
—But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 230
The last leaf on a blasted tree;[55]
If not in vain we breathed[56] the breath
Together of a purer faith;
If hand in hand we have been led,
And thou, (O happy thought this day!) 235
Not seldom foremost in the way;
If on one thought our minds have fed,
And we have in one meaning read;
If, when at home our private weal
Hath suffered from the shock of zeal, 240
Together we have learned to prize
Forbearance and self-sacrifice;
If we like combatants have fared,
And for this issue been prepared;
If thou art beautiful, and youth 245
And thought endue thee with all truth—
Be strong;—be worthy of the grace
Of God, and fill thy destined place:
A Soul, by force of sorrows high,
Uplifted to the purest sky 250
Of undisturbed humanity!"

He ended,—or she heard no more;
He led her from the yew-tree shade,
And at the mansion's silent door,
He kissed the consecrated Maid; 255
And down the valley then pursued,[57]
Alone, the armèd Multitude.

CANTO THIRD

Now joy for you who from the towers
Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear,[AA][58]
Telling melancholy hours!
Proclaim it, let your Masters hear
That Norton with his band is near! 5
The watchmen from their station high
Pronounced the word,—and the Earls descry,
Well-pleased, the armèd Company[59]
Marching down the banks of Were.

Said fearless Norton to the pair 10
Gone forth to greet[60] him on the plain
"This meeting, noble Lords! looks fair,
I bring with me a goodly train;
Their hearts are with you: hill and dale
Have helped us: Ure we crossed, and Swale, 15
And horse and harness followed—see
The best part of their Yeomanry!
—Stand forth, my Sons!—these eight are mine,
Whom to this service I commend;
Which way soe'er our fate incline, 20
These will be faithful to the end;
They are my all"—voice failed him here—
"My all save one, a Daughter dear!
Whom I have left, Love's mildest birth,[61]
The meekest Child on this blessed earth. 25
I had—but these are by my side,
These Eight, and this is a day of pride!
The time is ripe. With festive din
Lo! how the people are flocking in,—
Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand 30
When snow lies heavy upon the land."

He spake bare truth; for far and near
From every side came noisy swarms
Of Peasants in their homely gear;
And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came 35
Grave Gentry of estate and name,
And Captains known for worth in arms;
And prayed the Earls in self-defence
To rise, and prove their innocence.—
"Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 40
For holy Church, and the People's right!"

The Norton fixed, at this demand,
His eye upon Northumberland,
And said; "The Minds of Men will own
No loyal rest while England's Crown 45
Remains without an Heir, the bait
Of strife and factions desperate;
Who, paying deadly hate in kind
Through all things else, in this can find
A mutual hope, a common mind; 50
And plot, and pant to overwhelm
All ancient honour in the realm.
—Brave Earls! to whose heroic veins
Our noblest blood is given in trust,
To you a suffering State complains, 55
And ye must raise her from the dust.
With wishes of still bolder scope
On you we look, with dearest hope;
Even for our Altars—for the prize
In Heaven, of life that never dies; 60
For the old and holy Church we mourn,
And must in joy to her return.
Behold!"—and from his Son whose stand
Was on his right, from that guardian hand
He took the Banner, and unfurled 65
The precious folds—"behold," said he,
"The ransom of a sinful world;
Let this your preservation be;
The wounds of hands and feet and side,
And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died! 70
—This bring I from an ancient hearth,
These Records wrought in pledge of love
By hands of no ignoble birth,
A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove
Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 75
While she the holy work pursued."
"Uplift the Standard!" was the cry
From all the listeners that stood round,
"Plant it,—by this we live or die."
The Norton ceased not for that sound, 80
But said; "The prayer which ye have heard,
Much injured Earls! by these preferred,
Is offered to the Saints, the sigh
Of tens of thousands, secretly."
"Uplift it!" cried once more the Band, 85
And then a thoughtful pause ensued:
"Uplift it!" said Northumberland—
Whereat, from all the multitude
Who saw the Banner reared on high
In all its dread emblazonry, 90
[62]A voice of uttermost joy brake out:
The transport was rolled down the river of Were,
And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear,
And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred by the shout![BB]

Now was the North in arms:—they shine 95
In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne,
At Percy's voice: and Neville sees
His Followers gathering in from Tees,
From Were, and all the little rills
Concealed among the forkèd hills— 100
Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all
Of Neville, at their Master's call
Had sate together in Raby Hall![CC]
Such strength that Earldom held of yore;
Nor wanted at this time rich store 105
Of well-appointed chivalry.
—Not both the sleepy lance to wield,
And greet the old paternal shield,
They heard the summons;—and, furthermore,
Horsemen and Foot of each degree,[63]
110
Unbound by pledge of fealty,
Appeared, with free and open hate
Of novelties in Church and State;
night, burgher, yeoman, and esquire;
And Romish priest,[64] in priest's attire. 115
And thus, in arms, a zealous Band
Proceeding under joint command,
To Durham first their course they bear;
And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat
Sang mass,—and tore the book of prayer,— 120
And trod the bible beneath their feet.

Thence marching southward smooth and free
"They mustered their host at Wetherby,
Full sixteen thousand fair to see;"[DD]
The Choicest Warriors of the North! 125
But none for beauty and for worth[65]
Like those eight Sons—who, in a ring,[66]
(Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring)[67]
Each with a lance, erect and tall,
A falchion, and a buckler small, 130
Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor,[EE]
[68]To guard the Standard which he bore.
On foot they girt their Father round;
And so will keep the appointed ground
Where'er their march: no steed will he[69]
135
Henceforth bestride;—triumphantly,
He stands upon the grassy sod,[70]
Trusting himself to the earth, and God.
Rare sight to embolden and inspire!
Proud was the field of Sons and Sire; 140
Of him the most; and, sooth to say,
No shape of man in all the array
So graced the sunshine of that day.
The monumental pomp of age
Was with this goodly Personage; 145
A stature undepressed in size,
Unbent, which rather seemed to rise,
In open victory o'er the weight
Of seventy years, to loftier[71] height;
Magnific limbs of withered state; 150
A face to fear and venerate;
Eyes dark and strong; and on his head
Bright[72] locks of silver hair, thick spread,
Which a brown morion half-concealed,
Light as a hunter's of the field; 155
And thus, with girdle round his waist,
Whereon the Banner-staff might rest
At need, he stood, advancing high
The glittering, floating Pageantry.

Who sees him?—thousands see,[73] and One 160
With unparticipated gaze;
Who, 'mong those[74] thousands, friend hath none,
And treads in solitary ways.
He, following wheresoe'er he might,
Hath watched the Banner from afar, 165
As shepherds watch a lonely star,
Or mariners the distant light
That guides them through[75] a stormy night.
And now, upon a chosen plot
Of rising ground, yon heathy spot! 170
He takes alone[76] his far-off stand,
With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand.
Bold is his aspect; but his eye
Is pregnant with anxiety,
While, like a tutelary Power, 175
He there stands fixed from hour to hour:
Yet sometimes in more humble guise,
Upon the turf-clad height he lies
Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask
In sunshine were his only task,[77]
180
Or by his mantle's help to find
A shelter from the nipping wind:
And thus, with short oblivion blest,
His weary spirits gather rest.
Again he lifts his eyes; and lo! 185
The pageant glancing to and fro;
And hope is wakened by the sight,
He[78] thence may learn, ere fall of night,
Which way the tide is doomed to flow.

To London were the Chieftains bent; 190
But what avails the bold intent?
A Royal army is gone forth
To quell the Rising of the North;
They march with Dudley at their head,
And, in seven days' space, will to York be led!—
Can such a mighty Host be raised 196
Thus suddenly, and brought so near?
The Earls upon each other gazed,
And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear;
For, with a high and valiant name, 200
He bore a heart of timid frame;[79]
And bold if both had been, yet they
"Against so many may not stay."[FF]
Back therefore will they hie to seize[80]
A strong Hold on the banks of Tees; 205
There wait a favourable hour,
Until Lord Dacre with his power
From Naworth come;[81][GG] and Howard's aid
Be with them openly displayed.

While through the Host, from man to man, 210
A rumour of this purpose ran,
The Standard trusting[82] to the care
Of him who heretofore did bear
That charge, impatient Norton sought
The Chieftains to unfold his thought, 215
And thus abruptly spake;—"We yield
(And can it be?) an unfought field!—
How oft has strength, the strength of heaven,[83]
To few triumphantly been given!
Still do our very children boast 220
Of mitred Thurston—what a Host
He conquered![HH]—Saw we not the Plain
(And flying shall behold again)
Where faith was proved?—while to battle moved
The Standard, on the Sacred Wain 225
That bore it, compassed round by a bold
Fraternity of Barons old;
And with those grey-haired champions stood,
Under the saintly ensigns three,
The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood— 230
All confident of victory!—[84]
Shall Percy blush, then, for his name?
Must Westmoreland be asked with shame
Whose were the numbers, where the loss,
In that other day of Neville's Cross?[II]
235
When the Prior of Durham with holy hand
Raised, as the Vision gave command,
Saint Cuthbert's Relic—far and near
Kenned on the point of a lofty spear;
While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower 240
To God descending in his power.[85]
Less would not at our need be due
To us, who war against the Untrue;—
The delegates of Heaven we rise,
Convoked the impious to chastise: 245
We, we, the sanctities of old
Would re-establish and uphold:
Be warned"—His zeal the Chiefs confounded,[86]
But word was given, and the trumpet sounded:
Back through the melancholy Host 250
Went Norton, and resumed his post.
Alas! thought he, and have I borne
This Banner raised with joyful pride,[87]
This hope of all posterity,
By those dread symbols sanctified;[88]
255
Thus to become at once the scorn
Of babbling winds as they go by,
A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye,
To the light[89] clouds a mockery!
—"Even these poor eight of mine would stem"—
Half to himself, and half to them 261
He spake—"would stem, or quell, a force
Ten times their number, man and horse;
This by their own unaided might,
Without their father in their sight, 265
Without the Cause for which they fight;
A Cause, which on a needful day
Would breed us thousands brave as they."
—So speaking, he his reverend head
Raised towards that Imagery once more:[90]
270
But the familiar prospect shed
Despondency unfelt before:
A shock of intimations vain,
Dismay,[91] and superstitious pain,
Fell on him, with the sudden thought 275
Of her by whom the work was wrought:—
Oh wherefore was her countenance bright
With love divine and gentle light?
She would not, could not, disobey,[92]
But her Faith leaned another way. 280
Ill tears she wept; I saw them fall,
I overheard her as she spake
Sad words to that mute Animal,
The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake;
She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, 285
This Cross in tears: by her, and One
Unworthier far we are undone—
Her recreant Brother—he prevailed
Over that tender Spirit—assailed
Too oft alas! by her whose head[93]
290
In the cold grave hath long been laid:
She first, in reason's dawn beguiled
Her docile, unsuspecting Child:[94]
Far back—far back my mind must go
To reach the well-spring of this woe! 295

While thus he brooded, music sweet
Of border tunes was played to cheer
The footsteps of a quick retreat;
But Norton lingered in the rear,
Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the last 300
From his distracted brain was cast,
Before his Father, Francis stood,
And spake in firm and earnest mood.[95]

"Though here I bend a suppliant knee
In reverence, and unarmed, I bear 305
In your indignant thoughts my share;
Am grieved this backward march to see
So careless and disorderly.
I scorn your Chiefs—men who would lead,
And yet want courage at their need: 310
Then look at them with open eyes!
Deserve they further sacrifice?—
If—when they shrink, nor dare oppose
In open field their gathering foes,
(And fast, from this decisive day, 315
Yon multitude must melt away;)
If now I ask a grace not claimed
While ground was left for hope; unblamed
Be an endeavour that can do
No injury to them or you.[96]
320
My Father! I would help to find
A place of shelter, till the rage
Of cruel men do like the wind
Exhaust itself and sink to rest;
Be Brother now to Brother joined! 325
Admit me in the equipage
Of your misfortunes, that at least,
Whatever fate remain[97] behind,
I may bear witness in my breast
To your nobility of mind!" 330

"Thou Enemy, my bane and blight!
Oh! bold to fight the Coward's fight
Against all good"—but why declare,
At length, the issue of a prayer
Which love had prompted, yielding scope 335
Too free to one bright moment's hope?[98]
Suffice it that the Son, who strove
With fruitless effort to allay
That passion, prudently gave way;[99]
Nor did he turn aside to prove 340
His Brothers' wisdom or their love—
But calmly from the spot withdrew;
His best endeavours[100] to renew,
Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.

CANTO FOURTH

'Tis night: in silence looking down,
The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees[101]
A Camp, and a beleaguered Town,
And Castle like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees;— 5
And southward far, with moor between,
Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,[102]
The bright Moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall
A venerable image yields 10
Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;
While from one pillared chimney breathes
The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths.[103]
—The courts are hushed;—for timely sleep
The grey-hounds to their kennel creep; 15
The peacock in the broad ash tree
Aloft is roosted for the night,
He who in proud prosperity
Of colours manifold and bright
Walked round, affronting the daylight; 20
And higher still, above the bower
Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower
The hall-clock in the clear moonshine
With glittering finger points at nine.

Ah! who could think that sadness here 25
Hath[104] any sway? or pain, or fear?
A soft and lulling sound is heard
Of streams inaudible by day;[JJ]
The garden pool's dark surface, stirred
By the night insects in their play, 30
Breaks into dimples small and bright;
A thousand, thousand rings of light
That shape themselves and disappear
Almost as soon as seen:—and lo!
Not distant far, the milk-white Doe— 35
The same who quietly was feeding
On the green herb, and nothing heeding,
When Francis, uttering to the Maid[105]
His last words in the yew-tree shade,
Involved whate'er by love was brought 40
Out of his heart, or crossed his thought,
Or chance presented to his eye,
In one sad sweep of destiny—[106]
The same fair Creature, who hath found
Her way into forbidden ground; 45
Where now—within this spacious plot
For pleasure made, a goodly spot,
With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades
Of trellis-work in long arcades,
And cirque and crescent framed by wall 50
Of close-clipt foliage green and tall,
Converging walks, and fountains gay,
And terraces in trim array—
Beneath yon cypress spiring high,
With pine and cedar spreading wide 55
Their darksome boughs on either side,
In open moonlight doth she lie;
Happy as others of her kind,
That, far from human neighbourhood,
Range unrestricted as the wind, 60
Through park, or chase, or savage wood.

But see the consecrated Maid
Emerging from a cedar shade[107]
To open moonshine, where the Doe
Beneath the cypress-spire is laid; 65
Like a patch of April snow—
Upon a bed of herbage green,
Lingering in a woody glade
Or behind a rocky screen—
Lonely relic! which, if seen 70
By the shepherd, is passed by
With an inattentive eye.
Nor more regard doth She bestow
Upon the uncomplaining Doe[108]
Now couched at ease, though oft this day 75
Not unperplexed nor free from pain,
When she had tried, and tried in vain,
Approaching in her gentle way,
To win some look of love, or gain
Encouragement to sport or play; 80
Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid
Rejected, or with slight repaid.[109]

Yet Emily is soothed;—the breeze
Came fraught with kindly sympathies.
As she approached yon rustic Shed[110]
85
Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread
Along the walls and overhead,
The fragrance of the breathing flowers
Revived[111] a memory of those hours
When here, in this remote alcove, 90
(While from the pendent woodbine came
Like odours, sweet as if the same)
A fondly-anxious Mother strove
To teach her salutary fears
And mysteries above her years. 95
Yes, she is soothed: an Image faint,
And yet not faint—a presence bright
Returns to her—that blessèd Saint[112]
Who with mild looks and language mild
Instructed here her darling Child, 100
While yet a prattler on the knee,
To worship in simplicity
The invisible God, and take for guide
The faith reformed and purified.

'Tis flown—the Vision, and the sense 105
Of that beguiling influence;
"But oh! thou Angel from above,
Mute Spirit[113] of maternal love,
That stood'st before my eyes, more clear
Than ghosts are fabled to appear 110
Sent upon embassies of fear;
As thou thy presence hast to me
Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry
Descend on Francis; nor forbear
To greet him with a voice, and say;— 115
'If hope be a rejected stay,
Do thou, my Christian Son, beware
Of that most lamentable snare,
The self-reliance of despair!'"[114]

Then from within the embowered retreat 120
Where she had found a grateful seat
Perturbed she issues. She will go!
Herself will follow to the war,
And clasp her Father's knees;—ah, no!
She meets the insuperable bar, 125
The injunction by her Brother laid;
His parting charge—but ill obeyed—
That interdicted all debate,
All prayer for this cause or for that;
All efforts that would turn aside 130
The headstrong current of their fate:
Her duty is to stand and wait;[115][KK]
In resignation to abide
The shock, and finally secure
O'er pain and grief a triumph pure.[115]
135
—She feels it, and her pangs are checked.[116]
But now, as silently she paced
The turf, and thought by thought was chased,
Came One who, with sedate respect,
Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake;[117]
140
"An old man's privilege I take:
Dark is the time—a woeful day!
Dear daughter of affliction, say
How can I serve you? point the way."

"Rights have you, and may well be bold: 145
You with my Father have grown old
In friendship—strive—for his sake go—
Turn from us all the coming woe:[118]
This would I beg; but on my mind
A passive stillness is enjoined. 150
On you, if room for mortal aid
Be left, is no restriction laid;[119]
You not forbidden to recline
With hope upon the Will divine."

"Hope," said the old Man, "must abide 155
With all of us, whate'er betide.[120]
In Craven's Wilds is many a den,
To shelter persecuted men:[LL]
Far under ground is many a cave,
Where they might lie as in the grave, 160
Until this storm hath ceased to rave:
Or let them cross the River Tweed,
And be at once from peril freed!"

"Ah tempt me not!" she faintly sighed;
"I will not counsel nor exhort, 165
With my condition satisfied;
But you, at least, may make report
Of what befals;—be this your task—
This may be done;—'tis all I ask!"

She spake—and from the Lady's sight 170
The Sire, unconscious of his age,
Departed promptly as a Page
Bound on some errand of delight.
—The noble Francis—wise as brave,
Thought he, may want not skill[121] to save. 175
With hopes in tenderness concealed,
Unarmed he followed to the field;
Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers
Are now besieging Barnard's Towers,—[MM]
"Grant that the Moon which shines this night 180
May guide them in a prudent flight!"

But quick the turns of chance and change,
And knowledge has a narrow range;
Whence idle fears, and needless pain,
And wishes blind, and efforts vain.— 185
The Moon may shine, but cannot be
Their guide in flight—already she[122]
Hath witnessed their captivity.
She saw the desperate assault
Upon that hostile castle made;— 190
But dark and dismal is the vault
Where Norton and his sons are laid!
Disastrous issue!—he had said
"This night yon faithless[123] Towers must yield,
Or we for ever quit the field. 195
—Neville is utterly dismayed,
For promise fails of Howard's aid;
And Dacre to our call replies
That he[124] is unprepared to rise.
My heart is sick;—this weary pause 200
Must needs be fatal to our cause.[125]
The breach is open—on the wall,
This night,—the Banner shall be planted!"
—'Twas done: his Sons were with him—all;
They belt him round with hearts undaunted 205
And others follow;—Sire and Son
Leap down into the court;—"'Tis won"—
They shout aloud—but Heaven decreed
That with their joyful shout should close
The triumph of a desperate deed[126]
210
Which struck with terror friends and foes!
The friend shrinks back—the foe recoils
From Norton and his filial band;
But they, now caught within the toils,
Against a thousand cannot stand;— 215
The foe from numbers courage drew,
And overpowered that gallant few.
"A rescue for the Standard!" cried
The Father from within the walls;
But, see, the sacred Standard falls!— 220
Confusion through the Camp spread[127] wide:
Some fled; and some their fears detained:
But ere the Moon had sunk to rest
In her pale chambers of the west,
Of that rash levy nought remained. 225

CANTO FIFTH

High on a point of rugged ground
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell
Above the loftiest ridge or mound
Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
An edifice of warlike frame 5
Stands single—Norton Tower its name—[NN]
It fronts all quarters, and looks round
O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream
Upon a prospect without bound. 10

The summit of this bold ascent—
Though bleak and bare, and seldom free[128]
As Pendle-hill or Pennygent
From wind, or frost, or vapours wet—
Had often heard the sound of glee 15
When there the youthful Nortons met,
To practice games and archery:
How proud and happy they! the crowd
Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud!
And from the scorching noon-tide sun,[129]
20
From showers, or when the prize was won,
They to the Tower withdrew, and there[130]
Would mirth run round, with generous fare;
And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall,
Was happiest, proudest,[131] of them all! 25

But now, his Child, with anguish pale,
Upon the height walks to and fro;
'Tis well that she hath heard the tale,
Received the bitterness of woe:
[132]For she had[133] hoped, had hoped and feared, 30
Such rights did feeble nature claim;
And oft her steps had hither steered,
Though not unconscious of self-blame;
For she her brother's charge revered,
His farewell words; and by the same, 35
Yea by her brother's very name,
Had, in her solitude, been cheered.

Beside the lonely watch-tower stood[134]
That grey-haired Man of gentle blood,
Who with her Father had grown old 40
In friendship; rival hunters they,
And fellow warriors in their day:
To Rylstone he the tidings brought;
Then on this height the Maid had sought,
And, gently as he could, had told 45
The end of that dire Tragedy,[135]
Which it had been his lot to see.

To him the Lady turned; "You said
That Francis lives, he is not dead?"

"Your noble brother hath been spared; 50
To take his life they have not dared;
On him and on his high endeavour
The light of praise shall shine for ever!
Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain
His solitary course maintain; 55
Not vainly struggled in the might
Of duty, seeing with clear sight;
He was their comfort to the last,
Their joy till every pang was past.

"I witnessed when to York they came— 60
What, Lady, if their feet were tied;
They might deserve a good Man's blame;
But marks of infamy and shame—
These were their triumph, these their pride;
Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd 65
Deep feeling, that found utterance loud,[136]
'Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried,[137]
'A Prisoner once, but now set free!
'Tis well, for he the worst defied
Through force of[138] natural piety; 70
He rose not in this quarrel, he,
For concord's sake and England's good,
Suit to his Brothers often made
With tears, and of his Father prayed—
And when he had in vain withstood 75
Their purpose—then did he divide,[139]
He parted from them; but at their side
Now walks in unanimity.
Then peace to cruelty and scorn,
While to the prison they are borne, 80
Peace, peace to all indignity!'

"And so in Prison were they laid—
Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid,
For I am come with power to bless,
By scattering gleams,[140] through your distress, 85
Of a redeeming happiness.
Me did a reverent pity move
And privilege of ancient love;
And, in your service, making bold,
Entrance I gained to that strong-hold.[141]
90

"Your Father gave me cordial greeting;
But to his purposes, that burned
Within him, instantly returned:
He was commanding and entreating,
And said—'We need not stop, my Son! 95
Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on'—[142]
And so to Francis he renewed
His words, more calmly thus pursued.

"'Might this our enterprise have sped,
Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 100
A renovation from the dead,
A spring-tide of immortal green:
The darksome altars would have blazed
Like stars when clouds are rolled away;
Salvation to all eyes that gazed, 105
Once more the Rood had been upraised
To spread its arms, and stand for aye.
Then, then—had I survived to see
New life in Bolton Priory;
The voice restored, the eye of Truth 110
Re-opened that inspired my youth;
To see[143] her in her pomp arrayed—
This Banner (for such vow I made)
Should on the consecrated breast
Of that same Temple have found rest: 115
I would myself have hung it high,
Fit[144] offering of glad victory!

"'A shadow of such thought remains
To cheer this sad and pensive time;
A solemn fancy yet sustains 120
One feeble Being—bids me climb
Even to the last—one effort more
To attest my Faith, if not restore.

"'Hear then,' said he, 'while I impart,
My Son, the last wish of my heart. 125
The Banner strive thou to regain;
And, if the endeavour prove not[145] vain,
Bear it—to whom if not to thee
Shall I this lonely thought consign?—
Bear it to Bolton Priory, 130
And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine;
To wither in the sun and breeze
'Mid those decaying sanctities.
There let at least the gift be laid,
The testimony there displayed; 135
Bold proof that with no selfish aim,
But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name,
I helmeted a brow though white,
And took a place in all men's sight;
Yea offered up this noble[146] Brood, 140
This fair unrivalled Brotherhood,
And turned away from thee, my Son!
And left—but be the rest unsaid,
The name untouched, the tear unshed;—
My wish is known, and I have done: 145
Now promise, grant this one request,
This dying prayer, and be thou blest!'

"Then Francis answered—'Trust thy Son,
For, with God's will, it shall be done!'—[147]

"The pledge obtained, the solemn word[148]
150
Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard,
And Officers appeared in state
To lead the prisoners to their fate.
They rose, oh! wherefore should I fear
To tell, or, Lady, you to hear? 155
They rose—embraces none were given—
They stood like trees when earth and heaven
Are calm; they knew each other's worth,
And reverently the Band went forth.
They met, when they had reached the door, 160
One with profane and harsh intent
Placed there—that he might go before
And, with that rueful Banner borne
Aloft in sign of taunting scorn,[149]
Conduct them to their punishment: 165
So cruel Sussex, unrestrained
By human feeling, had ordained.
The unhappy Banner Francis saw,
And, with a look of calm command
Inspiring universal awe, 170
He took it from the soldier's hand;
And all the people that stood round[150]
Confirmed the deed in peace profound.
—High transport did the Father shed
Upon his Son—and they were led, 175
Led on, and yielded up their breath;
Together died, a happy death!—
But Francis, soon as he had braved
That insult, and the Banner saved,
Athwart the unresisting tide[151]
180
Of the spectators occupied
In admiration or dismay,
Bore instantly[152] his Charge away."

These things, which thus had in the sight
And hearing passed of Him who stood 185
With Emily, on the Watch-tower height,
In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood,
He told; and oftentimes with voice
Of power to comfort[153] or rejoice;
For deepest sorrows that aspire, 190
Go high, no transport ever higher.
"Yes—God is rich in mercy," said
The old Man to the silent Maid,
"Yet, Lady! shines, through this black night,
One star of aspect heavenly bright;[154]
195
Your Brother lives—he lives—is come
Perhaps already to his home;
Then let us leave this dreary place."
She yielded, and with gentle pace,
Though without one uplifted look, 200
To Rylstone-hall her way she took.

CANTO SIXTH

Why comes not Francis?—From the doleful City
He fled,—and, in his flight, could hear
The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:[155]
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity! 5
To Ambrose that! and then a knell
For him, the sweet half-opened Flower!
For all—all dying in one hour!
—Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love
Should bear him to his Sister dear 10
With the fleet motion of a dove;[156]
Yea, like a heavenly messenger
Of speediest wing, should he appear.[157]
Why comes he not?—for westward fast
Along the plain of York he past; 15
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on;—nor heeds
The sorrow, through the Villages,
Spread by triumphant cruelties[158]
Of vengeful military force, 20
And punishment without remorse.
He marked not, heard not, as he fled;
All but the suffering heart was dead
For him abandoned to blank awe,
To vacancy, and horror strong:[159]
25
And the first object which he saw,
With conscious sight, as he swept along—
It was the Banner in his hand!
He felt—and made a sudden stand.

He looked about like one betrayed: 30
What hath he done? what promise made?
Oh weak, weak moment! to what end
Can such a vain oblation tend,
And he the Bearer?—Can he go
Carrying this instrument of woe, 35
And find, find any where, a right
To excuse him in his Country's sight?
No; will not all men deem the change
A downward course, perverse and strange?
Here is it;—but how? when? must she, 40
The unoffending Emily,
Again this piteous object see?

Such conflict long did he maintain,
Nor liberty nor rest could gain:[160]
His own life into danger brought 45
By this sad burden—even that thought,
Exciting self-suspicion strong,
Swayed the brave man to his wrong.[161]
And how—unless it were the sense
Of all-disposing Providence, 50
Its will unquestionably shown—
How has the Banner clung so fast
To a palsied, and unconscious hand;
Clung to the hand to which it passed
Without impediment? And why 55
But that Heaven's purpose might be known,
Doth now no hindrance meet his eye,
No intervention, to withstand
Fulfilment of a Father's prayer
Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest 60
When all resentments were at rest,
And life in death laid the heart bare?—
Then, like a spectre sweeping by,
Rushed through his mind the prophecy
Of utter desolation made 65
To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
He sighed, submitting will and power
To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.[162]
"No choice is left, the deed is mine—
Dead are they, dead!—and I will go, 70
And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,
Will lay the Relic on the shrine."

So forward with a steady will
He went, and traversed plain and hill;
And up the vale of Wharf his way 75
Pursued;—and, at the dawn of day,
Attained a summit whence his eyes[163]
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.
There Francis for a moment's space
Made halt—but hark! a noise behind 80
Of horsemen at an eager pace!
He heard, and with misgiving mind.
—'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
Who, when the Nortons from the hand 85
Of death had drunk their punishment,
Bethought him, angry and ashamed,
How Francis, with the Banner claimed
As his own charge, had disappeared,[164]
By all the standers-by revered. 90
His whole bold carriage (which had quelled
Thus far the Opposer, and repelled
All censure, enterprise so bright
That even bad men had vainly striven
Against that overcoming light) 95
Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,
That to what place soever fled
He should be seized, alive or dead.

The troop of horse have gained the height
Where Francis stood in open sight. 100
They hem him round—"Behold the proof,"
They cried, "the Ensign in his hand![165]
He did not arm, he walked aloof!
For why?—to save his Father's land;—
Worst Traitor of them all is he, 105
A Traitor dark and cowardly!"

"I am no Traitor," Francis said,
"Though this unhappy freight I bear;
And must not part with. But beware;—
Err not, by hasty zeal misled,[166]
110
Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,
Whose self-reproaches are too strong!"
At this he from the beaten road
Retreated towards a brake of thorn,
That[167] like a place of vantage showed; 115
And there stood bravely, though forlorn.
In self-defence with warlike brow[168]
He stood,—nor weaponless was now;
He from a Soldier's hand had snatched
A spear,—and, so protected, watched 120
The Assailants, turning round and round;
But from behind with treacherous wound
A Spearman brought him to the ground.
The guardian lance, as Francis fell,
Dropped from him; but his other hand 125
The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,
One, the most eager for the prize,
Rushed in; and—while, O grief to tell!
A glimmering sense still left, with eyes
Unclosed the noble Francis lay— 130
Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;
But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,
The wounds the broidered Banner showed,
Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good![169]
135

Proudly the Horsemen bore away
The Standard; and where Francis lay[170]
There was he left alone, unwept,
And for two days unnoticed slept.
For at that time bewildering fear 140
Possessed the country, far and near;
But, on the third day, passing by
One of the Norton Tenantry
Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man
Shrunk as he recognised the face, 145
And to the nearest homesteads ran
And called the people to the place.
—How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
This was the instant thought of all;
And if the lonely Lady there 150
Should be; to her they cannot bear
This weight of anguish and despair.
So, when upon sad thoughts had prest
Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent 155
And no one hinder their intent,[171]
Then, they, for Christian pity's sake,
In holy ground a grave would make;
And straightway[172] buried he should be
In the Church-yard of the Priory. 160

Apart, some little space, was made
The grave where Francis must be laid.
In no confusion or neglect
This did they,—but in pure respect
That he was born of gentle blood; 165
And that there was no neighbourhood
Of kindred for him in that ground:
So to the Church-yard they are bound,
Bearing the body on a bier;
And psalms they sing—a holy sound 170
That hill and vale with sadness hear.[173]

But Emily hath raised her head,
And is again disquieted;
She must behold!—so many gone,
Where is the solitary One? 175
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,
To seek her Brother forth she went,
And tremblingly her course she bent
Toward[174] Bolton's ruined Priory.
She comes, and in the vale hath heard 180
The funeral dirge;—she sees the knot
Of people, sees them in one spot—
And darting like a wounded bird
She reached the grave, and with her breast
Upon the ground received the rest,— 185
The consummation, the whole ruth
And sorrow of this final truth!

CANTO SEVENTH

"Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick—in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of."[OO]

Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the harp a strong command,
Called the submissive strings to wake
In glory for this Maiden's sake,
Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled 5
To hide her poor afflicted head?
What mighty forest in its gloom
Enfolds her?—is a rifted tomb
Within the wilderness her seat?
Some island which the wild waves beat— 10
Is that the Sufferer's last retreat?
Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds
Its perilous front in mists and clouds?
High-climbing rock, low[175] sunless dale,
Sea, desert, what do these avail? 15
Oh take her anguish and her fears
Into a deep[176] recess of years!

'Tis done;—despoil and desolation
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;[PP]
Pools, terraces, and walks are sown[177]
20
With weeds; the bowers are overthrown,
Or have given way to slow mutation,
While, in their ancient habitation
The Norton name hath been unknown.
The lordly Mansion of its pride 25
Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide
Through park and field, a perishing
That mocks the gladness of the Spring!
And, with this silent gloom agreeing,
Appears[178] a joyless human Being, 30
Of aspect such as if the waste
Were under her dominion placed.
Upon a primrose bank, her throne
Of quietness, she sits alone;
[179]Among the ruins of a wood, 35
Erewhile a covert bright and green,
And where full many a brave tree stood,
That used to spread its boughs, and ring
With the sweet bird's carolling.
Behold her, like a virgin Queen, 40
Neglecting in imperial state
These outward images of fate,
And carrying inward a serene
And perfect sway, through many a thought
Of chance and change, that hath been brought 45
To the subjection of a holy,
Though stern and rigorous, melancholy!
The like authority, with grace
Of awfulness, is in her face,—
There hath she fixed it; yet it seems 50
To o'ershadow by no native right
That face, which cannot lose the gleams,
Lose utterly the tender gleams,
Of gentleness and meek delight,
And loving-kindness ever bright: 55
Such is her sovereign mien:—her dress
(A vest with woollen cincture tied,
A hood of mountain-wool undyed)
Is homely,—fashioned to express
A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 60

And she hath wandered, long and far,
Beneath the light of sun and star;
Hath roamed in trouble and in grief,
Driven forward like a withered leaf,
Yea like a ship at random blown 65
To distant places and unknown.
But now she dares to seek a haven
Among her native wilds of Craven;
Hath seen again her Father's roof,
And put her fortitude to proof; 70
The mighty sorrow hath[180] been borne,
And she is thoroughly forlorn:
Her soul doth in itself stand fast,
Sustained by memory of the past
And strength of Reason; held above 75
The infirmities of mortal love;
Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable,
And awfully impenetrable.

And so—beneath a mouldered tree,
A self-surviving leafless oak 80
By unregarded age from stroke
Of ravage saved—sate Emily.
There did she rest, with head reclined,
Herself most like a stately flower,
(Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 85
Hath separated from its kind,
To live and die in a shady bower,
Single on the gladsome earth.

When, with a noise like distant thunder,
A troop of deer came sweeping by; 90
And, suddenly, behold a wonder!
For One, among those rushing deer,[181]
A single One, in mid career
Hath stopped, and fixed her[182] large full eye
Upon the Lady Emily; 95
A Doe most beautiful, clear-white,
A radiant creature, silver-bright!

Thus checked, a little while it stayed;
A little thoughtful pause it made;
And then advanced with stealth-like pace, 100
Drew softly near her, and more near—
Looked round—but saw no cause for fear;
So to her feet the Creature came,[183]
And laid its head upon her knee,
And looked into the Lady's face, 105
A look of pure benignity,
And fond unclouded memory.
It is, thought Emily, the same,
The very Doe of other years!—
The pleading look the Lady viewed, 110
And, by her gushing thoughts subdued,
She melted into tears—
A flood of tears, that flowed apace,
Upon the happy Creature's face.

Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair 115
Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen[184] care,
This was for you a precious greeting;
And may it prove a fruitful meeting![185]
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe
Can she depart? can she forego 120
The Lady, once her playful peer,
And now her sainted Mistress dear?
And will not Emily receive
This lovely chronicler of things
Long past, delights and sorrowings? 125
Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face;
And welcome, as a gift of grace,[186]
The saddest thought the Creature brings?[187]

That day, the first of a re-union 130
Which was to teem with high communion,
That day of balmy April weather,
They tarried in the wood together.
And when, ere fall of evening dew,
She from her[188] sylvan haunt withdrew, 135
The White Doe tracked with faithful pace
The Lady to her dwelling-place;
That nook where, on paternal ground,
A habitation she had found,
The Master of whose humble board 140
Once owned her Father for his Lord;
A hut, by tufted trees defended,
Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.[QQ]

When Emily by morning light
Went forth, the Doe stood there[189] in sight. 145
She shrunk:—with one frail shock of pain
Received and followed by a prayer,
She saw the Creature once again;[190]
Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;—
But, wheresoever she looked round, 150
All now was trouble-haunted ground;
And therefore now she deems it good
Once more this restless neighbourhood[191]
To leave. Unwooed, yet unforbidden,
The White Doe followed up the vale, 155
Up to another cottage, hidden
In the deep fork of Amerdale;[RR]
And there may Emily restore
Herself, in spots unseen before.
—Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 160
By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side,[SS]
Haunts of a strengthening amity
That calmed her, cheered, and fortified?
For she hath ventured now to read
Of time, and place, and thought, and deed— 165
Endless history that lies
In her silent Follower's eyes;
Who with a power like human reason
Discerns the favourable season,
Skilled to approach or to retire,— 170
From looks conceiving her desire;
From look, deportment, voice, or mien,
That vary to the heart within.
If she too passionately wreathed[192]
Her arms, or over-deeply breathed, 175
Walked quick or slowly, every mood
In its degree was understood;
Then well may their accord be true,
And kindliest[193] intercourse ensue.
—Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing 180
When she by sudden glimpse espied
The White Doe on the mountain browsing,
Or in the meadow wandered wide!
How pleased, when down the Straggler sank
Beside her, on some sunny bank! 185
How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed,
They, like a nested pair, reposed!
Fair Vision! when it crossed the Maid
Within some rocky cavern laid,
The dark cave's portal gliding by, 190
White as whitest[194] cloud on high
Floating through the[195] azure sky.
—What now is left for pain or fear?
That Presence, dearer and more dear,
While they, side by side, were straying, 195
And the shepherd's pipe was playing,
Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,[196]
And with a deeper peace endued
The hour of moonlight solitude. 200

With her Companion, in such frame
Of mind, to Rylstone back she came;
And, ranging[197] through the wasted groves,
Received the memory of old loves,
Undisturbed and undistrest, 205
Into a soul which now was blest
With a soft spring-day of holy,
Mild, and grateful, melancholy:[198]
Not sunless gloom or unenlightened,
But by tender fancies brightened. 210

When the bells of Rylstone played
Their sabbath music—"God us ayde!"[TT]
That was the sound they seemed to speak;
Inscriptive legend which I ween
May on those holy bells be seen, 215
That legend and her Grandsire's name;
And oftentimes the Lady meek
Had in her childhood read the same;
Words which she slighted at that day;
But now, when such sad change was wrought, 220
And of that lonely name she thought,
The bells of Rylstone seemed to say,
While she sate listening in the shade,
With vocal music, "God us ayde;"
And all the hills were glad to bear 225
Their part in this effectual prayer.

Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power;
But with the White Doe at her side
Up would she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence look round her far and wide, 230
Her fate there measuring;—all is stilled,—
The weak One hath subdued her heart;[199]
Behold the prophecy fulfilled,
Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!
But here her Brother's words have failed; 235
Here hath a milder doom prevailed;
That she, of him and all bereft,
Hath yet this faithful Partner left;
This one Associate[200] that disproves
His words, remains for her, and loves. 240
If tears are shed, they do not fall
For loss of him—for one, or all;
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep;
A few tears down her cheek descend 245
For this her last and living Friend.

Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot,
And bless for both this savage spot;
Which Emily doth sacred hold
For reasons dear and manifold— 250
Here hath she, here before her sight,
Close to the summit of this height,
The grassy rock-encircled Pound[UU]
In which the Creature first was found.
So beautiful the timid Thrall 255
(A spotless Youngling white as foam)
Her youngest Brother brought it home;
The youngest, then a lusty boy,
Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall
With heart brimful of pride and joy![201]
260

But most to Bolton's sacred Pile,
On favouring nights, she loved to go;
There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,
Attended by the soft-paced Doe;
Nor feared she in the still moonshine[202]
265
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;[VV]
Nor on the lonely turf that showed
Where Francis slept in his last abode.
For that she came; there oft she sate
Forlorn, but not disconsolate:[203]
270
And, when she from the abyss returned
Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;
Was happy that she lived to greet
Her mute Companion as it lay
In love and pity at her feet; 275
How happy in its[204] turn to meet
The[205] recognition! the mild glance
Beamed from that gracious countenance;
Communication, like the ray
Of a new morning, to the nature 280
And prospects of the inferior Creature!

A mortal Song we sing,[206] by dower
Encouraged of celestial power;
Power which the viewless Spirit shed
By whom we were first visited; 285
Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings
Swept like a breeze the conscious strings,
When, left in solitude, erewhile
We stood before this ruined Pile,
And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, 290
Sang in this Presence kindred themes;
Distress and desolation spread
Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,—
Dead—but to live again on earth,
A second and yet nobler birth; 295
Dire overthrow, and yet how high
The re-ascent in sanctity!
From fair to fairer; day by day
A more divine and loftier way!
Even such this blessèd Pilgrim trod, 300
By sorrow lifted towards her God;
Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturbed mortality.
Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend
A dear look to her lowly Friend; 305
There stopped; her thirst was satisfied
With what this innocent spring supplied:
Her sanction inwardly she bore,
And stood apart from human cares:
But to the world returned no more, 310
Although with no unwilling mind
Help did she give at need, and joined
The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers.
At length, thus faintly, faintly tied
To earth, she was set free, and died. 315
Thy soul, exalted Emily,
Maid of the blasted family,
Rose to the God from whom it came!
—In Rylstone Church her mortal frame
Was buried by her Mother's side. 320

Most glorious sunset! and a ray
Survives—the twilight of this day—
In that fair Creature whom the fields
Support, and whom the forest shields;
Who, having filled a holy place, 325
Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace;
And bears a memory and a mind
Raised far above the law of kind;[WW]
Haunting the spots with lonely cheer
Which her dear Mistress once held dear: 330
Loves most what Emily loved most—
The enclosure of this church-yard ground;
Here wanders like a gliding ghost,
And every sabbath here is found;
Comes with the people when the bells 335
Are heard among the moorland dells,
Finds entrance through yon arch, where way
Lies open on the sabbath-day;
Here walks amid the mournful waste
Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, 340
And floors encumbered with rich show
Of fret-work imagery laid low;
Paces softly, or makes halt,
By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault;
By plate of monumental brass 345
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,
And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave:
But chiefly by that single grave,
That one sequestered hillock green,
The pensive visitant is seen. 350
There doth the gentle Creature lie
With those adversities unmoved;
Calm spectacle, by earth and sky
In their benignity approved!
And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, 355
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks down upon her with a smile,
A gracious smile, that seems to say—
"Thou, thou art not a Child of Time,
But Daughter of the Eternal Prime!" 360

The following is the full text of the first "note" to The White Doe of Rylstone, published in the quarto edition of 1815. The other notes to that edition are printed in this, at the foot of the pages where they occur:—

"The Poem of The White Doe of Rylstone is founded on a local tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's Collection, entitled The Rising of the North. The tradition is as follows: 'About this time,' not long after the Dissolution, 'a White Doe, say the aged people of the neighbourhood, long continued to make a weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey Church-yard during divine service; after the close of which she returned home as regularly as the rest of the congregation.'—Dr. Whitaker's
History of the Deanery of Craven.—Rylstone was the property and residence of the Nortons, distinguished in that ill-advised and unfortunate Insurrection, which led me to connect with this tradition the principal circumstances of their fate, as recorded in the Ballad which I have thought it proper to annex.

The Rising in the North.

"The subject of this ballad is the great Northern Insurrection in the 12th year of Elizabeth, 1569, which proved so fatal to Thomas Percy, the seventh Earl of Northumberland.

"There had not long before been a secret negociation entered into between some of the Scottish and English nobility, to bring about a marriage between Mary Q. of Scots, at that time a prisoner in England, and the Duke of Norfolk, a nobleman of excellent character. This match was proposed to all the most considerable of the English nobility, and among the rest to the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, two noblemen very powerful in the North. As it seemed to promise a speedy and safe conclusion of the troubles in Scotland, with many advantages to the crown of England, they all consented to it, provided it should prove agreeable to Queen Elizabeth. The Earl of Leicester (Elizabeth's favourite) undertook to break the matter to her, but before he could find an opportunity, the affair had come to her ears by other hands, and she was thrown into a violent flame. The Duke of Norfolk, with several of his friends, was committed to the Tower, and summons were sent to the Northern Earls instantly to make their appearance at court. It is said that the Earl of Northumberland, who was a man of a mild and gentle nature,[XX] was deliberating with himself whether he should not obey the message, and rely upon the Queen's candour and clemency, when he was forced into desperate measures by a sudden report at midnight, Nov. 14, that a party of his enemies were come to seize his person. The Earl was then at his house at Topcliffe in Yorkshire. When, rising hastily out of bed, he withdrew to the Earl of Westmoreland at Brancepeth, where the country came in to them, and pressed them to take up arms in their own defence. They accordingly set up their standards, declaring their intent was to restore the ancient Religion, to get the succession of the crown firmly settled, and to prevent the destruction of the ancient nobility, etc. Their common banner (on which was displayed the cross, together with the five wounds of Christ) was borne by an ancient gentleman, Richard Norton, Esquire, who, with his sons (among whom, Christopher, Marmaduke, and Thomas, are expressly named by Camden), distinguished himself on this occasion. Having entered Durham, they tore the Bible, etc., and caused mass to be said there; they then marched on to Clifford-moor near Wetherby, where they mustered their men.... The two Earls, who spent their large estates in hospitality, and were extremely beloved on that account, were masters of little ready money; the E. of Northumberland bringing with him only 8000 crowns, and the E. of Westmoreland nothing at all, for the subsistence of their forces, they were not able to march to London, as they had at first intended. In these circumstances, Westmoreland began so visibly to despond, that many of his men slunk away, though Northumberland still kept up his resolution, and was master of the field till December 13, when the Earl of Sussex, accompanied with Lord Hunsden and others, having marched out of York at the head of a large body of forces, and being followed by a still larger army under the command of Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, the insurgents retreated northward towards the borders, and there dismissing their followers, made their escape into Scotland. Though this insurrection had been suppressed with so little bloodshed, the Earl of Sussex and Sir George Bowes, marshal of the army, put vast numbers to death by martial law, without any regular trial. The former of these caused at Durham sixty-three constables to be hanged at once. And the latter made his boast, that for sixty miles in length, and forty in breadth, betwixt Newcastle and Wetherby, there was hardly a town or village wherein he had not executed some of the inhabitants. This exceeds the cruelties practised in the West after Monmouth's rebellion.

"Such is the account collected from Stow, Speed, Camden, Guthrie, Carte, and Rapin; it agrees, in most particulars, with the following Ballad, apparently the production of some northern minstrel.—

"Listen, lively lordings all,
Lithe and listen unto mee,
And I will sing of a noble earle,
The noblest earle in the north countrie.

Earle Percy is into his garden gone,
And after him walks his fair leddie:
I heard a bird sing in mine ear,
That I must either fight, or flee.

Now heaven forefend, my dearest lord,
That ever such harm should hap to thee:
But goe to London to the court,
And fair fall truth and honestie.

Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay,
Alas! thy counsell suits not mee;
Mine enemies prevail so fast,
That at the court I may not bee.

O goe to the court yet, good my lord,
And take thy gallant men with thee;
If any dare to do you wrong,
Then your warrant they may bee.

Now nay, now nay, thou ladye faire,
The court is full of subtiltie:
And if I goe to the court, ladye,
Never more I may thee see.

Yet goe to the court, my lord, she sayes,
And I myselfe will ryde wi' thee:
At court then for my dearest lord,
His faithful borrowe I will bee.

Now nay, now nay, my ladye deare;
Far lever had I lose my life,
Than leave among my cruell foes
My love in jeopardy and strife.

But come thou hither, my little foot-page,
Come thou hither unto mee,
To Maister Norton thou must goe
In all the haste that ever may bee.

Commend me to that gentleman,
And beare this letter here fro mee;
And say that earnestly I praye,
He will ryde in my companie.

One while the little foot-page went,
And another while he ran;
Untill he came to his journey's end,
The little foot-page never blan.

When to that gentleman he came,
Down he kneeled on his knee;
And took the letter betwixt his hands,
And lett the gentleman it see.

And when the letter it was redd,
Affore that goodlye companie,
I wis if you the truthe wold know,
There was many a weeping eye.

He sayd, Come thither, Christopher Norton,
A gallant youth thou seem'st to bee;
What dost thou counsell me, my sonne,
Now that good earle's in jeopardy?

Father, my counselle's fair and free;
That erle he is a noble lord,
And whatsoever to him you hight,
I would not have you breake your word.

Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne,
Thy counsell well it liketh mee,
And if we speed and 'scape with life,
Well advanced shalt thou bee.

Come you hither, my nine good sonnes,
Gallant men I trowe you bee:
How many of you, my children deare,
Will stand by that good erle and mee?

Eight of them did answer make,
Eight of them spake hastilie,
O Father, till the day we dye
We'll stand by that good erle and thee.

Gramercy, now, my children deare,
You shew yourselves right bold and brave,
And whethersoe'er I live or dye,
A father's blessing you shall have.

But what say'st thou, O Francis Norton,
Thou art mine eldest sonne and heire:
Somewhat lies brooding in thy breast;
Whatever it bee, to mee declare.

Father, you are an aged man,
Your head is white, your beard is gray;
It were a shame at these your years
For you to ryse in such a fray.

Now fye upon thee, coward Francis,
Thou never learned'st this of mee;
When thou wert young and tender of age,
Why did I make soe much of thee?

But, father, I will wend with you,
Unarm'd and naked will I bee;
And he that strikes against the crowne,
Ever an ill death may he dee.

Then rose that reverend gentleman,
And with him came a goodlye band
To join with the brave Earle Percy,
And all the flower o' Northumberland.

With them the noble Nevill came,
The erle of Westmoreland was hee;
At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
Thirteen thousand fair to see.

Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde,
The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye,
And three Dogs with golden collars
Were there set out most royallye.

Erle Percy there his ancyent spread,
The Halfe Moone shining all soe faire;
The Nortons ancyent had the Crosse,
And the five wounds our Lord did beare.

Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose,
After them some spoile to make:
Those noble erles turned back againe,
And aye they vowed that knight to take.

That baron he to his castle fled,
To Barnard castle then fled hee.
The uttermost walles were eathe to win.
The earles have wonne them presentlie.

The uttermost walles were lime and bricke;
But though they won them soon anone,
Long ere they wan their innermost walles,
For they were cut in rocke and stone.

Then news unto leeve London came
In all the speed that ever might bee,
And word is brought to our royall queene
Of the rysing in the North countrie.

Her grace she turned her round about,
And like a royall queene shee swore,
I will ordayne them such a breakfast,
As never was in the North before.

Shee caused thirty thousand men be rays'd,
With horse and harneis faire to see;
She caused thirty thousand men be raised
To take the earles i' th' North countrie.

Wi' them the false Erle Warwicke went,
The Erle Sussex and the Lord Hunsden,
Untill they to York castle came
I wiss they never stint ne blan.

Now spred thy ancyent, Westmoreland,
Thy dun Bull faine would we spye:
And thou, the Erle of Northumberland,
Now rayse thy Halfe Moone on hye.

But the dun bulle is fled and gone,
And the halfe moone vanished away:
The Erles, though they were brave and bold,
Against soe many could not stay.

Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes,
They doomed to dye, alas! for ruth!
Thy reverend lockes thee could not save,
Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.

Wi' them full many a gallant wight
They cruellye bereav'd of life:
And many a child made fatherlesse,
And widowed many a tender wife.

"'Bolton Priory,' says Dr. Whitaker in his excellent book—The History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven—'stands upon a beautiful curvature of the Wharf, on a level sufficiently elevated to protect it from inundations, and low enough for every purpose of picturesque effect.

"'Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church, the river washes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicular, and of the richest purple, where several of the mineral beds, which break out, instead of maintaining their usual inclination to the horizon, are twisted by some inconceivable process, into undulating and spiral lines. To the South all is soft and delicious; the eye reposes upon a few rich pastures, a moderate reach of the river, sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, and the bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to exclude, even in winter, any portion of his rays.

"'But, after all, the glories of Bolton are on the North. Whatever the most fastidious taste could require to constitute a perfect landscape is not only found here, but in its proper place. In front, and immediately under the eye, is a smooth expanse of park-like enclosure, spotted with native elm, ash, etc. of the finest growth: on the right a skirting oak wood, with jutting points of grey rock; on the left a rising copse. Still forward are seen the aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of centuries; and farther yet, the barren and rocky distances of Simon-seat and Barden Fell contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant foliage of the valley below.

"'About half a mile above Bolton the Valley closes, and either side of the Wharf is overhung by solemn woods, from which huge perpendicular masses of grey rock jut out at intervals.

"'This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible till of late, that ridings have been cut on both sides of the River, and the most interesting points laid open by judicious thinnings in the woods. Here a tributary stream rushes from a waterfall, and bursts through a woody glen to mingle its waters with the Wharf: there the Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock, and next becomes a horned flood enclosing a woody island—sometimes it reposes for a moment, and then resumes its native character, lively, irregular, and impetuous.

"'The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous Strid. This chasm, being incapable of receiving the winter floods, has formed, on either side, a broad strand of naked gritstone full of rock-basons, or "pots of the Linn," which bear witness to the restless impetuosity of so many Northern torrents. But, if here Wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays another sense by its deep and solemn roar, like "the Voice of the angry Spirit of the Waters," heard far above and beneath, amidst the silence of the surrounding woods.

"'The terminating object of the landscape is the remains of Barden Tower, interesting from their form and situation, and still more so from the recollections which they excite.'"

The White Doe of Rylstone has been assigned chronologically to the year 1808; although part of it—probably the larger half—was written during the autumn of the previous year, and it remained unfinished in 1810, while the Dedication was not written till 1815. In the Fenwick note, Wordsworth tells us that the "earlier half" was written at Stockton-on-Tees "at the close" of 1807, and "proceeded with" at Dove Cottage, after his return to Grasmere, which was in April 1808. But on the 28th February, 1810, Dorothy Wordsworth, writing from Allan Bank to Lady Beaumont, says, "Before my brother turns to any other labour, I hope he will have finished three books of The Recluse. He seldom writes less than 50 lines every day. After this task is finished he hopes to complete The White Doe, and proud should we all be if it should be honoured by a frontispiece from the pencil of Sir George Beaumont. Perhaps this is not impossible, if you come into the north next summer."

A frontispiece was drawn by Sir George Beaumont for the quarto edition of 1815.

When part of the poem was finished, Wordsworth showed it to Southey; and Southey, writing to Walter Scott, in February 1808, said,—

"Wordsworth has just completed a most masterly poem upon the fate of the Nortons; two or three lines in the old ballad of The Rising of the North gave him the hint. The story affected me more deeply than I wish to be affected; younger readers, however, will not object to the depth of the distress, and nothing was ever more ably treated. He is looking, too, for a narrative subject, pitched in a lower key."

One of the most interesting letters of S. T. Coleridge to Wordsworth is an undated one, sent from London in the spring of 1808, containing a characteristic criticism of The White Doe. The Wordsworth family had asked Coleridge to discuss the subject of the publication of the poem with the Longmans' firm. It is more than probable that it was Coleridge's criticism of the structural defects in the poem, that led Wordsworth to postpone its publication. The following is part of the letter:—

"... In my reperusals of the poem, it seemed always to strike on my feeling as well as judgment, that if there were any serious defect, it consisted in a disproportion of the Accidents to the spiritual Incidents; and, closely connected with this,—if it be not indeed the same,—that Emily is indeed talked of, and once appears, but neither speaks nor acts, in all the first three-fourths of the poem. Then, as the outward interest of the poem is in favour of the old man's religious feelings, and the filial heroism of his band of sons, it seemed to require something in order to place the two protestant malcontents of the family in a light that made them beautiful as well as virtuous. In short, to express it far more strongly than I mean or think, in order (in the present anguish of my spirits) to be able to express it at all, that three-fourths of the work is everything rather than Emily; and then, the last—almost a separate and doubtless an exquisite poem—wholly of Emily. The whole of the rest, and the delivering up of the family by Francis, I never ceased to find, not only comparatively heavy, but to me quite obscure as to Francis's motives. On the few, to whom, within my acquaintance, the poem has been read, either by yourself or me (I have, I believe, read it only at the Beaumonts'), it produced the same effect.

"Now I have conceived two little incidents, the introduction of which, joined to a little abridgment, and lyrical precipitation of the last half of the third, I had thought would have removed this defect, so seeming to me, and bring to a finer balance the business with the action of the tale. But after my receipt of your letter, concerning Lamb's censures, I felt my courage fail, and that what I deemed a harmonizing would disgust you as a materialization of the plan, and appear to you like insensibility to the power of the history in the mind. Not that I should have shrunk back from the mere fear of giving transient pain, and a temporary offence, from the want of sympathy of feeling and coincidence of opinions. I rather envy than blame that deep interest in a production, which is inevitable perhaps, and certainly not dishonourable to such as feel poetry their calling and their duty, and which no man would find much fault with if the object, instead of a poem, were a large estate or a title. It appears to me to become a foible only when the poet denies, or is unconscious of its existence, but I did not deem myself in such a state of mind as to entitle me to rely on my own opinion when opposed to yours, from the heat and bustle of these disgusting lectures.

·······

"From most of these causes I was suffering, so as not to allow me any rational confidence in my opinions when contrary to yours, which had been formed in calmness and on long reflection. Then I received your sister's letter, stating the wish that I would give up the thought of proposing the means of correction, and merely point out the things to be corrected, which—as they could be of no great consequence—you might do in a day or two, and the publication of the poem—for the immediacy of which she expressed great anxiety—be no longer retarded. The merely verbal alteranda did appear to me very few and trifling. From your letter on L——, I concluded that you would not have the incidents and action interfered with, and therefore I sent it off; but soon retracted it, in order to note down the single words and phrases that I disliked in the books, after the two first, as there would be time to receive your opinion of them during the printing of the two first, in which I saw nothing amiss, except the one passage we altered together, and the two lines which I scratched out, because you yourself were doubtful. Mrs. Shepherd told me that she had felt them exactly as I did—namely, as interrupting the spirit of the continuous tranquil motion of The White Doe."

It will be seen from this letter that Wordsworth had gone over the poem with Coleridge, and that they had altered some passages "together"; that Coleridge had read a copy of it sent to the Beaumonts, doubtless at Dunmow in Essex; that he had thought of a plan by which the poem could be immensely improved, both by addition and subtraction; but that hearing from Wordsworth, or more probably from his sister Dorothy, that Charles Lamb had also criticised its structure, he gave up his intention of sending to his friend suggestions, which evidently implied a radical alteration of "the incidents and action" of the tale. It would have been extremely interesting to know how the author of Christabel and The Ancient Mariner proposed to recast The White Doe of Rylstone. It is, alas! impossible for posterity to know this, although it is not difficult to conjecture the line which the alterations would take. Wordsworth's genius was not great in construction, as in imagination; and he valued a story only as giving him a "point of departure" for a flight of fancy or of idealization. Early in 1808 he wrote to Walter Scott asking him for facts about the Norton family. Scott supplied him with them, and the following was Wordsworth's reply.

"Grasmere, May 14, 1808.

"My dear Scott—Thank you for the interesting particulars about the Nortons. I like them much for their own sakes; but so far from being serviceable to my poem, they would stand in the way of it, as I have followed (as I was in duty bound to do) the traditionary and common historic account. Therefore I shall say, in this case, a plague upon your industrious antiquarians, that have put my fine story to confusion."

From the "advertisement" which Wordsworth prefixed to his edition of 1815, I infer that the larger part of the poem was written at Stockton. In it he says that "the Poem of The White Doe was composed at the close of the year" (1807). This is an illustration of the vague manner in which he was in the habit of assigning dates. The Fenwick note, and the evidence of his sister's letter, is conclusive; although the fact that The Force of Prayer—written in 1807—is called in the Fenwick note "an appendage to The White Doe," is further confirmation of the belief that the principal part of the latter poem was finished in 1807. All things considered, The White Doe of Rylstone may be most conveniently placed after the poems belonging to the year 1807, and before those known to have been written in 1808; while The Force of Prayer naturally follows it.

The poem—first published in quarto in 1815—was scarcely altered in the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In 1837, however, it was revised throughout, and in that year the text was virtually settled; the subsequent changes being few and insignificant, while those introduced in 1837 were numerous and important. A glance at the foot-notes will show that many passages were entirely rewritten in that year, and that a good many lines of the earlier text were altogether omitted. All the poems were subjected to minute revision in 1836-37; but few, if any, were more thoroughly recast, and improved, in that year than The White Doe of Rylstone. As a sample of the best kind of changes—where a new thought was added to the earlier text with admirable felicity—compare the lines in canto vii., as it stood in 1815, when the Lady Emily first saw the White Doe at the old Hall of Rylstone, after her terrible losses and desolation—

Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face,
And take this gift of Heaven with grace?

with the additional thought conveyed in the version of 1837—

Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face;
And welcome, as a gift of grace,
The saddest thought the Creature brings?

In the "Reminiscences" of Wordsworth—written by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge for the late Bishop of Lincoln's Memoirs of his uncle—the following occurs. (See vol. ii. p. 311.) "His conversation was on critical subjects, arising out of his attempts to alter his poems. He said he considered The White Doe as, in conception, the highest work he had ever produced. The mere physical action was all unsuccessful: but the true action of the poem was spiritual—the subduing of the will, and all inferior fancies, to the perfect purifying and spiritualizing of the intellectual nature; while the Doe, by connection with Emily, is raised as it were from its mere animal nature into something mysterious and saint-like. He said he should devote much labour to perfecting the execution of it in the mere business parts, in which, from anxiety 'to get on' with the more important parts, he was sensible that imperfections had crept in which gave the style a feebleness of character."

From this conversation—which took place in 1836—it will be seen that Wordsworth knew very well that there were feeble passages in the earlier editions; and that, in the thorough revision which he gave to all his poems in 1836-37, this one was specially singled out for "much labour." The result is seen by a glance at the changes of the text.

The notes appended by Wordsworth to the edition of 1815 explain some of the historical and topographical allusions in the poem. To these the following editorial notes may be added—

I. (See pp. 106, 107.)

... Bolton's mouldering Priory.
·······
... the tower
Is standing with a voice of power,
·······
And in the shattered fabric's heart
Remaineth one protected part;
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
Closely embowered and trimly drest.

In 1153, the canons of the Augustinian Priory at Embsay, near Skipton, were removed to Bolton, by William Fitz Duncan, and his wife, Cecilia de Romillé, who granted it by charter in exchange for the Manors of Skibdem and Stretton. The establishment at Bolton consisted of a prior and about 15 canons, over 200 persons (including servants and lay brethren) being supported at Bolton. During the Scottish raids of the fourteenth century, the prior and canons had frequently to retreat to Skipton for safety. In 1542 the site of the priory and demesnes were sold to Harry Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland. From the last Earl of Cumberland it passed to the second Earl of Cork, and then to the Devonshire family, to which it still belongs. The following is part of the excellent account of the Priory, given in Murray's Yorkshire:—

"The chief relic of the Priory is the church, the nave of which after the Dissolution was retained as the chapel of this so-called 'Saxon-Cure.' This nave remains perfect, but the rest of the church is in complete ruin. The lower walls of the choir are Trans-Norman, and must have been built immediately after (if not before) the removal from Embsay. The upper walls and windows (the tracery of which is destroyed) are decorated. The nave is early English, and decorated; and the original west front remains with an elaborate Perpendicular front of excellent design, intended as the base of a western tower, which was never finished.... The nave (which has been restored under the direction of Crace)—the

... "'One protected part
In the shattered fabric's heart,'

is Early English on the south side, and Decorated on the north.... At the end of the nave aisle, enclosed by a Perpendicular screen, is a chantry, founded by the Mauleverers; and below it is the vault, in which, according to tradition, the Claphams of Beamsley and their ancestors the Mauleverers were interred upright—

"'Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;
And, through the chink in the fractured floor
Look down, and see a griesly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright!
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand.'

"Whitaker, however, could never see this 'griesly sight' through the chink in the floor; and it is perhaps altogether traditional. The ruined portion of the church is entirely Decorated, with the exception of the lower walls of the choir. The transepts had eastern aisles. The north transept is nearly perfect: the south retains only its western wall, in which are two decorated windows. The piers of a central tower remain; but at what period it was destroyed, or if it was ever completed, is uncertain. The choir is long and aisleless. Some fragments of tracery remain in the south window, which was a very fine one. Below the window runs a Transitional Norman arcade. Some portions of tomb-slabs remain in the choir.... The church-yard lies on the north side of the ruins. This has been made classic ground by Wordsworth's poem."

II. (See p. 118.)

... the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly quietness.

Compare the poem The Force of Prayer, or the Founding of Bolton Priory, p. 204. Whitaker writes thus of the district of Upper Wharfedale at Barden. "Grey tower-like projections of rock, stained with the various hues of lichens, and hung with loose and streaming canopies of ling, start out at intervals." Before the restoration of Henry Clifford, the Shepherd-lord, to the estates of his ancestors—on the accession of Henry VII.—there was only a keeper's lodge or tower at Barden, "one of six which existed in different parts of Barden Forest. The Shepherd-lord, whose early life among the Cumberland Fells led him to seek quiet and retirement after his restoration, preferred Barden to his greater castles, and enlarged (or rather rebuilt) it so as to provide accommodation for a moderate train of attendants."

III. (See p. 121.)

It was the time when England's Queen
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;
·······
But now the inly-working North
Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
A potent vassalage, to fight
In Percy's and in Neville's right, etc.

The circumstances which led to the Rising in the North, and the chief incidents of that unfortunate episode in English history, are traced in detail by Mr. Froude, in the fifty-third chapter of his History of England. They are also summarized, in a lecture on The White Doe of Rylstone, by the late Principal Shairp, in his Aspects of Poetry, from which the following passage is an extract (pp. 346-48).

"The incidents on which the White Doe is founded belong to the year 1569, the twelfth of Queen Elizabeth.

"It is well known that as soon as Queen Mary of Scotland was imprisoned in England, she became the centre around which gathered all the intrigues which were then on foot, not only in England but throughout Catholic Europe, to dethrone the Protestant Queen Elizabeth. Abroad, the Catholic world was collecting all its strength to crush the heretical island. The bigot Pope, Pius V., with the dark intriguer, Philip II. of Spain, and the savage Duke of Alva, were ready to pour their forces on the shores of England.

"At home, a secret negotiation for a marriage between Queen Mary and the Duke of Norfolk had received the approval of many of the chief English nobles. The Queen discovered the plot, threw Norfolk and some of his friends into the Tower, and summoned Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, immediately to appear at court. These two earls were known to be holding secret communications with Mary, and longing to see the old faith restored.

"On receiving the summons, Northumberland at once withdrew to Brancepeth Castle, a stronghold of the Earl of Westmoreland. Straightway all their vassals rose, and gathered round the two great earls. The whole of the North was in arms. A proclamation went forth that they intended to restore the ancient religion, to settle the succession to the crown, and to prevent the destruction of the old nobility. As they marched forward they were joined by all the strength of the Yorkshire dales, and, among others, by a gentleman of ancient name, Richard Norton, accompanied by eight brave sons. He came bearing the common banner, called the Banner of the Five Wounds, because on it was displayed the Cross with the five wounds of our Lord. The insurgents entered Durham, tore the Bible, caused mass to be said in the cathedral, and then set forward as for York. Changing their purpose on the way, they turned aside to lay siege to Barnard Castle, which was held by Sir George Bowes for the Queen. While they lingered there for eleven days, Sussex marched against them from York, and the earls, losing heart, retired towards the Border, and disbanded their forces, which were left to the vengeance of the enemy, while they themselves sought refuge in Scotland. Northumberland, after a confinement of several years in Loch Leven Castle, was betrayed by the Scots to the English, and put to death. Westmoreland died an exile in Flanders, the last of the ancient house of the Nevilles, earls of Westmoreland. Norton, with his eight sons, fell into the hands of Sussex, and all suffered death at York. It is the fate of this ancient family on which Wordsworth's poem is founded."

This statement as to the fate of Norton's sons, however, is not borne out by the historians. Mr. Froude says (History of England, chap. 53), "Two sons of old Norton and two of his brothers, after long and close cross-questioning in the Tower, were tried and convicted at Westminster. Two of these Nortons were afterwards pardoned. Two, one of whom was Christopher, the poor youth who had been bewildered by the fair eyes of the Queen of Scots at Bolton, were put to death at Tyburn, with the usual cruelties."

IV. (See p. 127.)

For we must fall, both we and ours—
This Mansion and these pleasant bowers,
Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall—
Our fate is theirs, will reach them all.

Little now remains of Rylstone Hall but the site. "Some garden flowers still, as when Whitaker wrote, mark the site of the pleasaunce. The house fell into decay immediately after the attainder of the Nortons; and, with the estates here, remained in the hands of the Crown until the second year of James I., when they were granted to the Earl of Cumberland. Although Wordsworth makes the Nortons raise their famous banner here, they assembled their followers in fact at Ripon (November 18, 1569), but their Rylstone tenants rose with them."

V. (See p. 137.)

Until Lord Dacre with his power
From Naworth come; and Howard's aid
Be with them openly displayed.

Naworth Castle, at the head of the vale of Llanercort, in the Gilsland district of Cumberland, was the seat of the Dacres from the reign of Edward III. George, Lord Dacre, the last heir-male of that family, was killed in 1559; and Lord William Howard (the third son of Thomas, Duke of Norfolk), who was made Warden of the Borders by Queen Elizabeth, and did much to introduce order and good government into the district, married the heiress of the Dacre family, and succeeded to the castle and estate of Naworth. The arms over the entrance of the castle are the Howard's and Dacre's quartered.

VI. (See p. 137.)

... mitred Thurston—what a Host
He conquered!....
... while to battle moved
The Standard, on the Sacred Wain
That bore it....

The Battle of the Standard was fought in 1137.

"One gleam of national glory broke the darkness of the time. King David of Scotland stood first among the partizans of his kinswoman Matilda, and on the accession of Stephen his army crossed the border to enforce her claim. The pillage and cruelties of the wild tribes of Galloway and the Highlands roused the spirit of the north; baron and freeman gathered at York round Archbishop Thurstan, and marched to the field of Northallerton to await the foe. The sacred banners of St. Cuthbert of Durham, St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfrid of Ripon, hung from a pole fixed in a four-wheeled car, which stood in the centre of the host. 'I who wear no armour,' shouted the chief of the Galwegians, 'will go as far this day as any one with breastplate of mail;' his men charged with wild shouts of 'Albin, Albin,' and were followed by the Norman knighthood of the Lowlands. The rout, however, was complete; the fierce hordes dashed in vain against the close English ranks around the Standard, and the whole army fled in confusion to Carlisle." (J. R. Green's Short History of the English People, p. 99.)

VII. (See p. 153.)

High on a point of rugged ground
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell
Above the loftiest ridge or mound
Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
An edifice of warlike frame
Stands single—Norton Tower its name—
It fronts all quarters, and looks round
O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream
Upon a prospect without bound.

"Some mounds near the tower are thought to have been used as butts for archers; and there are traces of a strong wall, running from the tower to the edge of a deep glen, whence a ditch runs to another ravine. This was once a pond, used by the Nortons for detaining the red deer within the township of Rylstone, which they asserted was not within the forest of Skipton, and consequently that the Cliffords had no right to hunt therein. The Cliffords eventually became lords of all the Norton lands here."

In January 1816, Wordsworth wrote thus to his friend Archdeacon Wrangham.

"Of The White Doe I have little to say, but that I hope it will be acceptable to the intelligent, for whom alone it is written. It starts from a high point of imagination, and comes round, through various wanderings of that faculty, to a still higher—nothing less than the apotheosis of the animal who gives the first of the two titles to the poem. And as the poem thus begins and ends with pure and lofty imagination, every motive and impetus that actuates the persons introduced is from the same source; a kindred spirit pervades, and is intended to harmonise, the whole. Throughout objects (the banner, for instance) derive their influence, not from properties inherent in them, not from what they are actually in themselves, but from such as are bestowed upon them by the minds of those who are conversant with, or affected by, these objects. Thus the poetry, if there be any in the work, proceeds, as it ought to do, from the soul of man, communicating its creative energies to the images of the external world."

The following is from a letter to Southey in the same year:—"Do you know who reviewed The White Doe in the 'Quarterly'? After having asserted that Mr. W. uses his words without any regard to their sense, the writer says that on no other principle can he explain that Emily is always called 'the consecrated Emily.' Now, the name Emily occurs just fifteen times in the poem; and out of these fifteen, the epithet is attached to it once, and that for the express purpose of recalling the scene in which she had been consecrated by her brother's solemn adjuration, that she would fulfil her destiny, and become a soul,

"'By force of sorrows high
Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturbed mortality.'

The point upon which the whole moral interest of the piece hinges, when that speech is closed, occurs in this line,—

"'He kissed the consecrated Maid;'

And to bring back this to the reader, I repeated the epithet."

In a letter to Wordsworth about The Waggoner, Charles Lamb wrote, June 7, 1819, "I re-read The White Doe of Rylstone; the title should be always written at length, as Mary Sabilla Novello, a very nice woman of our acquaintance, always signs hers at the bottom of the shortest note.... Manning had just sent it home, and it came as fresh to me as the immortal creature it speaks of. M. sent it home with a note, having this passage in it: 'I cannot help writing to you while I am reading Wordsworth's poem.... 'Tis broad, noble, poetical, with a masterly scanning of human actions, absolutely above common readers.'" (See The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. pp. 25, 26.)

Henry Crabb Robinson's judgment, as given in his Diary, June 1815, is interesting. (See vol. i. p. 484.)

The following is from Principal Shairp's estimate of The White Doe of Rylstone in his Oxford Lectures, Aspects of Poetry (chapter xii. pp. 373-76). "What is it that gives to it" (the poem) "its chief power and charm? Is it not the imaginative use which the poet has made of the White Doe? With her appearance the poem opens, with her re-appearance it closes. And the passages in which she is introduced are radiant with the purest light of poetry. A mere floating tradition she was, which the historian of Craven had preserved. How much does the poet bring out of how little! It was a high stroke of genius to seize on this slight traditionary incident, and make it the organ of so much. What were the objects which he had to describe and blend into one harmonious whole. They were these:

"1. The last expiring gleam of feudal chivalry, ending in the ruin of an ancient race, and the desolation of an ancestral home.

"2. The sole survivor, purified and exalted by the sufferings she had to undergo.

"3. The pathos of the decaying sanctities of Bolton, after wrong and outrage, abandoned to the healing of nature and time.

"4. Lastly, the beautiful scenery of pastoral Wharfdale, and of the fells around Bolton, which blend so well with these affecting memories.

"All these were before him—they had melted into his imagination, and waited to be woven into one harmonious creation. He takes the White Doe, and makes her the exponent, the symbol, the embodiment of them all. The one central aim—to represent the beatification of the heroine—how was this to be attained? Had it been a drama, the poet would have made the heroine give forth in speeches, her hidden mind and character. But this was a romantic narrative. Was the poet to make her soliloquise, analyse her own feelings, lay bare her heart in metaphysical monologue? This might have been done by some modern poets, but it was not Wordsworth's way of exhibiting character, reflective though he was. When he analyses feelings they are generally his own, not those of his characters. To shadow forth that which is invisible, the sanctity of Emily's chastened soul, he lays hold of this sensible image—a creature, the purest, most innocent, most beautiful in the whole realm of nature—and makes her the vehicle in which he embodies the saintliness which is a thing invisible. It is the hardest of all tasks to make spiritual things sensuous, without degrading them. I know not where this difficulty has been more happily met; for we are made to feel that, before the poem closes, the Doe has ceased to be a mere animal, or a physical creature at all, but in the light of the poet's imagination, has been transfigured into a heavenly apparition—a type of all that is pure, and affecting, and saintly. And not only the chastened soul of her mistress, but the beautiful Priory of Bolton, the whole Vale of Wharfe, and all the surrounding scenery, are illumined by the glory which she makes; her presence irradiates them all with a beauty and an interest more than the eye discovers. Seen through her as an imaginative transparency, they become spiritualized; in fact, she and they alike become the symbol and expression of the sentiment which pervades the poem—a sentiment broad and deep as the world. And yet, any one who visits these scenes, in a mellow autumnal day, will feel that she is no alien or adventitious image, imported by the caprice of the poet, but altogether native to the place, one which gathers up and concentrates all the undefined spirit and sentiment which lie spread around it. She both glorifies the scenery by her presence, and herself seems to be a natural growth of the scenery, so that it finds in her its most appropriate utterance. This power of imagination to divine and project the very corporeal image which suits and expresses the image of a scene, Wordsworth has many times shown....

"And so the poem has no definite end, but passes off, as it were, into the illimitable. It rises out of the perturbations of time and transitory things, and, passing upward itself, takes our thoughts with it to calm places and eternal sunshine."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... born of heavenly birth, 1815.

[2] 1837.

... which ... 1815.

[3] 1837.

... is ... 1815.

[4] 1820.

... of the crystal Wharf, 1815.

[5] 1837.

A rural Chapel, neatly drest,
In covert like a little nest; 1815.

[6] 1837.

And faith and hope are in their prime, 1815.

[7]

And right across the verdant sod
Towards the very house of God;

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[8] 1837.

A gift ... 1815.

[9] 1837.

Is through ... 1815.

[10] 1837.

... she no less
To the open day gives blessedness. 1815.

[11] 1837.

... hand of healing,—
The altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament,—
The dormitory's length laid bare,
Where the wild-rose blossoms fair;
And sapling ash, whose place of birth
Is that lordly chamber's hearth? 1815.

For altar, ... 1827.

Or dormitory's length ... 1827.

[12] 1837.

Methinks she passeth by the sight, 1815.

[13] 1827.

And in this way she fares, till at last 1815.

[14] 1845.

Gently ... 1815.

[15] 1837.

Like the river in its flowing;
Can there be a softer sound? 1815.

[16] 1837.

—When now again the people rear
A voice of praise, with awful chear! 1815.

[17] 1837.

Turn, with obeisance gladly paid,
Towards the spot, where, full in view,
The lovely Doe of whitest hue, 1815.

[18]

This whisper soft repeats what he
Had known from early infancy.

In the editions of 1815 to 1832 the paragraph begins with these lines.

[19] 1837.

... is ... 1815.

[20] 1837.

Who in his youth had often fed 1815.

... hath ... 1827.

[21] 1837.

And lately hath brought home the scars
Gathered in long and distant wars— 1815.

[22] 1837.

... hath mounted ... 1815.

[23] 1837.

... when God's grace
At length had in her heart found place, 1815.

[24] 1837.

Well may her thoughts be harsh; for she
Numbers among her ancestry 1815.

[25] 1827.

... Cumbria's ... 1815.

[26] 1837.

... humble ... 1815.

[27] 1837.

... through strong desire
Searching the earth with chemic fire: 1815.

[28] These two lines were added in the edition of 1837.

[29] 1837.

By busy dreams, and fancies wild; 1815.

[30] 1840.

Thou hast breeze-like visitings;
For a Spirit with angel wings
Hath touched thee, ... 1815.

A Spirit, with angelic wings,
In soft and breeze-like visitings,
Has touched thee— ... 1837.

A Spirit, with his angelic wings,C.

[31] 1827.

... —'twas She who wrought 1815.

[32] 1837.

... the ... 1815.

[33] 1837.

... one that did fulfil 1815.

[34] 1837.

... (such was the command) 1815.

[35] 1845.

To be by force of arms renewed;
Glad prospect for the multitude! 1815.

To be triumphantly restored;
By the dread justice of the sword! 1820.

[36] 1827.

This ... 1815.

[37] 1827.

... blissful ... 1815.

[38] 1837.

Loud noise was in the crowded hall, 1815.

[39] 1837.

... which had a dying fall, 1815.

[40] 1837.

And on ... 1815.

[41] 1820.

... wet ... 1815.

[42] 1837.

Then seized the staff, and thus did say: 1815.

[43] 1837.

Forth when Sire and Sons appeared
A gratulating shout was reared,
With din ... 1815.

[44] 1837.

—A shout ... 1815.

[45] 1837.

And, when he waked at length, his eye 1815.

[46]

Oh! hide them from each other, hide,
Kind Heaven, this pair severely tried!

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[47]

How could he chuse but shrink or sigh?
He shrunk, and muttered inwardly,

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[48] 1837.

He paused, her silence to partake,
And long it was before he spake:
Then, all at once, his thoughts turned round, 1815.

[49] 1837.

... were beloved, 1815.

[50] This line was added in 1837.

[51] 1827.

Was He, ... 1815.

[52] 1820.

I, in the right ... 1815.

[53] 1827.

... to stand against ... 1815.

[54] 1837.

Thee, chiefly thee, ... 1815.

[55] 1837.

The last leaf which by heaven's decree
Must hang upon a blasted tree; 1815.

[56] 1827.

... we have breathed ... 1815.

[57] 1837.

... he pursued, 1815.

[58] 1837.

Now joy for you and sudden chear,
Ye Watchmen upon Brancepeth Towers;
Looking forth in doubt and fear, 1815.

[59] 1837.

Forthwith the armed Company 1815.

[60] 1837.

... hail ... 1815.

[61] 1837.

... the mildest birth, 1815.

[62]

With tumult and indignant rout

Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[63] 1827.

Came Foot and Horse-men of each degree, 1815.

[64] 1827.

And the Romish Priest, ... 1815.

[65] 1827.

But none for undisputed worth 1815.

[66] 1815.

Like those eight Sons—embosoming
Determined thoughts—who, in a ring 1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

[67] This line was added in 1837.

[68]

In youthful beauty flourishing,

Inserted in the editions of 1815 and 1820.

[69] 1837.

—With feet that firmly pressed the ground
They stood, and girt their Father round;
Such was his choice,—no Steed will he 1815.

[70] 1845.

He stood upon the verdant sod, 1815.

... grassy sod, 1820.

[71] 1837.

... higher ... 1815.

[72] 1827.

Rich ... 1815.

[73] 1837.

... —many see, ... 1815.

[74] 1837.

... these ... 1815.

[75] 1837.

... on ... 1815.

[76] 1837.

He takes this day ... 1815.

[77] 1837.

Stretched out upon the ground he lies,—
As if it were his only task
Like Herdsman in the sun to bask, 1815.

[78] 1820.

That he ... 1815.

[79] 1837.

And Neville was opprest with fear;
For, though he bore a valiant name,
His heart was of a timid frame, 1815.

[80] 1837.

And therefore will retreat to seize 1815.

[81] 1837.

... comes; ... 1815.

[82] 1837.

... giving ... 1815.

[83] 1837.

—How often hath the strength of heaven 1815.

[84] 1837.

... on the sacred wain,
On which the grey-haired Barons stood,
And the infant Heir of Mowbray's blood.
Beneath the saintly Ensigns three,
Their confidence and victory! 1815.

Stood confident of victory! 1820.

[85] 1837.

When, as the Vision gave command,
The Prior of Durham with holy hand
Saint Cuthbert's Relic did uprear
Upon the point of a lofty spear,
And God descended in his power,
While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower. 1815.

[86] 1837.

... and uphold."—
—The Chiefs were by his zeal confounded, 1815.

[87] 1837.

... raised so joyfully, 1815.

[88] This line was added in 1837.

[89] 1837.

... frail ... 1815.

[90] 1827.

—So speaking, he upraised his head
Towards that Imagery once more; 1815.

[91] 1827.

Blank fear, ... 1815.

[92] 1837.

She did in passiveness obey, 1815.

[93] 1837.

Her Brother was it who assailed
Her tender spirit and prevailed.
Her other Parent, too, whose head 1815.

[94] 1837.

From reason's earliest dawn beguiled
The docile, unsuspecting Child: 1815.

[95] 1837.

... music sweet
Was played to chear them in retreat;
But Norton lingered in the rear:
Thought followed thought—and ere the last
Of that unhappy train was past,
Before him Francis did appear. 1815.

[96] 1837.

"Now when 'tis not your aim to oppose,"
Said he, "in open field your Foes;
Now that from this decisive day
Your multitude must melt away,
An unarmed Man may come unblamed;
To ask a grace, that was not claimed
Long as your hopes were high, he now
May hither bring a fearless brow;
When his discountenance can do
No injury,—may come to you.
Though in your cause no part I bear,
Your indignation I can share;
Am grieved this backward march to see,
How careless and disorderly!
I scorn your Chieftains, Men who lead,
And yet want courage at their need;
Then look at them with open eyes!
Deserve they further sacrifice?
My Father!..." 1815.

[97] 1837.

... remains ... 1815.

[98] 1837.

At length, the issue of this prayer?
Or how, from his depression raised,
The Father on his Son had gazed; 1815.

[99] 1845.

Suffice it that the Son gave way,
Nor strove that passion to allay, 1815.

[100] 1837.

The like endeavours 1815.

[101] 1837.

From cloudless ether looking down,
The Moon, this tranquil evening, sees 1815.

[102] 1837.

... with moors between,
Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green, 1815.

[103] 1827.

The silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths. 1815.

[104] 1827.

Had ... 1815.

[105] 1837.

The same fair Creature which was nigh
Feeding in tranquillity,
When Francis uttered to the Maid 1815.

... who was nigh 1820.

[106] Lines 40-43 were added in 1837.

[107] 1836.

But where at this still hour is she,
The consecrated Emily?
Even while I speak, behold the Maid
Emerging from the cedar shade 1815.

[108] In the editions of 1815 to 1832, the paragraph ends with this line. The remaining nine lines in these editions are added to the following paragraph.

[109] 1837.

Yet the meek Creature was not free,
Erewhile, from some perplexity:
For thrice hath she approached, this day,
The thought-bewildered Emily;
Endeavouring, in her gentle way,
Some smile or look of love to gain,—
Encouragement to sport or play;
Attempts which by the unhappy Maid
Have all been slighted or gainsaid. 1815.

[110] 1837.

—O welcome to the viewless breeze!
'Tis fraught with acceptable feeling,
And instantaneous sympathies
Into the Sufferer's bosom stealing;—
Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed 1815.

Yet is she soothed: the viewless breeze
Comes fraught with kindlier sympathies:
Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed 1827.

Ere she had reached ... 1832.

[111] 1837.

Revives ... 1815.

[112] 1837.

... —'tis that bless'd Saint 1815.

[113] 1837.

Thou Spirit ... 1815.

[114] 1837.

Descend on Francis:—through the air
Of this sad earth to him repair,
Speak to him with a voice, and say,
"That he must cast despair away!" 1815.

[115]
Italics and capitals were first used in the edition of 1820.

[116] 1837.

—She knows, she feels it, and is cheared;
At least her present pangs are checked. 1815.

[117] 1837.

—And now an ancient Man appeared,
Approaching her with grave respect.
Down the smooth walk which then she trod
He paced along the silent sod,
And greeting her thus gently spake, 1815.

—But now ... 1827.

[118] 1837.

In friendship;—go—from him—from me—
Strive to avert this misery. 1815.

[119] 1837.

—If prudence offer help or aid,
On you is no restriction laid; 1815.

[120] 1837.

"Hope," said the Sufferer's zealous Friend,
"Must not forsake us till the end.— 1815.

[121] 1837.

... may have the skill ... 1815.

[122] 1837.

Their flight the fair Moon may not see;
For, from mid-heaven, already she 1815.

[123] 1837.

... haughty ... 1815.

[124]
Italics were first used in 1837.

[125] 1837.

... to the cause. 1815.

[126] 1837.

They shout aloud—but Heaven decreed
Another close
To that brave deed
Which struck ... 1815.

[127] 1820.

... spreads ... 1815.

[128] 1820.

... and as seldom free 1815.

[129] 1820.

And from the heat of the noon-tide sun, 1815.

[130] 1837.

They to the Watch-tower did repair,
Commodious Pleasure-house! and there 1815.

[131] 1837.

He was the proudest ... 1815.

[132]

Dead are they, they were doomed to die;
The Sons and Father all are dead,
All dead save One; and Emily
No more shall seek this Watch-tower high,
To look far forth with anxious eye,—
She is relieved from hope and dread,
Though suffering in extremity.

Inserted only in the edition of 1815.

[133]
Italics were first used in 1820.

[134] 1837. In the editions of 1815-32 the following passage took the place of this line:—

She turned to him, who with his eye
Was watching her while on the height
She sate, or wandered restlessly,
O'erburdened by her sorrow's weight;
To him who this dire news had told,
And now beside the Mourner stood;

[135] 1837.

Then on this place the Maid had sought:
And told, as gently as could be,
The end of that sad Tragedy, 1815.

[136] These two lines were added in 1827.

[137] 1827.

... the people cried, 1815.

[138] 1837.

For sake of ... 1815.

[139] 1837.

He rose not in this quarrel, he
His Father and his Brothers wooed,
Both for their own and Country's good,
To rest in peace—he did divide, 1815.

[140] 1820.

To scatter gleams ... 1815.

[141] 1837.

... of ancient love,
But most, compassion for your fate,
Lady! for your forlorn estate,
Me did these move, and I made bold,
And entrance gained to that strong-hold. 1815.

... of ancient love;
And, in your service, I made bold—
And entrance gained to that strong-hold. 1820.

[142] 1837.

... 'We need not stop, my Son!
But I will end what is begun;
'Tis matter which I do not fear
To entrust to any living ear.' 1815.

[143] 1820.

Had seen ... 1815.

[144] 1837.

Glad ... 1815.

[145] 1837.

... be not 1815.

[146] 1837.

... beauteous 1815.

[147] 1837.

Then Francis answered fervently,
"If God so will, the same shall be." 1815.

[148] 1837.

Immediately, this solemn word 1815.

[149] 1837.

... had reached the door,
The Banner which a Soldier bore,
One marshalled thus with base intent
That he in scorn might go before,
And, holding up this monument, 1815.

[150] 1837.

... that were round 1815.

[151] 1837.

This insult, and the Banner saved,
That moment, from among the tide 1815.

[152] 1837.

Bore unobserved ... 1815.

[153] 1820.

... to encourage ... 1815.

[154] 1837.

"Yet, yet in this affliction," said
The old Man to the silent Maid,
"Yet, Lady! heaven is good—the night
Shews yet a Star which is most bright; 1815.

[155] 1837.

Why comes not Francis?—Joyful chear
In that parental gratulation,
And glow of righteous indignation,
Went with him from the doleful City:—
He fled—yet in his flight could hear
The death-sound of the Minster-bell; 1815.

[156] 1837.

With motion fleet as winged Dove; 1815.

... as a wingèd Dove; 1832.

[157] 1837.

An Angel-guest, should he appear. 1815.

[158] 1837.

Along the plain of York he passed;
The Banner-staff was in his hand,
The Imagery concealed from sight,
And cross the expanse, in open flight,
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on;—nor heeds
The sorrow of the Villages;
From the triumphant cruelties 1815.

Spread by triumphant cruelties 1827.

The sorrow through the Villages, 1832.

[159] 1827.

And punishment without remorse,
Unchecked he journies—under law
Of inward occupation strong;
And the first ... 1815.

[160] 1837.

... did he maintain
Within himself, and found no rest;
Calm liberty he could not gain;
And yet the service was unblest. 1815.

[161] 1820.

Raised self-suspicion which was strong,
Swaying the brave Man to his wrong: 1815.

[162] 1837.

Of all-disposing Providence,
Its will intelligibly shewn,
Finds he the Banner in his hand,
Without a thought to such intent,
Or conscious effort of his own?
And no obstruction to prevent
His Father's wish and last command!
And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh;
Remembering his own prophecy
Of utter desolation, made
To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
He sighed, submitting to the power,
The might of that prophetic hour. 1815.

[163] 1837.

... and, on the second day,
He reached a summit whence his eyes 1815.

[164] 1837.

How Francis had the Banner claimed,
And with that charge had disappeared; 1815.

[165] 1837.

Behold the Ensign in his hand! 1815.

[166] 1837.

... freight I bear;
It weakens me, my heart hath bled
Till it is weak—but you beware,
Nor do ... 1815.

[167] 1837.

Which ... 1815.

[168] 1820.

... with a Warrior's brow 1815.

[169] 1845.

... had snatched
A spear,—and with his eyes he watched
Their motions, turning round and round:—
His weaker hand the Banner held;
And straight by savage zeal impelled
Forth rushed a Pikeman, as if he,
Not without harsh indignity,
Would seize the same:—instinctively—
To smite the Offender—with his lance
Did Francis from the brake advance;
But, from behind, a treacherous wound
Unfeeling, brought him to the ground,
A mortal stroke:—oh, grief to tell!
Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell:
There did he lie of breath forsaken;
The Banner from his grasp was taken,
And borne exultingly away;
And the Body was left on the ground where it lay. 1815.

But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged with searching overflow,
More deeply tinged the embroidered show
Of His whose side was pierced upon the Rood! 1837.

The text of 1837 is otherwise identical with the final version of 1845.

[170] These two lines were added in 1837.

[171] 1837.

Two days, as many nights, he slept
Alone, unnoticed, and unwept;
For at that time distress and fear
Possessed the Country far and near;
The third day, One, who chanced to pass,
Beheld him stretched upon the grass.
A gentle Forester was he,
And of the Norton Tenantry;
And he had heard that by a Train
Of Horsemen Francis had been slain.
Much was he troubled—for the Man
Hath recognized his pallid face;
And to the nearest Huts he ran,
And called the People to the place.
—How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
Such was the instant thought of all;
And if the lonely Lady there
Should be, this sight she cannot bear!
Such thought the Forester express'd,
And all were swayed, and deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent
And join himself to their intent, 1815.

[172] 1837.

That straightway ... 1815.

[173] 1840.

... on a bier
In decency and humble chear;
And psalms are sung with holy sound. 1815.

And psalms they sung—a holy sound
That hill and vale with sadness hear. 1837.

[174] 1827.

Tow'rds ... 1815.

[175] 1820.

... deep ... 1815.

[176] 1820.

... calm ... 1815.

[177] 1845.

The walks and pools neglect hath sown 1815.

[178] 1837.

There is ... 1815.

[179]

There seated, may this Maid be seen,

Inserted in the editions of 1815-1832.

[180] 1827.

... has ... 1815.

[181] 1837.

For, of that band of rushing Deer, 1815.

[182] 1837.

... its ... 1815.

... his ... 1832.

[183] 1837.

... and more near,
Stopped once again;—but, as no trace
Was found of any thing to fear,
Even to her feet the Creature came, 1815.

[184] 1837.

... choicest ... 1815.

[185] 1837.

For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting. 1815.

[186] 1837.

And take this gift of Heaven with grace? 1815.

[187] This line was added in 1837.

[188] 1837.

... this ... 1815.

[189] 1837.

... was there ... 1815.

[190] 1837.

Did she behold—saw once again; 1815.

[191] 1837.

So doth the Sufferer deem it good
Even once again this neighbourhood 1815.

[192] 1827.

... writhed 1815.

[193] 1837.

... kindly ... 1815.

[194] 1827.

... as the whitest ... 1815.

[195] 1815.

... through an ... 1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

[196] 1837.

Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,
While they side by side were straying,
And the Shepherd's pipe was playing; 1815.

[197] 1837.

... wandering ... 1815.

[198] 1845.

Mild, delicious melancholy: 1815.

[199] 1837.

Up doth she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence looks round her far and wide.
Her fate there measures,—all is stilled,—
The feeble hath subdued her heart; 1815.

[200] 1837.

This single Creature ... 1815.

[201] 1837.

So beautiful the spotless Thrall,
(A lovely Youngling white as foam,)
That it was brought to Rylstone-hall;
Her youngest Brother led it home,
The youngest, then a lusty Boy,
Brought home the prize—and with what joy! 1815.

[202] 1827.

Nor did she fear in the still moonshine 1815.

... in still moonshine 1820.

[203] 1837.

For that she came; there oft and long
She sate in meditation strong: 1815.

[204] 1820.

... her ... 1815.

[205] 1837.

That ... 1815.

[206] 1837.

... we frame, ... 1815.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] This is the final form of the "Advertisement" to The White Doe of Rylstone. The variations from it, which occur in earlier editions, from 1815 onwards, need not be noted. The poem was placed in the 1820 edition in volume iii., in 1827 in volume iv., in 1832 in volume iii., and in 1836-37 and afterwards in volume iv. of the Collected Works.—Ed.

[B]
I.e., in the small bower in the orchard of Dove Cottage, Grasmere.—Ed.

[C] Compare The Faërie Queene, book I. canto i. stanza iv. l. 9—

And by her, in a line, a milkewhite lambe she lad.Ed.

[D] See The Faërie Queene, book I. canto viii. stanza xliv. l. 9—

That blisse may not abide in state of mortall men.Ed.

[E] The above extract, which, in 1837 and subsequent editions, follows the Dedication of the poem to Mrs. Wordsworth, is taken from the tragedy of The Borderers, act III. line 405 (vol. i. p. 187). In the prefatory note to The Borderers—published in 1842—Wordsworth says he would not have made use of these lines in The White Doe of Rylstone if he could have foreseen the time when he would be induced to publish the tragedy. It is signed M. S. in the 1837-43 editions.

In a note to the edition of 1837, he says, "'Action is transitory,' etc. This and the five lines that follow were either read or recited by me, more than thirty years since, to the late Mr. Hazlitt, who quoted some expressions in them (imperfectly remembered) in a work of his published several years ago."

In the quarto edition of 1815 the following lines precede the extract from Lord Bacon; and in the edition of 1820 they follow it. In 1827 they were transferred to the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."

"Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind;
Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
Heavy is woe;—and joy, for human kind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"—
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty, assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:
'Tis her's to pluck the amaranthine Flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.Ed.

[F] See his Essays, XVI., "Of Atheism." Wordsworth's quotation is not quite accurate.—Ed.

[G] It is to be regretted that at the present day Bolton Abbey wants this ornament: but the Poem, according to the imagination of the Poet, is composed in Queen Elizabeth's time. "Formerly," says Dr. Whitaker, "over the Transept was a tower. This is proved not only from the mention of bells at the Dissolution, when they could have had no other place, but from the pointed roof of the choir, which must have terminated westward, in some building of superior height to the ridge."—W. W. 1815.

[H] See note I. at the end of the poem, p. 196.—Ed.

[I] See note I. at the end of the poem, p. 196.—Ed.

[J] The Nave of the Church having been reserved at the Dissolution, for the use of the Saxon Cure, is still a parochial Chapel; and, at this day, is as well kept as the neatest English Cathedral.—W. W. 1815.

[K] "At a small distance from the great gateway stood the Prior's Oak, which was felled about the year 1720, and sold for 70l. According to the price of wood at that time, it could scarcely have contained less than 1400 feet of timber."—W. W. 1815.

This note is quoted from Whitaker.—Ed.

The place where this Oak tree grew is uncertain. Whitaker says it stood "at a small distance from the great gateway." This old entrance or gateway to the Abbey was through a part of the modern and now inhabited structure of Bolton Hall, under the Tower; and the old sexton at the Abbey told me that the tree stood near that gateway, at some distance from the ruins of the Abbey.—Ed.

[L] Of Wharfedale at Bolton, Henry Crabb Robinson says, in his Diary (September 1818), "This valley has been very little adorned, and it needs no other accident to grace it than sunshine."—Ed.

[M] Compare the lines in the sonnet At Furness Abbey (composed in 1844)—

A soothing spirit follows in the way
That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing.Ed.

[N] Roses still grow plentifully among the ruins, although they are not abundant in the district.—Ed.

[O] This is not topographical. No "warrior carved in stone" is now to be seen among the ruins of Bolton Abbey, whatever may have been the case in 1807; nor can Francis Norton's grave be discovered in the Abbey grounds.—Ed.

[P] The detail of this tradition may be found in Dr. Whitaker's book, and in the Poem, The Force of Prayer, etc. [p. 204].—W. W. 1815.

[Q] Compare The Boy of Egremond, by Samuel Rogers.—Ed.

[R] "At the East end of the North aisle of Bolton Priory Church is a chantry belonging to Bethmesly Hall, and a vault, where, according to tradition, the Claphams" (who inherited this estate, by the female line from the Mauliverers) "were interred upright." John de Clapham, of whom this ferocious act is recorded, was a name of great note in his time; "he was a vehement partisan of the House of Lancaster, in whom the spirit of his chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive."—W. W. 1815.

This quotation is from Dr. Whitaker's History of the Deanery of Craven.—Ed.

[S] In 1868, when this chapel was under restoration, a vault was discovered at the eastern end of the north aisle, with evident signs of several bodies having been buried upright. On the site of this vault the organ is now placed. The chapel was restored by the late Duke of Devonshire.—Ed.

[T] In the second volume of Poems published by the author, will be found one, entitled, Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors. To that Poem is annexed an account of this personage [p. 89], chiefly extracted from Burn's and Nicholson's History of Cumberland and Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure to add these further particulars concerning him from Dr. Whitaker, who says, "he retired to the solitude of Barden, where he seems to have enlarged the tower out of a common keeper's lodge, and where he found a retreat equally favourable to taste, to instruction, and to devotion. The narrow limits of his residence shew that he had learned to despise the pomp of greatness, and that a small train of servants could suffice him, who had lived to the age of thirty a servant himself. I think this nobleman resided here almost entirely when in Yorkshire, for all his charters which I have seen are dated at Barden.

"His early habits, and the want of those artificial measures of time which even shepherds now possess, had given him a turn for observing the motions of the heavenly bodies, and, having purchased such an apparatus as could then be procured, he amused and informed himself by those pursuits, with the aid of the Canons of Bolton, some of whom are said to have been well versed in what was then known of the science.

"I suspect this nobleman to have been sometimes occupied in a more visionary pursuit, and probably in the same company.

"For, from the family evidences, I have met with two MSS. on the subject of Alchemy, which, from the character, spelling, etc., may almost certainly be referred to the reign of Henry the Seventh. If these were originally deposited with the MSS. of the Cliffords, it might have been for the use of this nobleman. If they were brought from Bolton at the Dissolution, they must have been the work of those Canons whom he almost exclusively conversed with.

"In these peaceful employments Lord Clifford spent the whole reign of Henry the Seventh, and the first years of his son. But in the year 1513, when almost sixty years old, he was appointed to a principal command over the army which fought at Flodden, and shewed that the military genius of the family had neither been chilled in him by age, nor extinguished by habits of peace.

"He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and died April 23d, 1523, aged about 70. I shall endeavour to appropriate to him a tomb, vault, and chantry, in the choir of the church of Bolton, as I should be sorry to believe that he was deposited when dead at a distance from the place which in his life-time he loved so well.

"By his last will he appointed his body to be interred at Shap if he died in Westmoreland; or at Bolton if he died in Yorkshire."

With respect to the Canons of Bolton, Dr. Whitaker shews from MSS. that not only alchemy but astronomy was a favourite pursuit with them.—W. W. 1815.

[U] Barden Tower is on the western bank of the Wharfe, fully two miles north-west of Bolton Priory, above the Strid. At the time of the restoration of the Shepherd-lord, Barden Tower was only a keeper's forest lodge. It is so hidden in trees, and so retired, that the situation is most accurately described as

the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly quietness.Ed.

[V] The year 1569.—Ed.

[W] Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland—the two peers who joined in support of the Duke of Norfolk's marriage with Queen Mary, with a view to the restoration of Catholicism in England. See note III. p. 198.—Ed.

[X] Compare Twelfth Night, act I. scene i. l. 4—

That strain again! it had a dying fall.Ed.

[Y] See the Old Ballad,—The Rising of the North.—W. W. 1827.

This Ballad is printed in Wordsworth's note, p. 186. The reference here is to the lines—

But, father, I will wend with you,
Unarm'd and naked will I bee.Ed.

[Z] The site of Rylstone Hall is still recognisable, but the building is gone. It was not at Rylstone, but at Ripon, that the Nortons raised their banner in November 1569; but their tenantry at Rylstone rose with them at the same time.—Ed.

[AA] Brancepeth Castle stands near the river Were, a few miles from the city of Durham. It formerly belonged to the Nevilles, Earls of Westmoreland. See Dr. Percy's account.—W. W. 1815.

[BB] The tower of the Cathedral of Durham, of which St. Cuthbert is the patron saint.—Ed.

[CC] Now Raby Castle, a seat of the Duke of Cleveland in the county of Durham.—Ed.

[DD] From the old Ballad.—W. W. 1820.

The lines are—

At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
Thirteen thousand fair to see.Ed.

[EE] The village of Clifford is three miles from Wetherby, where the host was mustered.—Ed.

[FF] From the old Ballad.—W. W. 1820.

The line referred to is—

Against soe many could not stay.Ed.

[GG] See note V. p. 200.—Ed.

[HH] See the Historians for the account of this memorable battle, usually denominated the Battle of the Standard.—W. W. 1815.

It was fought at Northallerton in 1137, under Archbishop Thurston of York. See note VI. p. 200.—Ed.

[II] "In the night before the battle of Durham was strucken and begun, the 17th day of October, anno 1346, there did appear to John Fosser, then Prior of the abbey of Durham, a Vision, commanding him to take the holy Corporax-cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover the chalice when he used to say mass, and to put the same holy relique like to a banner-cloth upon the point of a spear, and the next morning to go and repair to a place on the west side of the city of Durham, called the Red Hills, where the Maid's Bower wont to be, and there to remain and abide till the end of the battle. To which vision, the Prior obeying, and taking the same for a revelation of God's grace and mercy by the mediation of holy St. Cuthbert, did accordingly the next morning, with the monks of the said abbey, repair to the said Red Hills, and there most devoutly humbling and prostrating themselves in prayer for the victory in the said battle: (a great multitude of the Scots running and pressing by them, with intention to have spoiled them, yet had no power to commit any violence under such holy persons, so occupied in prayer, being protected and defended by the mighty Providence of Almighty God, and by the mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, and the presence of the holy relique). And, after many conflicts and warlike exploits there had and done between the English men and the King of Scots and his company, the said battle ended, and the victory was obtained, to the great overthrow and confusion of the Scots, their enemies: And then the said Prior and monks, accompanied with Ralph Lord Nevil, and John Nevil his son, and the Lord Percy, and many other nobles of England, returned home and went to the abbey church, there joining in hearty prayer and thanksgiving to God and holy St. Cuthbert for the victory atchieved that day."

This battle was afterwards called the Battle of Neville's Cross from the following circumstance:—

"On the west side of the city of Durham, where two roads pass each other, a most notable, famous, and goodly cross of stone-work was erected, and set up to the honour of God for the victory there obtained in the field of battle, and known by the name of Nevil's Cross, and built at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph Nevil, one of the most excellent and chief persons in the said battle." The Relique of St. Cuthbert afterwards became of great importance in military events. For soon after this battle, says the same author, "The prior caused a goodly and sumptuous banner to be made, (which is then described at great length,) and in the midst of the same banner-cloth was the said holy relique and corporax-cloth enclosed, etc. etc., and so sumptuously finished, and absolutely perfected, this banner was dedicated to holy St. Cuthbert, of intent and purpose, that for the future it should be carried to any battle, as occasion should serve; and was never carried and shewed at any battle but by the especial grace of God Almighty, and the mediation of holy St. Cuthbert, it brought home victory; which banner-cloth, after the dissolution of the abbey, fell into the possession of Dean Whittingham, whose wife was called Katharine, being a French woman, (as is most credibly reported by eye-witnesses,) did most injuriously burn the same in her fire, to the open contempt and disgrace of all ancient and goodly reliques."—Extracted from a book entitled, Durham Cathedral, as it stood before the Dissolution of the Monastery. It appears, from the old metrical History, that the above-mentioned banner was carried by the Earl of Surrey to Flodden Field.—W. W. 1815.

[JJ] Compare An Evening Walk, ll. 365, 366 (vol. i. p. 31)—

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.

Also The Excursion (book iv. ll. 1173, 1174)—

The little rills, and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight.

And Wordsworth's sonnet beginning—

The unremitting voice of nightly streams
That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers.

Compare also in Gray's Tour in the Lakes, "At distance, heard the murmur of many waterfalls, not audible in the daytime."—Ed.

[KK] Compare Milton's Sonnet on his Blindness, l. 14—

They also serve who only stand and wait.Ed.

[LL] In the limestone ridges and hills of the Craven district of Yorkshire there are many caverns and underground recesses, such as the Yordas cave referred to in The Prelude (vol. iii. p. 289).—Ed.

[MM] The Towers of Barnard Castle on the Tees in Yorkshire.—Ed.

[NN] It is so called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. Whitaker. "Rylstone Fell yet exhibits a monument of the old warfare between the Nortons and Cliffords. On a point of very high ground, commanding an immense prospect, and protected by two deep ravines, are the remains of a square tower, expressly said by Dodsworth to have been built by Richard Norton. The walls are of strong grout-work, about four feet thick. It seems to have been three stories high. Breaches have been industriously made in all the sides, almost to the ground, to render it untenable.

"But Norton Tower was probably a sort of pleasure-house in summer, as there are, adjoining to it, several large mounds, (two of them are pretty entire,) of which no other account can be given than that they were butts for large companies of archers.

"The place is savagely wild, and admirably adapted to the uses of a watch-tower."—W. W. 1815. (See note VII. p. 201.)—Ed.

The remains of Norton Tower are not in the highest point of the Rylstone Fells, but on one of the western ridges: and there are now only four bare roofless rectangular walls. It was originally both a watch-tower and a hunting-tower. Looking towards Malham to the north and north-west, the view is exactly as described in the poem.—Ed.

[OO] This extract was first prefixed to canto seventh in the edition of 1837.—Ed.

[PP] "After the attainder of Richard Norton, his estates were forfeited to the crown, where they remained till the 2d or 3d of James; they were then granted to Francis Earl of Cumberland." From an accurate survey made at that time, several particulars have been extracted by Dr. W. It appears that the mansion-house was then in decay. "Immediately adjoining is a close, called the Vivery, so called undoubtedly from the French Vivier, or modern Latin Viverium; for there are near the house large remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were introduced in the earlier part of Elizabeth's time, with topiary works, fish-ponds, an island, etc. The whole township was ranged by an hundred and thirty red deer, the property of the Lord, which, together with the wood, had, after the attainder of Mr. Norton, been committed to Sir Stephen Tempest. The wood, it seems, had been abandoned to depredations, before which time it appears that the neighbourhood must have exhibited a forest-like and sylvan scene. In this survey, among the old tenants, is mentioned one Richard Kitchen, butler to Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion with his master, and was executed at Ripon."—W. W. 1815.

[QQ] There are two small streams which rise near Rylstone. One, called Rylstone beck, flows westwards into the Aire. Another makes its way eastwards towards the Wharfe, joins Linton beck, and so enters Wharfe between Linton Church and Grassington Bridge. It is to the latter that Wordsworth refers, although the former is now called Rylstone beck.—Ed.

[RR] "At the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, the valley of Wharf forks off into two great branches, one of which retains the name of Wharfdale to the source of the river; the other is usually called Littondale, but more anciently and properly Amerdale. Dern-brook, which runs along an obscure valley from the N. W., is derived from a Teutonic word, signifying concealment."—Dr. Whitaker.—W. W. 1815.

The valley of Littondale, as is shown in Wordsworth's note, once bore the name of Amerdale. Though the name is not now given to the beck, it survives, singularly enough, in one pool in the stream, where it joins the Wharfe, which is still called "Amerdale Dub."—Ed.

[SS] From this valley of Litton a small lateral one runs up in a south-westerly direction at Arncliffe, making a "deep fork," and is called Dernbrook. Dern means seclusion, and two or three miles up this ghyll is a farm-house bearing the name of Dernbrook House. "The phrase 'By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side' is so appropriate," says the late incumbent of Arncliffe, the Ven. Archdeacon Boyd, in a letter to the editor, "that it would almost seem that Wordsworth had been there." Mr. Boyd adds, "In the illustrated edition of The White Doe, published by Longmans a few years ago, there is an illustration by Birket Foster of the Dernbrook House, the original of which I had the honour to supply. It is but a short distance—two or three miles—from Malham Tarn."—Ed.

[TT] On one of the bells of Rylstone church, which seems co-eval with the building of the tower, is this cypher, J. N. for John Norton, and the motto, "God us ayde."—W. W. 1815.

"A ring, bearing the same motto, was sold at a sale of antiquities from Bramhope Manor, Feb. 1865. The Norton Shield of Arms is in Rylstone Church." (See Murray's Yorkshire.)—Ed.

[UU] Which is thus described by Dr. Whitaker:—"On the plain summit of the hill are the foundations of a strong wall, stretching from the S. W. to the N. E. corner of the tower, and to the edge of a very deep glen. From this glen, a ditch, several hundred yards long, runs south to another deep and rugged ravine. On the N. and W. where the banks are very steep, no wall or mound is discoverable, paling being the only fence that would stand on such ground.

"From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, it appears that such pounds for deer, sheep, etc., were far from being uncommon in the south of Scotland. The principle of them was something like that of a wire mouse-trap. On the declivity of a steep hill, the bottom and sides of which were fenced so as to be impassable, a wall was constructed nearly level with the surface on the outside, yet so high within that without wings it was impossible to escape in the opposite direction. Care was probably taken that these enclosures should contain better feed than the neighbouring parks or forests; and whoever is acquainted with the habits of these sequacious animals, will easily conceive, that if the leader was once tempted to descend into the snare, an herd would follow."

I cannot conclude without recommending to the notice of all lovers of beautiful scenery—Bolton Abbey and its neighbourhood. This enchanting spot belongs to the Duke of Devonshire; and the superintendance of it has for some years been entrusted to the Rev. William Carr, who has most skilfully opened out its features; and in whatever he has added, has done justice to the place by working with an invisible hand of art in the very spirit of nature.—W. W. 1815.

[VV] The late Archdeacon of Craven wrote to me of this, "There never can have been a Lady Chapel in the usual place at Bolton, for the altar was close to the east window. I never heard of a Saint Mary's shrine; but, most probably, the church was dedicated to St. Mary, in which case she" (the Lady Emily) "would be speaking of the building. In proof of this, the Priory of Embsay was dedicated to St. Mary; and naturally the dedication, on the removal from Embsay to Bolton, would be renewed. See Whitaker, p. 369, in extracting from the compotus, 'Comp. Monasterii be' Mar' de Boulton in Craven.'" It may be added that the whole church being dedicated to St. Mary—as in the case of the Cistercian buildings—there would be no Lady Chapel. The mention in detail of "prostrate altars," "shrines defaced," "fret-work imagery," "plates of ornamental brass," and "sculptured Forms of Warriors" in the closing canto of The White Doe is—like the "one sequestered hillock green" where Francis Norton was supposed to "sleep in his last abode"—part of the imaginative drapery of the poem.—Ed.

[WW] Compare Sackville's Ferrex and Porrex, iv. 2; Lord Surrey's lines beginning, "Give place, ye lovers"; and George Turberville's poem which begins, "You want no skill."—Ed.

[XX] Camden expressly says that he was violently attached to the Catholic Religion.—W. W. 1815.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;[A]

Or, The Founding of Bolton Priory

A Tradition

Composed 1807.—Published 1815

[An appendage to The White Doe. My friend, Mr. Rogers, has also written on the subject.[B] The story is preserved in Dr. Whitaker's History of Craven—a topographical writer of first-rate merit in all that concerns the past; but such was his aversion from the modern spirit, as shown in the spread of manufactories in those districts of which he treats, that his readers are left entirely ignorant both of the progress of these arts and their real bearing upon the comfort, virtues, and happiness of the inhabitants. While wandering on foot through the fertile valleys and over the moorlands of the Apennine that divide Yorkshire from Lancashire, I used to be delighted with observing the number of substantial cottages that had sprung up on every side, each having its little plot of fertile ground won from the surrounding waste. A bright and warm fire, if needed, was always to be found in these dwellings. The father was at his loom; the children looked healthy and happy. Is it not to be feared that the increase of mechanic power had done away with many of these blessings, and substituted many ills? Alas! if these evils grow, how are they to be checked, and where is the remedy to be found? Political economy will not supply it; that is certain; we must look to something deeper, purer, and higher.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

"What is good for a bootless bene?"
With these dark words begins my Tale;
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When Prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene?" 5
The Falconer to the Lady said;
And she made answer "ENDLESS SORROW!"
For she knew that her Son was dead.

She knew it by[1] the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye; 10
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

—Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash, 15
To let slip upon buck or doe.

The pair[2] have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side. 20

The[3] striding-place is called The Strid,
A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come, 25
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across The Strid?

He sprang in glee,—for what cared he 29
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?—
But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by[4] a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen 35
Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is[5] stillness in the vale,
And long,[6] unspeaking, sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow. 40

If for a lover the Lady wept,
A solace she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death:—
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day 45
Which was to be to-morrow:
Her hope was a further-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave; 50
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, "Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 55
A stately Priory!"

The stately Priory was reared;[C]
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song. 60

And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart 65
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend![D]

There were few variations in the text of this poem, from 1815 to 1850; but I have found, in a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to her friend Miss Jane Pollard, the mother of Lady Monteagle—who kindly sent it to me—an earlier version, which differs considerably from the form in which it was first published in 1815. The letter is dated October 18th, 1807, and the poem is as follows:—

"What is good for a bootless bene?"
The Lady answer'd, "endless sorrow."
Her words are plain; but the Falconer's words
Are a path that is dark to travel thorough.

These words I bring from the Banks of Wharf,
Dark words to front an ancient tale:
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene?"
The Falconer to the Lady said,
And she made answer as ye have heard,
For she knew that her Son was dead.

She knew it from the Falconer's words
And from the look of the Falconer's eye,
And from the love that was in her heart
For her youthful Romelli.

Young Romelli to the Woods is gone,
And who doth on his steps attend?
He hath a greyhound in a leash,
A chosen forest Friend.

And they have reach'd that famous Chasm
Where he who dares may stride
Across the River Wharf, pent in
With rocks on either side.

And that striding place is call'd The Strid,
A name which it took of yore;
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.

And thither is young Romelli come;
And what may now forbid
That He, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across the Strid?

He sprang in glee; for what cared he
That the River was strong, and the Rocks were steep?
But the greyhound in the Leash hung back
And check'd him in his leap.

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled with a merciless force;
For never more was young Romelli seen,
Till he was a lifeless corse.

Now is there stillness in the vale
And long unspeaking sorrow,
Wharf has buried fonder hopes
Than e'er were drown'd in Yarrow.[E]

If for a Lover the Lady wept
A comfort she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death;
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the Wedding-day
That was to be to-morrow,[F]
Her hope was a farther-looking hope
And hers is a Mother's sorrow.

Oh was he not a comely tree?
And proudly did his branches wave;
And the Root of this delightful Tree
Is in her Husband's grave.

Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first word was, "Let there be
At Bolton, in the Fields of Wharf
A stately Priory."

And the stately Priory was rear'd,
And Wharf as he moved along,
To Matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor fail'd at Even-song.

And the Lady pray'd in heaviness
That wish'd not for relief;
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of him to be our Friend.

The poem of Samuel Rogers, to which Wordsworth refers in the Fenwick note, is named The Boy of Egremond. It begins—

"Say, what remains when Hope is fled?"
She answered, "endless weeping!"

In a letter to Wordsworth in 1815, Charles Lamb wrote thus of The Force of Prayer, "Young Romilly is divine; the reasons of his mother's grief being remediless. I never saw parental love carried up so high, towering above the other loves. Shakspeare had done something for the filial in Cordelia, and, by implication, for the fatherly too, in Lear's resentment; he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal heart.... When I first opened upon the just mentioned poem, in a careless tone, I said to Mary, as if putting a riddle, 'What is good for a bootless bene?' To which, with infinite presence of mind (as the jest-book has it), she answered, 'A shoeless pea.' It was the first joke she ever made.... I never felt deeply in my life if that poem did not make me feel, both lately and when I read it in MS." (The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 288.)—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

... from ... 1815.

[2] 1820.

And the Pair ... 1815.

[3] 1850.

This ... 1815.

[4] 1820.

with ... 1815.

[5] 1820.

Now is there ... 1815.

[6] 1815.

And deep ... 1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See The White Doe of Rylstone.—W. W. 1820.

[B] Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, May 1819, of Rogers—"He has been re-writing your Poem of the Strid, and publishing it at the end of his 'Human Life.' Tie him up to the cart, hangman, while you are about it." (The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)—Ed.

[C] The Lady Alice De Romilly built not only Bolton Priory, but the nave of Carlisle Cathedral, and the chancel of Crosthwaite Parish Church at Keswick.—Ed.

[D] "Young Romilly" was a son of Fitz Duncan, Earl of Murray in Scotland, whose Cumbrian estates extended from Dunmail Raise to St. Bees. This "Boy of Egremond" was second cousin of Malcolm, King of Scotland; and by the marriage of Fitz Duncan's sister (Matilda the Good) with Henry I. of England, he stood in the same relation to Henry II. of England. Fitz Duncan married Alice, the only daughter and heiress of Robert de Romilly, lord of Skipton. Compare Ferguson's History of Cumberland, p. 175.—Ed.

[E] Alluding to a Ballad of Logan's.—W. W. 1807.

[F] From the same Ballad.—W. W. 1807.

COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A TRACT, OCCASIONED BY THE CONVENTION OF CINTRA. 1808

Composed 1808.—Published 1815

This sonnet was included among those "dedicated to Liberty."—Ed.

Not 'mid the World's vain objects that[1] enslave
The free-born Soul—that World whose vaunted skill
In selfish interest perverts the will,
Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave—
Not there; but in dark wood and rocky cave, 5
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill
With omnipresent murmur as they rave
Down their steep beds, that never shall be still:
Here, mighty Nature! in this school sublime
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain; 10
For her consult the auguries of time,
And through the human heart explore my way;
And look and listen—gathering, whence[2] I may,
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.

Wordsworth began to write on the Convention of Cintra in November 1808, and sent two articles on the subject to the December (1808) and January (1809) numbers of The Courier. The subject grew in importance to him as he discussed it: and he threw his reflections on the subject into the form of a small treatise, the preface to which was dated 20th May 1809. The full title of this (so-called) "Tract" is "Concerning the Relations of Great Britain, Spain, and Portugal to each other, and to the common Enemy, at this crisis; and specifically as affected by the Convention of Cintra: the whole brought to the test of those Principles, by which alone the Independence and Freedom of Nations can be Preserved or Recovered."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

... which ... 1815.

[2] 1827.

... where ... 1815.

COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME AND ON THE SAME OCCASION

Composed 1808.—Published 1815

One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."—Ed.

I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind
That sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost—
A midnight harmony; and wholly lost
To the general sense of men by chains confined
Of business, care, or pleasure; or resigned 5
To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain,
Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain,
Like acceptation from the World will find.
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink
A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past; 10
And to the attendant promise will give heed—
The prophecy,—like that of this wild blast,
Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink,
Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.

1809

The poems belonging to the years 1809 and 1810 were mainly sonnets—although The Excursion was being added to at intervals. Of twenty-four which were included by Wordsworth, in the final arrangement of his poems, among those "dedicated to National Independence and Liberty," fourteen belong to the year 1809, and ten to 1810. It is difficult to ascertain the principle which guided him in determining the succession of these sonnets. They were not placed in chronological order; nor is there any historical or topographical reason for their being arranged as they were. I have therefore felt at liberty to depart from his order, to the following extent.

The six sonnets referring to the Tyrolese have been brought together in one group. Those containing allusions to Spain might have been similarly treated; but the sonnets on Schill, the King of Sweden, and Napoleon—as arranged by Wordsworth himself—do not break the continuity of the series on Spain, in the same way that the insertion of those on Palafox and Zaragoza interferes with the unity of the Tyrolean group; and the re-arrangement of the latter series enables me more conveniently to append to it a German translation of the sonnets, and a paper upon them, by Alois Brandl.—Ed.

TYROLESE SONNETS

I

HOFFER

Composed 1809.—Published 1809[A]

The six sonnets of this Tyrolean group were placed among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."—Ed.

Of mortal parents is the Hero born
By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led?
Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead
Returned to animate an age forlorn?
He comes like Phœbus through the gates of morn 5
When dreary darkness is discomfited,
Yet mark his modest[1] state! upon his head,
That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn.[2]
O Liberty! they stagger at the shock
From van to rear—and with one mind would flee, 10
But half their host is buried:[3]—rock on rock
Descends:—beneath this godlike Warrior, see!
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock
The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.

The expectation that the Germans would rise against the French in 1807 was realised only in the Tyrol. Andreas Hofer, an innkeeper in the Passeierthal, was the chief of the Tyrolese leaders. More than once he called his countrymen to arms, and was successful for a time. The Bavarians, however, defeated him, in October 1809. He was tried by court-martial, and shot in 1810.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... simple ... 1809.

[2] 1815.

A Heron's feather for a crest is worn. 1809.

[3] 1837.

... at the shock;
The Murderers are aghast; they strive to flee
And half their Host is buried:— ... 1809.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, October 26.—Ed.

II

"ADVANCE—COME FORTH FROM THY TYROLEAN GROUND"

Composed 1809.—Published 1809[A]

Advance—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound; 5
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
And babble of her pastime!—On, dread Power!
With such invisible motion speed thy flight, 10
Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower—
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
Here, there, and in all places at one hour.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, October 26.—Ed.

III

FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE

Composed 1809.—Published 1809[A]

The Land we from our fathers had in trust,
And to our children will transmit, or die:
This is our maxim, this our piety;
And God and Nature say that it is just.
That which we would perform in arms—we must! 5
We read the dictate in the infant's eye;
In the wife's smile; and in the placid sky;
And, at our feet, amid the silent dust
Of them that were before us.—Sing aloud
Old songs, the precious music of the heart! 10
Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind!
While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd,
With weapons grasped in fearless hands,[1] to assert
Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

With weapons in the fearless hand, 1809.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, December 21.—Ed.

IV

"ALAS! WHAT BOOTS THE LONG LABORIOUS QUEST"

Composed 1809.—Published 1809[A]

Alas! what boots the long laborious quest
Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill;
Or pains[1] abstruse—to elevate the will,
And[2] lead us on to that transcendent rest
Where every passion shall the sway attest 5
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill;
What is it but a vain and curious skill,
If sapient Germany must lie deprest,
Beneath the brutal sword?—Her haughty Schools
Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say, 10
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules,
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought
More for mankind at this unhappy day
Than all the pride of intellect and thought?

See the paper by Alois Brandl appended to this series of sonnets, p. 218. Wordsworth had probably no means of knowing anything of Fichte's "Addresses to the German Nation," delivered weekly in Berlin, from December 1807 to March 1808. (See Fichte, by Professor Adamson, pp. 84-91.)—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... pain ... 1809.

[2] 1815.

Or ... 1809.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, November 16, under the title, Sonnet suggested by the efforts of the Tyrolese, contrasted with the present state of Germany.—Ed.

V

ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE

Composed 1809.—Published 1809[A]

It was a moral end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought; 5
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
We know that ye, beneath the stern control 10
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul:
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes,
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, December 21, under the title, On the report of the submission of the Tyrolese.—Ed.

VI

"THE MARTIAL COURAGE OF A DAY IS VAIN"

Composed 1810?[A]—Published 1815

The martial courage of a day is vain,
An empty noise of death the battle's roar,
If vital hope be wanting to restore,
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain,
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain 5
Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore
A weight of hostile corses: drenched with gore
Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain.
Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast)
Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold! 10
And her Tyrolean Champion we behold
Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast,
Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold,
To think that such assurance can stand fast!

FOOTNOTES:

[A] I retain this Tyrolese sonnet amongst the others belonging to the same theme; but, as Hofer was shot in 1810, it was probably written in that year.—Ed.

I append to this series of sonnets on the Tyrol and the Tyrolese the translation of a paper contributed by Alois Brandl, a Tyrolean, to the Neue Freie Presse of October 22, 1880. Herr Brandl was for some time in England investigating the traces of a German literary influence on Coleridge, Wordsworth, and their contemporaries.

"It was in the year 1809; Napoleon was at the height of his career of victory; and England alone of all his opponents held the supremacy at sea. For years the English were the only representatives of freedom in Europe. At last it seemed that two fortunate allies arose to join their cause—the insurgents in Spain and in the little land of Tyrol. No wonder then that now British poets sympathised with the victors at the hill of Isel, and praised their courage and their leaders, and at last, when they were overcome by superior forces, laid the laurel wreath of tragic heroism on their graves.

"Thirty or forty years before, English poets would scarcely have shown such a lively interest in a war of independence in a foreign country. They stood under the curse of narrow-mindedness and one-sidedness both in politics and in art, so that their smooth-running verses neither sought nor found a response even in the hearts of their own fellow-countrymen. The poets who appeared before the public in the year 1798 with the famous 'Lyrical Ballads' were the first to strike out a new path. Although differing considerably from one another in other respects, they agreed in their opposition to the conventionality of the old school."

·······

"Wordsworth lived in a simple little house on the romantic lake of Grasmere, in the heart of the mountains of Westmoreland. He studied more in his walks over heath and field than in books, and entered with interest into the questions affecting the good of the country people around him. All this of necessity impelled him to take a warm interest in the herdsmen of the Alps.

"But the Tyrolese inspired him with still greater interest on political grounds. Like all the lake poets, he was an enthusiastic admirer, not of the French revolution, but of the republic as long as it seemed to desire the realization of the ideas of Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, and the rest of Rousseau's Arcadian notions; and it was a bitter disillusion for him, as well as for Klopstock, when this much-praised home of the free rights of man resolved itself into the empire of Napoleon. From this moment he took his place on the side of the enemies of France, and particularly on the side of the Tyrolese, since they had never lost the natural simplicity of their habits, and had regained the hereditary freedom, of which they had been deprived, with the sword. Thus arose the curious paradox, that a republican poet glorified spontaneously the cause of an exceedingly monarchical and conservative country.

"Wordsworth gave vent to his enthusiasm in six sonnets, which, as far as power of language and vigour of thought are concerned, form interesting companion-pieces to the poems of the contemporary Tyrolese poet Alois Weissenbach. In the first three sonnets the splendour of the Alpine world, which he knew from his journeys in Switzerland, forms the background of the picture. In the foreground he sees a band of brave and daring men, in whose hearts he thought he could find all his own moral pathos. Many of the features which he has introduced certainly show more ideal fancy than knowledge of detail; but it was not his purpose to compose a correct report of the war, but to give an exciting description of the heroes of this struggle for independence, in order that, even though they themselves should be overpowered, their spirit might arise again among his own fellow-countrymen. In the fourth sonnet, in his enthusiasm for the Tyrolese, he has treated the German universities with unnecessary severity; but this does not prove any intentional want of fairness on his part, for at that time our universities stood under general discredit in England as the hotbeds of the wildest metaphysics and political dreams. The events of the year 1813 would probably induce Wordsworth to view them in a more favourable light. Similarly the sixth sonnet is not quite just to Austria; in particular Wordsworth has made decidedly too little allowance for the fact that the Emperor Franz I. ceded the Tyrol quite against his own will under the pressure of circumstances. But in this case we must not simply impute all the blame to the poet; for as we see from the diary of his friend Southey, his information as to the doings of Austria was of a most vague and unfavourable character. We, however, cannot have any wish to impute to Austria the sins of ill-advised diplomacy."

The following are Herr Brandl's German translations of five of Wordsworth's sonnets:—

1

Andreas Hofer.

Von Sterblichen geboren sei der Held,
Der den Tirolern todeskühn gebeut?
Ist etwa Tell's Geist aus der Ewigkeit
Gekehrt, zu wecken die verlor'ne Welt?

Er kommt wie Phöbus aus dem Morgenzelt,
Wenn sich die Finsterniß der Nacht zerstreut,
Und doch, wie schlicht! Ein Falkenschweif nur dreut
Von seinem Hut und füllt sein Wappenfeld.

O Freiheit! Wie der Feind erbebt in Rücken
Und Front und gerne flöh' in einer Fluth,
Wär' er nicht halb bedeckt von Felsenstücken,
Gewälzt von dieses Kämpfers Göttermuth!
Geeint sind Berg, Wald, Wildbach, zu erdrücken
Hohnlachend den Tyrann und seine Wuth.

2[B]

Freiheit, ersteig aus deinem Heimatsland
Tirol! du Mädchen ernst und unzähmbar
Und lieblich doch, der Berge Kind fürwahr!
Ein Echo zwischen Fels und Alpenwand.

Und über Gletschern bist du festgebannt;
Ein Echo, das die Jagd im Morgengrau
Vom Schlaf' aufscheucht, daß Berg und Wald und Au
Und Höhle dröhnen, wo's unsichtbar stand,

Sein Spiel verkündend. So urplötzlich strahl',
Du hehre Macht, hervor im Siegeslauf
Durch Wolkenwust, von Klippenknauf zu Knauf,
Durch Almenhütten, durch das grüne Thal;
In dir dann jauchzen alle Alpen auf
Hier, dort und überall mit einem Mal!

3

Gefühle der Tiroler.

»Das Land ist uns vertraut vom Ahngeschlecht:
So sei's vererbt—und kost' es auch das Leben—
Den Kindern: das ist Pflicht und fromm und eben;
Natur und Gott, sie nennen es gerecht.

Wir müssen thun, was möglich, im Gefecht:
Sieh' dies Gebot im Kindesauge leben,
Von Frauenlippen, aus dem Aether schweben;
Ihr Väter selbst aus Grabesmoder sprecht

Es laut empor.—So kling' in Sangesbraus
Der alten Lieder herzliche Musik!
Einstimmen Hirt und Heerde in den Reihen!
Ein opferwillig' Häuflein zieh'n wir aus,
Die Waffen in den Händen, Muth im Blick,
Der Tugend treu, die Menschheit zu befreien.«

4

Was nützt, ach! langes sittenkluges Streiten,
Das man aus »gut« und »böse« preßt mit Müh';
Was dummer Fleiß, zu höh'n die Energie
Und zu transcendentaler Ruh' zu leiten,

Daß jede Leidenschaft sich lasse reiten
Von der Vernunft in Allsuprematie:
Ist das nicht seltsam eitle Theorie,
Wenn Deutschland trotz so viel Spitzfindigkeiten

Dem rohen Schwert erliegt? Erröthen sollen
Die hohen Schulen! Müssen wir nicht sagen:
Mehr wußten wenig Regeln, starkes Wollen
Durch schlichte Alpenhirten auszuführen
Für's Menschenwohl in diesen Unglückstagen,
Als alles stolze Metaphysiciren?

5

Auf die schließliche Unterwerfung der Tiroler.

Ist einer guten Sache galt ihr Schlagen;
Wie hätten bei der Throne Niederfahrt
Sonst sie, die armen Schäfer, sich bewahrt
Begeisternd hohen Sinn und kräftig Wagen?

Auch hat ihr Kampf für's Gute frucht getragen:
Weckt nicht ihr Ruhm, die große Denkungsart
Auch uns den Muth, mit Rechtsgefühl gepaart,
Der nicht zu kaufen ist, nicht zu zernagen?

Schlaft, Kämpfer! Unter euren Bergen ruht!
Dem strengsten Richter kann es nicht entgehen:
Nie kannte euer Herz das Retiriren.
Und bricht in höchster Pein und Rachewuth
Europa los, so sollt ihr auferstehen,
Ganz über euern Feind zu triumphiren!

FOOTNOTES:

[B]
Sonette 2 und 4 sind unbetitelt.

"AND IS IT AMONG RUDE UNTUTORED DALES"

Composed 1809.—Published 1809[A]

This and the remaining sonnets of 1809 were placed among those "dedicated to Liberty."—Ed.

And is it among rude untutored Dales,[1]
There, and there only, that the heart is true?
And, rising to repel or to subdue,
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails?
Ah no! though Nature's dread protection fails, 5
There is a bulwark in the soul.[2] This knew
Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt
By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, 10
Like him of noble birth and noble mind;
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear;
And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt
The bread which without industry they find.

Palafox-y-Melzi, Don Joseph (1780-1847), immortalized by his heroic defence of Saragossa in 1808-9. He was of an old Aragon family, and entered the Spanish army at an early age. In 1808, when twenty-nine years of age, he was appointed governor of Saragossa, by the people of the town, who were menaced by the French armies. He defended it with a few men, against immense odds, and compelled the French to abandon the siege, after sixty-one days' attack, and the loss of thousands. Saragossa, however, was too important to lose, and Marshals Mortier and Moncy renewed the siege with a large army. Palafox (twice defeated outside) retired to the fortress as before, where the men, women, and children fought in defence, till the city was almost a heap of ruins. Typhus attacked the garrison within, while the French army assailed it from without. Palafox, smitten by the fever, had to give up the command to another, who signed a capitulation next day. He was sent a prisoner to Vincennes, and kept there for nearly five years, till the restoration of Ferdinand VII., when he was sent back on a secret mission to Madrid. In 1814 he was appointed Captain-General of Aragon; but for about thirty years—till his death in 1847—he took no part in public affairs.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... vales, 1809.

[2] The word "soul" was italicised in the editions of 1809 to 1832.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In Coleridge's Friend, December 21.—Ed.

"O'ER THE WIDE EARTH, ON MOUNTAIN AND ON PLAIN"

Composed 1809.—Published 1809[A]

O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A Godhead, like the universal Pan;[B]
But more exalted, with a brighter train:
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 5
Showered equally on city and on field,
And neither hope nor stedfast promise yield
In these usurping times of fear and pain?
Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven!
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws 10
To which the triumph of all good is given,
High sacrifice, and labour without pause,
Even to the death:—else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality?

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In Coleridge's Friend, December 21.—Ed.

[B] Compare Aubrey de Vere's Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey, vol. i. chap. viii. p. 204.—Ed.

In The Friend (edition 1812), the following footnote occurs—

"... universal Pan,
Knit with the graces and the hours in dance,
Led on the eternal spring.—Milton." Ed.

"HAIL, ZARAGOZA! IF WITH UNWET EYE"

Composed 1809.—Published 1815

Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold,
Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold;
Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh.
These desolate remains are trophies high 5
Of more than martial courage in the breast
Of peaceful civic virtue:[A] they attest
Thy matchless worth to all posterity.
Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse;
Disease consumed thy vitals; War upheaved 10
The ground beneath thee with volcanic force:
Dread trials! yet encountered and sustained
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained,
And law was from necessity[1] received.[B]

See note to the sonnet beginning "And is it among rude untutored Dales" (p. 222). "Saragossa surrendered February 20, 1809, after a heroic defence, which may recall the sieges of Numantiaor Saguntum. Every street, almost every house, had been hotly contested; the monks, and even the women, had taken a conspicuous share in the defence; more than 40,000 bodies of both sexes and every age testified to the obstinate courage of the besieged." (See Dyer's History of Modern Europe, vol. iv. p. 496.)—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] The word "necessity" was italicised in the editions of 1815 to 1843.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare a passage in Wordsworth's Essay Concerning the Convention of Cintra (1809, pp. 180-1), beginning "Most gloriously have the Citizens of Saragossa proved that the true army of Spain, in a contest of this nature, is the whole people."—Ed.

[B] The beginning is imitated from an Italian Sonnet.—W. W. 1815.

In 1837 Wordsworth put it thus, "In this Sonnet I am under some obligations to one of an Italian author, to which I cannot refer." But it is to be noted that in the edition of 1837, this note does not refer to the sonnet on Saragossa, but to that beginning "O, for a kindling touch from that pure flame," belonging to the year 1816. In subsequent editions the note is reappended to this sonnet beginning "Hail, Zaragoza!"—Ed.

"SAY, WHAT IS HONOUR?—'TIS THE FINEST SENSE"

Composed 1809.—Published 1815

Say, what is Honour?—'Tis the finest sense
Of justice which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,
And guard the way of life from all offence
Suffered or done. When lawless violence 5
Invades a Realm, so pressed that in the scale[1]
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail,
Honour is hopeful elevation,—whence
Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill
Endangered States may yield to terms unjust; 10
Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust—
A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil:
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust
Are forfeited; but infamy doth kill.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

A Kingdom doth assault, and in the scale 1815.

"BRAVE SCHILL! BY DEATH DELIVERED, TAKE THY FLIGHT"

Composed 1809.—Published 1815

Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight
From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest
With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest,
Or in the fields of empyrean light.
A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night:[1]
5
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime,
Stand in the spacious firmament of time,
Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right.
Alas! it may not be: for earthly fame
Is Fortune's frail dependant; yet their lives 10
A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives;
To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,
Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;
In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.

Ferdinand von Schill, a distinguished Prussian officer, born 1773, entered the army 1789, was seriously wounded in the battle of Jena, but took the field again at the head of a free corps. Indignant at the subjection of his country to Buonaparte, he resolved to make a great effort for the liberation of Germany, collected a small body of troops, and commenced operations on the Elbe; but after a few successes was overpowered and slain at Stralsund, May 31, 1809. On June 4, 1809, Wordsworth writing to Daniel Stewart, editor of The Courier newspaper, says, "Many thanks for the newspaper. Schill is a fine fellow." The sonnet was doubtless inspired by what he thus heard of Schill.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... in a darksome night:  1815.

"CALL NOT THE ROYAL SWEDE UNFORTUNATE"

Composed 1809.—Published 1815

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee;
Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly
Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!" 5
Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
He sits a more exalted Potentate,
Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain
That this great Servant of a righteous cause 10
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure,
Yet may a sympathizing spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
In thankful joy and gratulation pure.

The royal Swede, "who never did to Fortune bend the knee," was Gustavus IV. He abdicated in 1809, and came to London at the close of the year 1810. Compare the earlier sonnet on the same King of Sweden (vol. ii. p. 338), beginning—

The Voice of song from distant lands shall call.

In the edition of 1827, Wordsworth added the following note:—"In this and a former Sonnet, in honour of the same Sovereign, let me be understood as a Poet availing himself of the situation which the King of Sweden occupied, and of the principles avowed in his manifestos; as laying hold of these advantages for the purpose of embodying moral truths. This remark might, perhaps, as well have been suppressed; for to those who may be in sympathy with the course of these Poems, it will be superfluous; and will, I fear, be thrown away upon that other class, whose besotted admiration of the intoxicated despot here placed in contrast with him, is the most melancholy evidence of degradation in British feeling and intellect which the times have furnished."—Ed.

"LOOK NOW ON THAT ADVENTURER WHO HATH PAID"

Composed 1809.—Published 1815

Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid
His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made
By the blind Goddess,—ruthless, undismayed; 5
And so hath gained at length a prosperous height,
Round which the elements of worldly might
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid.
O joyless power that stands by lawless force!
Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate, 10
Internal darkness and unquiet breath;
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course,
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate
By violent and ignominious death.

The "Adventurer" who "paid his vows to Fortune," in contrast to the royal Swede "who never did to Fortune bend the knee," was of course Napoleon Buonaparte.—Ed.

"IS THERE A POWER THAT CAN SUSTAIN AND CHEER"

Composed 1809.—Published 1815

Is there a power that can sustain and cheer
The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom,
Forced to descend into his destined tomb—[1]
A dungeon dark! where he must waste the year,
And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear; 5
What time his injured country is a stage
Whereon deliberate Valour and the rage
Of righteous Vengeance side by side appear,
Filling from morn to night the heroic scene
With deeds of hope and everlasting praise:— 10
Say can he think of this with mind serene
And silent fetters? Yes, if visions bright
Shine on his soul, reflected from the days
When he himself was tried in open light.

This may refer to Palafox, alluded to in the sonnet (p. 222) beginning, "And is it among rude untutored Dales," and in the one next in order in the series (p. 223); although, from the latter sonnet, it would seem that Wordsworth did not know that Palafox was, in 1809, a prisoner at Vincennes.

In his edition of the poems published in 1837, Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia said, "He must be dull of heart who, in perusing this series of Poems 'dedicated to Liberty,' does not feel his affection for his own country—wherever it may be—and his love of freedom, under whatever form of government his lot may have been cast—at once invigorated and chastened into a purer and more thoughtful emotion."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

Forced to descend alive into his tomb, 1815.

The text of 1815 was re-adopted in 1838; the text of 1840 returned to that of 1837.

EPITAPHS TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA

[Those from Chiabrera were chiefly translated when Mr. Coleridge was writing his Friend, in which periodical my "Essay on Epitaphs," written about that time, was first published. For further notice of Chiabrera, in connection with his Epitaphs, see Musings near Aquapendente.—I. F.]

It is better to print all the Epitaphs from Chiabrera together, than to spread them out over the years when they were written or published. Some of them were certainly written in 1809, or at least before 1810; others at a later date. But it is impossible to say in what year those published after 1810 were composed. They are all to be found in the class of "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."—Ed.

I

"WEEP NOT, BELOVÈD FRIENDS! NOR LET THE AIR"

Published 1837

Weep not, belovèd Friends! nor let the air
For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life
Have I been taken; this is genuine life
And this alone—the life which now I live
In peace eternal; where desire and joy 5
Together move in fellowship without end.—
Francesco Ceni willed that, after death,
His tombstone thus should speak for him.[1] And surely
Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours
Long to continue in this world; a world 10
That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope
To good, whereof itself is destitute.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1849.

Francesco Ceni after death enjoined
That thus his tomb should speak for him ... 1837.

II

"PERHAPS SOME NEEDFUL SERVICE OF THE STATE"

Published 1810[A]

Perhaps some needful service of the State
Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers,
And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,
Where gold determines between right and wrong.
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, 5
And his pure native genius, lead him back
To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses,
Whom he had early loved. And not in vain
Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung 10
With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains.[1]
There pleasure crowned his days; and all his thoughts
A roseate fragrance breathed.[2][B]—O human life,
That never art secure from dolorous change!
Behold a high injunction suddenly 15
To Arno's side hath brought him,[3] and he charmed
A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called
To the perpetual silence of the grave.
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood
A Champion stedfast and invincible, 20
To quell the rage of literary War!

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... Nestrian 1810.

[2] 1815.

There did he live content; and all his thoughts
Were blithe as vernal flowers.— 1810.

[3] 1837.

To Arno's side conducts him, 1810.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, February 22.—Ed.

[B]

Ivi vivea giocondo ei suoi pensieri
Erano tutti rose.

The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original.—W. W. 1815.

III

"O THOU WHO MOVEST ONWARD WITH A MIND"

Published 1810[A]

O Thou who movest onward with a mind
Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste!
'Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born
Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood.
On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate 5
To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd
Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock.
Well[1] did I watch, much laboured, nor had power
To escape from many and strange indignities;
Was smitten by the great ones of the world, 10
But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks,
Upon herself resting immoveably.
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite
To serve the glorious Henry, King of France,
And in his hands I saw a high reward 15
Stretched out for my acceptance,—but Death came.
Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how false,
How treacherous to her promise, is the world;
And trust in God—to whose eternal doom
Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth. 20

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

Much ... 1810.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, February 22.—Ed.

IV

"THERE NEVER BREATHED A MAN WHO, WHEN HIS LIFE"

Published 1809[A]

There never breathed a man who, when his life
Was closing, might not of that life relate
Toils long and hard.—The warrior will report
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,
And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed 5
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings,
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,
Envy and heart-inquietude, derived
From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.
I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, 10
Could represent the countenance horrible
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage
Of Auster and Boötes. Fifty[1] years
Over the well-steered galleys did I rule:—
From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, 15
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft:
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 20
What noble pomp and frequent have not I
On regal decks beheld! yet in the end
I learned[2] that one poor moment can suffice
To equalise the lofty and the low.
We sail the sea of life—a Calm One finds, 25
And One a Tempest—and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
If more of my condition ye would know,
Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang
Of noble parents: seventy[3] years and three 30
Lived I—then yielded to a slow disease.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

... Forty 1809.

[2] 1832.

I learn ... 1809.

[3] 1837.

... sixty ... 1809.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, December 28.—Ed.

V

"TRUE IS IT THAT AMBROSIO SALINERO"

Published 1837

True is it that Ambrosio Salinero
With an untoward fate was long involved
In odious litigation; and full long,
Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults
Of racking malady. And true it is 5
That not the less a frank courageous heart
And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain;
And he was strong to follow in the steps
Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path
Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade, 10
That might from him be hidden; not a track
Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he
Had traced its windings.—This Savona knows,
Yet no sepulchral honours to her Son
She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled 15
Only by gold. And now a simple stone
Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera.
Think not, O Passenger! who read'st the lines
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me; 20
No—he was One whose memory ought to spread
Where'er Permessus bears an honoured name,
And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.[A]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare S. T. Coleridge's poem, A Tombless Epitaph.—Ed.

VI

"DESTINED TO WAR FROM VERY INFANCY"

Published 1809[A]

Destined to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
In Malta the white symbol of the Cross:
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen 5
Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate:
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 10
That stripped of arms I to my end am brought
On the soft down of my paternal home.
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 15
How fleeting and how frail is human life!

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, December 28.—Ed.

VII

"O FLOWER OF ALL THAT SPRINGS FROM GENTLE BLOOD"

Published 1837

O flower of all that springs from gentle blood,
And all that generous nurture breeds to make
Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul
To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,
Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day 5
In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
Has from Savona torn her best delight?
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn;
And, should the out-pourings of her eyes suffice not
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto 10
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,
In the chaste arms of thy belovèd Love!
What profit riches? what does youth avail?
Dust are our hopes;—I, weeping bitterly, 15
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray
That every gentle Spirit hither led
May read them not without some bitter tears.

VIII

"NOT WITHOUT HEAVY GRIEF OF HEART DID HE"

Published 1810[A]

Not without heavy grief of heart did He
On whom the duty fell (for at that time
The father sojourned in a distant land)
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb
A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved! 5
Francesco was the name the Youth had borne,
Pozzobonnelli his illustrious house;
And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid,
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.
Alas! the twentieth April of his life 10
Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time,
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
That greatly cheered his country: to his kin
He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts
His friends had in their fondness entertained,[B]
15
He suffered not to languish or decay.
Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament?—O Soul!
Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air; 20
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
An everlasting spring! in memory
Of that delightful fragrance which was once
From thy mild manners quietly exhaled.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In The Friend, January 4.—Ed.

[B] In justice to the Author I subjoin the original—

... e degli amici
Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri.—W. W. 1815.

IX

"PAUSE, COURTEOUS SPIRIT!—BALBI SUPPLICATES"[A]

Published 1810[B]

Pause, courteous Spirit!—Balbi supplicates
That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer
A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
This to the dead by sacred right belongs; 5
All else is nothing.—Did occasion suit
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb
Would ill suffice: for Plato's lore sublime,
And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite,
Enriched and beautified his studious mind: 10
With Archimedes also he conversed
As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave
Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs
Twine near their loved Permessus.[1]—Finally,
Himself above each lower thought uplifting, 15
His ears he closed to listen to the songs[2]
Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old;
And his Permessus found on Lebanon.[3]
A blessèd Man! who of protracted days
Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep; 20
But truly did He live his life. Urbino,
Take pride in him!—O Passenger, farewell!

I have been unable to obtain any definite information in reference to the persons commemorated in these epitaphs by Chiabrera: Francesco Ceni, Titus, Ambrosio Salinero, Roberto Dati, Lelius, Francesco Pozzobonnelli, and Balbi. Mr. W. M. Rossetti writes to me that he "supposes all the men named by Chiabrera to be such as enjoyed a certain local and temporary reputation, which has hardly passed down to any sort of posterity, and certainly not to the ordinary English reader."

Chiabrera was born at Savona on the 8th of June 1552, and educated at Rome. He entered the service of Cardinal Cornaro, married in his 50th year, lived to the age of 85, and died October 14, 1637. His poetical faculty showed itself late. "Having commenced to read the Greek writers at home, he conceived a great admiration for Pindar, and strove successfully to imitate him. He was not less happy in catching the naïve and pleasant spirit of Anacreon; his canzonetti being distinguished for their ease and elegance, while his Lettere Famigliari was the first attempt to introduce the poetical epistle into Italian Literature. He wrote also several epics, bucolics, and dramatic poems. His Opere appeared at Venice, in 6 vols., in 1768."

Wordsworth says of him, in his Essay on Epitaphs, where translations of two of those Epitaphs of Chiabrera first appeared (see The Friend, February 22, 1810, and notes to The Excursion)—"His life was long, and every part of it bore appropriate fruits. Urbino, his birth-place, might be proud of him, and the passenger who was entreated to pray for his soul has a wish breathed for his welfare.... The Epitaphs of Chiabrera are twenty-nine in number, and all of them, save two, upon men probably little known at this day in their own country, and scarcely at all beyond the limits of it; and the reader is generally made acquainted with the moral and intellectual excellence which distinguished them by a brief history of the course of their lives, or a selection of events and circumstances, and thus they are individualized; but in the two other instances, namely, in those of Tasso and Raphael, he enters into no particulars, but contents himself with four lines expressing one sentiment, upon the principle laid down in the former part of this discourse, when the subject of the epitaph is a man of prime note...."

Compare the poem Musings near Aquapendente. In reference to the places referred to in these Epitaphs of Chiabrera, it may be mentioned that Savona (Epitaphs III., IV., V., VII., VIII.) is a town in the Genovese territory; Permessus (Epitaphs V. and IX.) a river of Bœotia, rising in Mount Helicon and flowing round it, hence sacred to the Muses; and that the fountain of Hippocrene—also referred to in Epitaph V.—was not far distant. Sebeto (Epitaph VII.), now cape Faro, is a Sicilian promontory.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

Twine on the top of Pindus.— ... 1810.

[2] 1837.

... Song 1810.

[3] 1837.

And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon. 1810.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Wordsworth's extended commentary on this sonnet in his Essay on Epitaphs (see his "Prose Works" in this edition), should here be referred to.—Ed.

[B] In The Friend, January 4.—Ed.

1810

As indicated in the editorial note to the poems belonging to the year 1809, those of 1810 were mainly sonnets, suggested by the events occurring on the Continent of Europe, and the patriotic efforts of the Spaniards to resist Napoleon. I have assigned the two referring to Flamininus, entitled On a Celebrated Event in Ancient History, to the same year. They were first published in 1815, and seem to have been due to the same impulse which led Wordsworth to write the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."—Ed.

"AH! WHERE IS PALAFOX? NOR TONGUE NOR PEN"

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

All the sonnets of 1810 were "dedicated to Liberty." In every edition this poem had for its title the date 1810.—Ed.

Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen
Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave!
Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the wave?
Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken
Of pitying human-nature? Once again 5
Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave,
Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave,
And through all Europe cheer desponding men
With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might
Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. 10
Hark, how thy Country triumphs!—Smilingly
The Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams,
Like his own lightning, over mountains high,
On rampart, and the banks of all her streams.

See notes to sonnets (pp. 223 and 229).—Ed.

"IN DUE OBSERVANCE OF AN ANCIENT RITE"

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

In due observance of an ancient rite,
The rude Biscayans, when their children lie
Dead in the sinless time of infancy,
Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white;
And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright, 5
They bind the unoffending creature's brows
With happy garlands of the pure white rose:
Then do[1] a festal company unite
In choral song; and, while the uplifted cross
Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 10
Uncovered to his grave: 'tis closed,—her loss
The Mother then mourns, as she needs must mourn;
But soon, through Christian faith, is grief subdued;[2]
And joy returns, to brighten fortitude.[3]

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

This done, ... 1815.

[2] 1837.

Uncovered to his grave.—Her piteous loss
The lonesome Mother cannot chuse but mourn;
Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued, 1815.

[3]
C. and 1838.

And joy attends upon her fortitude. 1815.

Or joy returns to brighten fortitude. 1837.

FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN AT ONE OF THOSE FUNERALS, 1810

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes
With firmer soul, yet labour to regain
Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain
To gather round the bier these festal shows.
A garland fashioned of the pure white rose 5
Becomes not one whose father is a slave:
Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave!
These venerable mountains now enclose
A people sunk in apathy and fear.
If this endure, farewell, for us, all good! 10
The awful light of heavenly innocence
Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier;
And guilt and shame, from which is no defence,
Descend on all that issues from our blood.

ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORY

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground,
And to the people at the Isthmian Games
Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, proclaims[1]
The Liberty of Greece:—the words rebound
Until all voices in one voice are drowned; 5
Glad acclamation by which air was[2] rent!
And birds, high flying in the element,
Dropped[3] to the earth, astonished at the sound!
Yet were the thoughtful grieved; and still that voice
Haunts, with sad echoes, musing Fancy's ear:[4]
10
Ah! that a Conqueror's words[5] should be so dear:
Ah! that a boon could shed such rapturous joys!
A gift of that which is not to be given
By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven.

This "Roman Master" "on Grecian ground" was T. Quintius Flamininus, one of the ablest and noblest of the Roman generals (230-174 B.C.). He was successful against Philip of Macedon, overran Thessaly in 198, and conquered the Macedonian army in 197, defeating Philip at Cynoscephalæ. He concluded a peace with the vanquished. "In the spring of 196, the Roman commission arrived in Greece to arrange, conjointly with Flamininus, the affairs of the country: they also brought with them the terms on which a definite peace was to be concluded with Philip.... The Ætolians exerted themselves to excite suspicions among the Greeks as to the sincerity of the Romans in their dealings with them. Flamininus, however, insisted upon immediate compliance with the terms of the peace.... In this summer, the Isthmian games were celebrated at Corinth, and thousands from all parts of Greece flocked thither. Flamininus, accompanied by the ten commissioners, entered the assembly, and, at his command, a herald, in name of the Roman Senate, proclaimed the freedom and independence of Greece. The joy and enthusiasm at this unexpected declaration was beyond all description: the throngs of people that crowded around Flamininus to catch a sight of their liberator or touch his garment were so enormous, that even his life was endangered." (Smith's Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography: Art. Flamininus, No. 4.)—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

And to the Concourse of the Isthmian Games
He, by his Herald's voice, aloud proclaims 1815.

[2] 1815.

... is ... 1838.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.

[3] 1815.

Drop ... 1838.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.

[4] 1837.

... at the sound!
—A melancholy Echo of that noise
Doth sometimes hang on musing Fancy's ear: 1815.

[5] 1815.

... word ... 1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

UPON THE SAME EVENT

Composed (probably) 1810.—Published 1815

When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
The tidings passed of servitude repealed,
And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field,
The rough Ætolians smiled with bitter scorn.
"'Tis known," cried they, "that he, who would adorn
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown, 6
Must either win, through effort of his own,
The prize, or be content to see it worn
By more deserving brows.—Yet so ye prop,
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon, 10
Your feeble spirits! Greece her head hath bowed,
As if the wreath of liberty thereon
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud,
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top."

The Ætolians were the only Greeks that entertained suspicion of the Roman designs from the first. When Flamininus was wintering in Phocis in 196, and an insurrection broke out at Opus, some of the citizens had called in the aid of the Ætolians against the Macedonian garrison; but the gates of the city were not opened to admit the Ætolian volunteers till Flamininus arrived. Then in the battle at the heights of Cynoscephalæ, where the Macedonian army was routed, the Ætolian contingent, which had helped Flamininus, claimed the sole credit of the victory; and wished no truce made with Philip, as they were bent on the destruction of the Macedonian power. The Ætolians aimed subsequently at exciting suspicion against the sincerity of Flamininus. In the second sonnet, Wordsworth's sympathy seems to have been with the Ætolians, as much as it was with the Swiss and the Tyrolese in their attitude to Buonaparte. But Flamininus was not a Napoleon.—Ed.

THE OAK OF GUERNICA

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde in his account of Biscay, is a most venerable natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 1476, after hearing mass in the church of Santa Maria de la Antigua, repaired to this tree, under which they swore to the Biscayans to maintain their fueros (privileges). What other interest belongs to it in the minds of this people will appear from the following

SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME. 1810

Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power
Than that which in Dodona did enshrine
(So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine
Heard from the depths of its aërial bower—
How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour? 5
What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee,
Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea,
The dews of morn, or April's tender shower?
Stroke merciful and welcome would that be
Which should extend thy branches on the ground, 10
If never more within their shady round
Those lofty-minded Lawgivers shall meet,
Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat,
Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty.

Prophetic power was believed to reside within the grove which surrounded the temple of Jupiter near Dodona, in Epirus, and oracles were given forth from the boughs of the sacred oak.—Ed.

INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD, 1810

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

We can endure that He should waste our lands,
Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame
Return us to the dust from which we came;
Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands:
And we can brook the thought that by his hands 5
Spain may be overpowered, and he possess,
For his delight, a solemn wilderness
Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands
Which he will break for us he dares to speak,
Of benefits, and of a future day 10
When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway;
Then, the strained heart of fortitude proves weak;
Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare
That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear.

Compare the two sonnets On a Celebrated Event in Ancient History (pp. 242-44). The following note to the last line of this sonnet occurs in Professor Reed's American edition of the Poems:—"The student of English poetry will call to mind Cowley's impassioned expression of the indignation of a Briton under the depression of disasters somewhat similar.

Let rather Roman come again,
Or Saxon, Norman, or the Dane:
In all the bonds we ever bore,
We grieved, we sighed, we wept, we never blushed before."

See Cowley's Discourse on the Government of Oliver Cromwell.—Ed.

"AVAUNT ALL SPECIOUS PLIANCY OF MIND"

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind
In men of low degree, all smooth pretence!
I better like a blunt indifference,
And self-respecting slowness, disinclined
To win me at first sight: and be there joined 5
Patience and temperance with this high reserve,
Honour that knows the path and will not swerve;
Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind;
And piety towards God. Such men of old
Were England's native growth; and, throughout Spain,
(Thanks to high God) forests of such remain:[1]
11
Then for that Country let our hopes be bold;
For matched with these shall policy prove vain,
Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

Forests of such do at this day remain; 1815.

"O'ERWEENING STATESMEN HAVE FULL LONG RELIED"

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

In all the editions this poem has for its title the date 1810.—Ed.

O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied
On fleets and armies, and external wealth:
But from within proceeds a Nation's health;
Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride
To the paternal floor; or turn aside, 5
In the thronged city, from the walks of gain,
As being all unworthy to detain
A Soul by contemplation sanctified.
There are who cannot languish in this strife,
Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 10
Of such high course was felt and understood;
Who to their Country's cause have bound a life
Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given
To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven.[A]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Laborde's Character of the Spanish People; from him the sentiment of these two last lines is taken.—W. W. 1815.

THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS

Composed 1810.—Published 1815

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height—
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last, 5
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
So these,—and, heard of once again, are chased
With combinations of long-practised art
And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled— 10
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
Where now?—Their sword is at the Foeman's heart!
And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.

See the note appended to the sonnet entitled Spanish Guerillas (p. 254).—Ed.

MATERNAL GRIEF

Composed 1810.—Published 1842

[This was in part an overflow from the Solitary's description of his own and his wife's feelings upon the decease of their children. (See Excursion, book 3rd.)—I. F.]

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

Departed Child! I could forget thee once
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
Is present and perpetually abides
A shadow, never, never to be displaced 5
By the returning substance, seen or touched,
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
Absence and death how differ they! and how
Shall I admit that nothing can restore
What one short sigh so easily removed?— 10
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought,
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
O teach me calm submission to thy Will!

The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air 15
That sanctifies its confines, and partook
Reflected beams of that celestial light[A]
To all the Little-ones on sinful earth
Not unvouchsafed—a light that warmed and cheered
Those several qualities of heart and mind 20
Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep,
Daily before the Mother's watchful eye,
And not hers only, their peculiar charms
Unfolded,—beauty, for its present self,
And for its promises to future years, 25
With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed.

Have you espied upon a dewy lawn
A pair of Leverets each provoking each
To a continuance of their fearless sport,
Two separate Creatures in their several gifts 30
Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all
That Nature prompts them to display, their looks,
Their starts of motion and their fits of rest,
An undistinguishable style appears
And character of gladness, as if Spring 35
Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit
Of the rejoicing morning were their own?

Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained
And her twin Brother, had the parent seen,
Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, 40
Death in a moment parted them, and left
The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse
Than desolate; for oft-times from the sound
Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child,
He knew it not) and from his happiest looks, 45
Did she extract the food of self-reproach,
As one that lived ungrateful for the stay
By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed
And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy,
Now first acquainted with distress and grief, 50
Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned with fear
Her sad approach, and stole away to find,
In his known haunts of joy where'er he might,
A more congenial object. But, as time
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child 55
To what he saw, he gradually returned,
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew
A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe
Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop 60
To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread
Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks,
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were calmed
And cheered; and now together breathe fresh air
In open fields; and when the glare of day 65
Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish
Befriends the observance, readily they join
In walks whose boundary is the lost One's grave,
Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there
Amusement, where the Mother does not miss 70
Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf
In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite
Of pious faith the vanities of grief;
For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits
Transferred to regions upon which the clouds 75
Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed
Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs,
And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow,
Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of Heaven
As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, 80
Immortal as the love that gave it being.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare the Ode, Intimations of Immortality, l. 4, and passim (vol. viii.)—Ed.

1811

In the spring of 1811 Wordsworth left Allan Bank, to reside for two years in the Rectory, Grasmere. A small fragment on his daughter Catherine, the Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, Bart., from the south-west coast of Cumberland, the lines To the Poet, John Dyer, and four sonnets (mainly suggested by the events of the year in Spain) comprise all the poems belonging to 1811.—Ed.

CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD

Composed 1811.—Published 1815

[Written at Allanbank, Grasmere. Picture of my daughter, Catherine, who died the year after.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.

Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke 5
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity; 10
Even so this happy Creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's 15
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched;
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images imprest 20
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.

On February 28, 1810, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Lady Beaumont, "Catherine is the only funny child in the family; the rest of the children are lively, but Catherine is comical in every look and motion. Thomas perpetually forces a tender smile by his simplicity, but Catherine makes you laugh outright, though she can hardly say a dozen words, and she joins in the laugh, as if sensible of the drollery of her appearance."—Ed.

SPANISH GUERILLAS, 1811

Composed 1811.—Published 1815

Classed among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."—Ed.

They seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,
For they have learnt to open and to close
The ridges of grim war;[A] and at their head
Are captains such as erst their country bred 5
Or fostered, self-supported chiefs,—like those
Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;
Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.
In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life
Redoubted Viriatus breathes again;[B]
10
And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,[C]
With that great Leader[D] vies, who, sick of strife
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid
In some green island of the western main.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Paradise Lost, book vi. ll. 235-36—

and when to close
The ridges of grim war.Ed.

[B] Viriatus, for eight or fourteen years leader of the Lusitanians in the war with the Romans in the middle of the second century B.C. He defeated many of the Roman generals, including Q. Pompeius. Some of the historians say that he was originally a shepherd, and then a robber or guerilla chieftain. (See Livy, books 52 and 54.)—Ed.

[C] "Whilst the chief force of the French was occupied in Portugal and Andalusia, and there remained in the interior of Spain only a few weak corps, the Guerilla system took deep root, and in the course of 1811 attained its greatest perfection. Left to itself the boldest and most enterprising of its members rose to command, and the mode of warfare best adapted to their force and habits was pursued. Each province boasted of a hero, in command of a formidable band—Old Castile, Don Julian Sanches; Aragon, Longa; Navarre, Esprez y Mina, ...with innumerable others, whose deeds spread a lustre over every part of the kingdom.... Mina and Longa headed armies of 6000 or 8000 men with distinguished ability, and displayed manœuvres oftentimes for months together, in baffling the pursuit of more numerous bodies of French, which would reflect credit on the most celebrated commanders." Mina had been trained for clerical life. (See Account of the War in Spain and Portugal, and in the south of France, from 1808 to 1814 inclusive, by Lieut.-Colonel John T. Jones. London, 1818.)—Ed.

[D] Sertorius.—W. W. 1827. See note to The Prelude book i. vol. iii. p. 138.—Ed.

"THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A VISIBLE THING"

Composed 1811.—Published 1815

One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."

The power of Armies is a visible thing,[A]
Formal, and circumscribed in time and space;[1]
But who the limits of that power shall trace[2]
Which a brave People into light can bring
Or hide, at will,—for freedom combating 5
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,[3]
No eye can follow, to a fatal[4] place
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
Within its awful caves.—From year to year 10
Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
No craft this subtle element can bind,
Rising like water from the soil, to find
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

... and place; 1815.

[2] 1827.

... can trace 1815.

[3] 1827.

... can chase, 1815.

[4] The word "fatal" was italicised in the editions of 1815-43.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Aubrey de Vere's Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey, vol. i. chap. viii. p. 204.—Ed.

"HERE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS AT LEAST THIS PRAISE"

Composed 1811.—Published 1815

Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty." In 1815 it was called Conclusion, as ending this series of poems in that edition. In all editions it was headed by the date 1811.—Ed.

Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 5
For its own honour, on man's suffering heart.[A]
Never may from our souls one truth depart—
That an accursed[1] thing it is to gaze
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor—touched with due abhorrence of their guilt 10
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labours in extremity—
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!

VARIANTS:

[1] The word "accursed" was italicised in the editions of 1815-43.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare The Excursion (book iv. l. 763)—

We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love,

and S. T. C. in The Friend (vol. i. p. 172). "What an awful duty, what a nurse of all others, the fairest virtues, does not Hope become! We are bad ourselves, because we despair of the goodness of others."—Ed.

EPISTLE

TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.

FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND.—1811

Composed 1811.—Published 1842

[This poem opened, when first written, with a paragraph that has been transferred as an introduction to the first series of my Scotch Memorials. The journey, of which the first part is here described, was from Grasmere to Bootle on the south-west coast of Cumberland, the whole among mountain roads through a beautiful country; and we had fine weather. The verses end with our breakfast at the head of Yewdale in a yeoman's house, which, like all the other property in that sequestered vale, has passed or is passing into the hands of Mr. James Marshall of Monk Coniston—in Mr. Knott's, the late owner's, time called Waterhead. Our hostess married a Mr. Oldfield, a lieutenant in the Navy. They lived together for some time at Hacket, where she still resides as his widow. It was in front of that house, on the mountain side, near which stood the peasant who, while we were passing at a distance, saluted us, waving a kerchief in her hand as described in the poem.[A] (This matron and her husband were then residing at the Hacket. The house and its inmates are referred to in the fifth book of The Excursion, in the passage beginning—

You behold,
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark
With stony barrenness, a shining speck.—J. C.)[B]

The dog which we met with soon after our starting belonged to Mr. Rowlandson, who for forty years was curate of Grasmere in place of the rector who lived to extreme old age in a state of insanity. Of this Mr. R. much might be said, both with reference to his character, and the way in which he was regarded by his parishioners. He was a man of a robust frame, had a firm voice and authoritative manner, of strong natural talents, of which he was himself conscious, for he has been heard to say (it grieves me to add) with an oath—"If I had been brought up at college I should have been a bishop." Two vices used to struggle in him for mastery, avarice and the love of strong drink; but avarice, as is common in like cases, always got the better of its opponent; for, though he was often intoxicated, it was never I believe at his own expense. As has been said of one in a more exalted station, he would take any given quantity. I have heard a story of him which is worth the telling. One summer's morning, our Grasmere curate, after a night's carouse in the vale of Langdale, on his return home, having reached a point near which the whole of the vale of Grasmere might be seen with the lake immediately below him, stepped aside and sat down on the turf. After looking for some time at the landscape, then in the perfection of its morning beauty, he exclaimed—"Good God, that I should have led so long such a life in such a place!" This no doubt was deeply felt by him at the time, but I am not authorised to say that any noticeable amendment followed. Penuriousness strengthened upon him as his body grew feebler with age. He had purchased property and kept some land in his own hands, but he could not find in his heart to lay out the necessary hire for labourers at the proper season, and consequently he has often been seen in half-dotage working his hay in the month of November by moonlight, a melancholy sight which I myself have witnessed. Notwithstanding all that has been said, this man, on account of his talents and superior education, was looked up to by his parishioners, who without a single exception lived at that time (and most of them upon their own small inheritances) in a state of republican equality, a condition favourable to the growth of kindly feelings among them, and in a striking degree exclusive to temptations to gross vice and scandalous behaviour. As a pastor their curate did little or nothing for them; but what could more strikingly set forth the efficacy of the Church of England through its Ordinances and Liturgy than that, in spite of the unworthiness of the minister, his church was regularly attended; and, though there was not much appearance in the flock of what might be called animated piety, intoxication was rare, and dissolute morals unknown. With the Bible they were for the most part well acquainted; and, as was strikingly shown when they were under affliction, must have been supported and comforted by habitual belief in those truths which it is the aim of the Church to inculcate. Loughrigg Tarn.—This beautiful pool and the surrounding scene are minutely described in my little Book upon the Lakes. Sir G. H. Beaumont, in the earlier part of his life, was induced, by his love of nature and the art of painting, to take up his abode at Old Brathay, about three miles from this spot, so that he must have seen it under many aspects; and he was so much pleased with it that he purchased the Tarn with a view to build, near it, such a residence as is alluded to in this Epistle. Baronets and knights were not so common in that day as now, and Sir Michael le Fleming, not liking to have a rival in that kind of distinction so near him, claimed a sort of Lordship over the territory, and showed dispositions little in unison with those of Sir G. Beaumont, who was eminently a lover of peace. The project of building was in consequence given up, Sir George retaining possession of the Tarn. Many years afterwards a Kendal tradesman born upon its banks applied to me for the purchase of it, and accordingly it was sold for the sum that had been given for it, and the money was laid out under my direction upon a substantial oak fence for a certain number of yew trees to be planted in Grasmere church-yard; two were planted in each enclosure, with a view to remove, after a certain time, the one which throve least. After several years, the stouter plant being left, the others were taken up and placed in other parts of the same church-yard, and were adequately fenced at the expense and under the care of the late Mr. Barber, Mr. Greenwood, and myself: the whole eight are now thriving, and are already an ornament to a place which, during late years, has lost much of its rustic simplicity by the introduction of iron palisades to fence off family burying-grounds, and by numerous monuments, some of them in very bad taste; from which this place of burial was in my memory quite free. See the lines in the sixth book of The Excursion beginning—"Green is the church-yard, beautiful and green." The Epistle to which these notes refer, though written so far back as 1804,[C] was carefully revised so late as 1842, previous to its publication. I am loth to add, that it was never seen by the person to whom it is addressed. So sensible am I of the deficiencies in all that I write, and so far does everything I attempt fall short of what I wish it to be, that even private publication, if such a term may be allowed, requires more resolution than I can command. I have written to give vent to my own mind, and not without hope that, some time or other, kindred minds might benefit by my labours: but I am inclined to believe I should never have ventured to send forth any verses of mine to the world if it had not been done on the pressure of personal occasions. Had I been a rich man, my productions, like this Epistle, the tragedy of The Borderers, etc., would most likely have been confined to manuscript.—I. F.]

Included among the "Miscellaneous Poems."—Ed.

Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb
Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom, 6
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
What on the Plain we have of warmth and light,
In his own storms he hides himself from sight.
Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free 10
From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee;
Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road
Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might
Attained a stature twice a tall man's height, 15
Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere
Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,
Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,
Or like a Centinel[1] that, evermore 20
Darkening the window, ill defends the door
Of this unfinished house—a Fortress bare,
Where strength has been the Builder's only care;
Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
The final polish of the Plasterer's hand. 25
—This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' space
And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
I—of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,
In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill 30
A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
Tired of my books, a scanty company!
And tired of listening to the boisterous sea—
Pace between door and window muttering rhyme,
An old resource to cheat a froward time! 35
Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?)
Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim.
—But if there be a Muse who, free to take
Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake
Those heights (like Phœbus when his golden locks 40
He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks)
And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail
Trips down the pathways of some winding dale;
Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores
To fishers mending nets beside their doors; 45
Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,
Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind,
Or listens to its play among the boughs
Above her head and so forgets her vows—
If such a Visitant of Earth there be 50
And she would deign this day to smile on me
And aid my verse, content with local bounds
Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds,
Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell
Without reserve to those whom we love well— 55
Then haply, Beaumont! words in current clear
Will flow, and on a welcome page appear
Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.

What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle?
Such have we, but unvaried in its style; 60
No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence
And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence;
Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind
Most restlessly alive when most confined.
Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease 65
The mighty tumults of the House of Keys;
The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained,
What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained:
An eye of fancy only can I cast
On that proud pageant now at hand or past, 70
When full five hundred boats in trim array,
With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay,
And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer,
For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair,
Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine 75
Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.

Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
But with a wilderness of waves between;
And by conjecture only can we speak
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek; 80
No tidings reach us thence from town or field,
Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,
And some we gather from the misty air,
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare.
But these poetic mysteries I withhold; 85
For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
And should the colder fit with You be on
When You might read, my credit would be gone.

Let more substantial themes the pen engage,
And nearer interests culled from the opening stage 90
Of our migration.—Ere the welcome dawn
Had from the east her silver star withdrawn,
The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door,
Thoughtfully freighted with a various store;
And long or ere the uprising of the Sun 95
O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,
A needful journey, under favouring skies,
Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise
Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well
They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs dwell. 100

Say first, to whom did we the charge confide,
Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide
Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook, 105
And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook?
A blooming Lass—who in her better hand
Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command
When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,
Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened sled[D]
110
From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head.
What could go wrong with such a Charioteer
For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,
A Pair who smilingly sat side by side,
Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide, 115
Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,
Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek?
Such hope did either Parent entertain
Pacing behind along the silent lane.

Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight, 120
For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight—
On a green bank a creature stood forlorn
Just half protruded to the light of morn,
Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn.
The Figure called to mind a beast of prey 125
Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay,
And, though no longer upon rapine bent,
Dim memory keeping of its old intent.
We started, looked again with anxious eyes,
And in that griesly object recognise 130
The Curate's Dog—his long-tried friend, for they,
As well we knew, together had grown grey.
The Master died, his drooping servant's grief
Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief;[2]
Yet still he lived in pining discontent, 135
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps
And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute, 140
And of all visible motion destitute,
So that the very heaving of his breath
Seemed stopt, though by some other power than death.
Long as we gazed upon the form and face,
A mild domestic pity kept its place, 145
Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
In second-sight appearances, or crost
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground, 150
On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,
Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.

Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled,
The choristers in every grove had stilled; 155
But we, we lacked not music of our own,
For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown,
Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues,
Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs
With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird 160
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard,
Her work and her work's partners she can cheer,
The whole day long, and all days of the year.

Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass! 165
To Loughrigg-tarn, round, clear, and bright as heaven,
Such name Italian fancy would have given,
Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose
That yet disturb not its concealed repose
More than the feeblest wind that idly blows. 170

Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road
Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed,
The encircling region vividly exprest
Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest—
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy bield,[E]
175
And the smooth green of many a pendent field,
And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,
A little daring would-be waterfall,
One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,
Associate all in the calm Pool beneath, 180
With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam—
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems 185
To render visible her own soft dreams,
If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,
Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,
A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
Designed to rise in humble privacy, 190
A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread,
Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head
Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not,
Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot
Unconscious of its own untoward lot, 195
And thought in silence, with regret too keen,
Of unexperienced joys that might have been;
Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,
And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.
But time, irrevocable time, is flown, 200
And let us utter thanks for blessings sown
And reaped—what hath been, and what is, our own.

Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee,
Startling us all, dispersed my reverie;
Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting 205
Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greeting.
Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!
Not unexpectant that by early day
Our little Band would thrid this mountain way, 210
Before her cottage on the bright hill side
She hath advanced with hope to be descried.
Right gladly answering signals we displayed,
Moving along a tract of morning shade,
And vocal wishes sent of like good will 215
To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill—
Luminous region, fair as if the prime
Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;
Only the centre of the shining cot
With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 220
Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found
Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.

Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale,
And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale;
Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain 225
With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain—
An area level as a Lake and spread
Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, 230
Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.
Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark,
At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark,
Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state,
But the whole household, that our coming wait. 235
With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,
And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange
Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared.
Entering, we find the morning meal prepared:
So down we sit, though not till each had cast 240
Pleased looks around the delicate repast—
Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest,
With amber honey from the mountain's breast;
Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled; 245
Cakes for the nonce,[3] and butter fit to lie
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.

Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast, 250
If thou be lovelier than the kindling East,
Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes, 255
Dark but to every gentle feeling true,
As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.

Let me not ask what tears may have been wept
By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,
Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved 260
For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
By fortitude and patience, and the grace
Of heaven in pity visiting the place.
Not unadvisedly those secret springs
I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings, 265
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
Their own significance for hearts awake,
To rural incidents, whose genial powers
Filled with delight three summer morning hours.

More could my pen report of grave or gay 270
That through our gipsy travel cheered the way;
But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun
Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done."
Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove
This humble offering made by Truth to Love, 275
Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell
Which might have else been on me yet:—
Farewell.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1845.

Or stedfast Centinel ... 1842.

[2]

Until the Vale she quitted, and their door
Was closed, to which she will return no more;
But first old Faithful to a neighbour's care
Was given in charge; nor lacked he dainty fare,
And in the chimney nook was free to lie
And doze, or, if his hour were come, to die.

Inserted only in the edition of 1842.

[3] The phrase "for the nonce" was italicised in 1842.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] In the MS. of these Fenwick notes, the following is written in pencil, the passage referred to beginning with "Our hostess," and ending at "the poem." "Revise this sentence. Here is something involved."—Ed.

[B]
i.e. John Carter, Wordsworth's confidential clerk, who saw the edition of 1857 through the press. The sentence enclosed within brackets and signed J. C. is his.—Ed.

[C] See the note dealing with this date (p. 269). It should be 1811.—Ed.

[D] A local word for Sledge.—W. W. 1842.

[E] A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as in Scotland.—W. W. 1842.

UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION

Composed 1841.—Published 1842

Included among the "Miscellaneous Poems."—Ed.

Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes; 5
And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize,
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
For—save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavours purely willed 10
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share
The joys of the Departed—what so fair
As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years?[A]15

The mighty tumults of the House of Keys;

The Isle of Man has a constitution of its own, independent of the Imperial Parliament. The House of twenty-four Keys is the popular assembly, corresponding to the British House of Commons; the Lieutenant-Governor and Council constitute the Upper House. All legislative measures must be first considered and passed by both branches, and afterwards transmitted to the English Sovereign for the Royal Assent before becoming law.

Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
But with a wilderness of waves between;

In a letter written from Bootle to Sir George Beaumont on the 28th August 1811, Wordsworth says:—

"This is like most others, a bleak and treeless coast, but abounding in corn fields, and with a noble beach, which is delightful either for walking or riding. The Isle of Man is right opposite our window; and though in this unsettled weather often invisible, its appearance has afforded us great amusement. One afternoon above the whole length of it was stretched a body of clouds, shaped and coloured like a magnificent grove in winter, when whitened with snow and illuminated, by the morning sun, which, having melted the snow in part, has intermingled black masses among the brightness. The whole sky was scattered over with fleecy dark clouds, such as any sunshiny day produces, and which were changing their shapes and positions every moment. But this line of clouds was immovably attached to the island, and manifestly took their shape from the influence of its mountains. There appeared to be just span enough of sky to allow the hand to slide between the top of Snâfell, the highest peak in the island, and the base of this glorious forest, in which little change was noticeable for more than the space of half an hour."

In the Fenwick note, Wordsworth tells us that this Epistle was written in 1804; and by referring to the note prefixed to the first poem in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland," 1803, (see vol. ii. p. 377), it will be seen that the lines entitled Departure from the Vale of Grasmere, August, 1803, beginning—

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains,
were "not actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my Epistle to Sir George Beaumont."

It does not follow from this, however, that the lines belong to the year 1803 or 1804; because they were not published along with the earlier "Memorials" of the Scotch Tour, but appeared for the first time in the edition of 1827. It is certain that Wordsworth travelled down with his household from the Grasmere Parsonage to Bootle in August 1811—mainly to get some sea-air for his invalid children—and that he lived there for some time during the autumn of that year. He may have also gone down to the south-west coast of Cumberland in 1804, and then written a part of the poem; but we have no direct evidence of this; and I rather think that the mention of the year 1804 to Miss Fenwick is just another instance in which Wordsworth's memory failed him while dictating these memoranda. If the poem was not written at different times, but was composed as a whole in 1811, we may partly account for the date he gave to Miss Fenwick, when we remember that in the year 1827 he transferred a part of it (viz. the introduction) to these "Memorials" of the Scotch Tour of 1803.

Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,
And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook.

Their route would be from Grasmere by Red Bank, over by High Close to Elter Water, by Colwith into Yewdale, on to Waterhead; then probably, from Coniston over Walna Scar, into Duddondale, and thence to Bootle.

Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.

See Spenser's Faërie Queene, book i. canto i. stanza 8.

... the liveliest bird
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard.

Compare As you like it, act II. scene 5.

And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!
To Loughrigg-tarn, etc.

See the note appended by Wordsworth to the sequel to this poem.

A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
Designed to rise in humble privacy.

He imagines the house which Sir George Beaumont intended to build at Loughrigg Tarn, but which he never erected, to be really built by his friend, very much as in the sonnet named Anticipation, October, 1803, he supposes England to have been invaded, and the battle fought in which "the Invaders were laid low."

... behold a Peasant stand
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!

See the Fenwick note preceding the poem.

... a barren ridge we scale;
Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain.

They went up Little Langdale, I think, past the Tarn to Fell Foot, and crossed over the ridge of Tilberthwaite, into Yewdale by the copper mines.

Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,
Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.

There is a Raven crag in Yewdale, evidently the one referred to in this passage, and also in the passage in the first book of The Prelude (see vol. iii. p. 142), beginning—

Oh! when I have hung
Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass
And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock
But ill sustained, etc.

... toward the lowly Grange
Press forward,

To Waterhead at the top of Coniston Lake.

In connection with Loughrigg Tarn, compare the note to the poem beginning—

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,
and also the Biographical Sketch of Professor Archer Butler, prefixed to his Sermons, vol. i.—Ed.

FOOTNOTES:

[A]
Loughrigg Tarn, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Dianæ as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks" from the abundance of that tree which grew there.

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described; as his Taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without injuring their native character. The design was not abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of local untowardnesses which need not be particularised.—W. W. 1842.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,

Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart.

Composed 1811.—Published 1815

[This was written when we dwelt in the Parsonage at Grasmere. The principal features of the picture are Bredon Hill and Cloud Hill near Coleorton. I shall never forget the happy feeling with which my heart was filled when I was impelled to compose this Sonnet. We resided only two years in this house, and during the last half of the time, which was after this poem had been written, we lost our two children, Thomas and Catherine. Our sorrow upon these events often brought it to my mind, and cast me upon the support to which the last line of it gives expression—

"The appropriate calm of blest eternity."

It is scarcely necessary to add that we still possess the Picture.—I. F.]

Included among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." In 1815 the title was simply Upon the Sight of a Beautiful Picture.—Ed.

Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,[A]
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, 5
Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom[1] Morning, Noon-tide, Even,
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; 10
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity,[B]

Compare the Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a picture of Peele Castle, in a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont—especially the first three, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh stanzas. (See vol. iii. p. 54.)

In the letter written to Sir George Beaumont from Bootle, in 1811—partly quoted in the note to the previous poem (p. 268)—Wordsworth says, "A few days after I had enjoyed the pleasure of seeing, in different moods of mind, your Coleorton landscape from my fireside, it suggested to me the following sonnet, which—having walked out to the side of Grasmere brook, where it murmurs through the meadows near the Church—I composed immediately—

Praised be the Art ...

"The images of the smoke and the travellers are taken from your picture; the rest were added, in order to place the thought in a clear point of view, and for the sake of variety."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1]
C. and 1838.

... which ... 1815.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare, in Pope's Moral Essays, ii. 19—

Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.Ed.

[B] Compare, in the Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle, in a Storm (vol. iii. p. 55)—

Elysian quiet, without toil or strife.Ed.

TO THE POET, JOHN DYER

Composed 1811.—Published 1815

Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." In the edition of 1815 the title was, To the Poet, Dyer.—Ed.

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, deep embayed, 5
With green hills fenced, with[1] ocean's murmur lull'd;[A]
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, 10
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!

John Dyer, author of Grongar Hill (1726), and The Fleece (1757), was born at Aberglasney, in Caermarthenshire, in 1698, and died in 1758. Both Akenside and Gray, before Wordsworth's time, had signalised his merit, in opposition to the dicta of Johnson and Horace Walpole. The passage which Wordsworth quotes is from The Fleece, in which Dyer is referring to his own ancestors, who were weavers, and "fugitives from superstition's rage," and who brought the art of weaving "from Devon" to

that soft tract
Of Cambria, deep-embayed, Dimetian land,
By green hills fenced, by ocean's murmur lulled.

It will be observed that Wordsworth quotes this last line of Dyer accurately in the edition of 1815, but changed it in 1827.

This sonnet was possibly written before 1811, as in a letter to Lady Beaumont, dated November 20, 1811, he speaks of it as written "some time ago." In that letter Wordsworth writes thus of Dyer:—"His poem is in several places dry and heavy, but its beauties are innumerable, and of a high order. In point of imagination and purity of style, I am not sure that he is not superior to any writer of verse since the time of Milton." He then transcribes his sonnet, and adds—"In the above is one whole line from The Fleece, and also other expressions. When you read The Fleece, you will recognise them."—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

By green hills fenced, by ... 1815.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Dyer's Fleece, book iii.—Ed.

1812

The years 1812 and 1813 were poetically even less productive than 1811 had been. The first of them was saddened by domestic losses, which deprived the poet, for a time, of the power of work, and almost of any interest in the labour to which his life was devoted. Three short pieces are all that belong to 1812 and 1813 respectively.—Ed.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND

Composed 1812.—Published 1820

[The belief on which this is founded I have often heard expressed by an old neighbour of Grasmere.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.

Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from faery power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground; 5
Turn the swift wheel round and round!

Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch[1] the widely-scattered sheep;—
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep, 10
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering[2] up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread 15
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

It was for Sarah Hutchinson that this Song was written. She lived, for the most part, either at Brinsop Court Herefordshire, or at Rydal Mount Westmoreland, or at Greta Hall Keswick. When living at Greta Hall, she acted as Southey's amanuensis. She also frequently transcribed poems for Wordsworth, at Grasmere, Coleorton, and Rydal Mount.

Compare the sonnet addressed To S. H. in the "Miscellaneous Sonnets," I. xx.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Rest ... 1820.

[2] 1832.

With a motion smooth and fine
Gathers ... 1820.

Runs with motion smooth and fine,
Gathering ... 1827.

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812

Composed 1812.—Published 1815

Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display 5
Even for such promise:[1]—serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear;
No disproportion in her soul, no strife: 10
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

This refers to the marriage of Thomas Hutchinson (Mrs. Wordsworth's brother) to Mary Monkhouse, sister of the Mr. Monkhouse with whom Wordsworth afterwards travelled on the Continent. The marriage took place on November 1, 1812. They lived at Nadnorth for eighteen years, and afterwards at Brinsop Court, Herefordshire, for twenty-one years. To their son—the Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton, Leominster, Herefordshire—and to their daughter—Miss Elizabeth Hutchinson of Rock Villa, West Malvern—I am indebted for much information in reference to their uncle and aunts. The portrait of Wordsworth in his forty-seventh year, by Richard Carruthers, is in Mr. Hutchinson's possession at the Rectory, Kimbolton.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Even for such omen would the Bride display
No mirthful gladness:— 1815.

WATER-FOWL[A]

Composed 1812.—Published 1827

"Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolutions which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine day towards the close of winter."—Extract from the Author's Book on the Lakes.—W. W. 1827.

[Observed frequently over the lakes of Rydal and Grasmere.—I. F.]

Placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood,
With grace of motion that might scarcely seem[B]
Inferior to angelical, prolong
Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air
(And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars 5
High as the level of the mountain-tops)
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath—
Their own domain; but ever, while intent
On tracing and retracing that large round,
Their jubilant activity evolves 10
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,
Upward and downward, progress intricate
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed
Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done—
Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased; 15
But lo! the vanished company again
Ascending; they approach—I hear their wings,
Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound,
Past in a moment—and as faint again!
They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes; 20
They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice,
To show them a fair image; 'tis themselves,
Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain,
Painted more soft and fair as they descend
Almost to touch;—then up again aloft, 25
Up with a sally and a flash of speed,
As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!

FOOTNOTES:

[A] This is part of the canto of The Recluse, entitled "Home at Grasmere."—Ed.

[B] For the original text, which differs from this, see The Recluse, vol. viii. of this edition.—Ed.

1813

See the note to the previous year, 1812.—Ed.

VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB

Composed 1813.—Published 1815

Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland: its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other mountain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain.—W. W. 1827.

[Mrs. Wordsworth and I, as mentioned in the Epistle to Sir G. Beaumont, lived sometime under its shadow.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination." (See the editorial note to the following poem.)—Ed.

This Height a ministering Angel might select:
For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name
Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands:—low dusky tracts, 5
Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills
To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these,
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde:— 10
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth
Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath,
Right at the imperial station's western base
Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
Far into silent regions blue and pale;— 15
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle
That, as we left the plain, before our sight
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly
(Above the convex of the watery globe)
Into clear view the cultured fields that streak 20
Her[1] habitable shores, but now appears
A dwindled object, and submits to lie
At the spectator's feet.—Yon azure ridge,
Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
Do we behold the line[2] of Erin's coast?[A]
25
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain
(Like the bright confines of another world)
Not doubtfully perceived.—Look homeward now!
In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene
The spectacle, how pure!—Of Nature's works, 30
In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea,
A revelation infinite it seems;
Display august of man's inheritance,
Of Britain's calm felicity and power![B]

VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

Its ... 1815.

[2] 1832.

... the frame ... 1815.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The Irish coast can be seen from Black Comb, but it is seldom visible till after sundown.—Ed.

[B] Compare, in The Minstrels of Winandermere, by Charles Farish, p. 33—

Close by the sea, lone sentinel,
Black Comb his forward station keeps;
He breaks the sea's tumultuous swell,
And ponders o'er the level deeps.Ed.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB

Composed 1813.—Published 1815

[The circumstance, alluded to at the conclusion of these verses, was told me by Dr. Satterthwaite, who was Incumbent of Bootle, a small town at the foot of Black Comb. He had the particulars from one of the engineers who was employed in making trigonometrical surveys of that region.—I. F.]

Included among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.

Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence,—from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, 5
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, 10
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art, 15
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued!—To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report 20
That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvass Dwelling, colours, lines,
And the whole surface of the out-spread map,[1]
Became invisible: for all around
Had darkness fallen—unthreatened, unproclaimed— 25
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!

In the editions of 1815 and 1820, the note to the previous poem, View from the top of Black Comb, was appended to this one. In 1827 it was transferred to its appropriate and permanent place.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

Within that canvass Dwelling, suddenly
The many-coloured map before his eyes 1815.

NOVEMBER, 1813

Composed November 1813.—Published 1815

Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."—Ed.

Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow
Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,
Insensible. He sits deprived of sight,
And lamentably wrapped in twofold night, 5
Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,
Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,
Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might.
Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine
To his forlorn condition! let thy grace 10
Upon his inner[1] soul in mercy shine;
Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace[2]
(Though it were[3] only for a moment's space)
The triumphs of this hour; for they are Thine!

The reference is to the rejoicings on the Leipzig victory of the Allied Forces, October 16 to 19, 1813. Napoleon crossed the Rhine on the 2nd November, and returned to Paris with the wreck of his army. George III. was English Sovereign; but, owing to his illness, the Prince of Wales had been appointed Regent, and assumed executive power in January 1811. The King died at Windsor in 1820, being eighty-two years of age. He had been entirely blind for some years before his death. The "twofold night" referred to in the sonnet is sufficiently obvious.—Ed.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

... inmost ... 1838.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.

[2]
C. and 1838.

... and embrace, 1815.

[3] 1832.

(Though were it ...) 1815.

END OF VOL. IV

Printed by
R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.

Transcriber's Note:

1. All footnotes have been moved to the chapter or sub-chapter ends and cross-links provided EXCEPTING the footnote at the end of Tyrolese Sonnet VI, which has been placed immediatly after the sonnet though the chapter continues and other succeeding footnotes appear at the end.

In the original text the printer used multiple periods to push single and multiple word "Variants" into the place in the notes where they occured in the poem. In this e-text a single ellipsis (...) is used to represent positioning of preceeding and succeeding words. The variant anchor point indicates the relative position of the word variant in the poem.

In footnote [A] to the poem "In the Grounds of Coleorton", p. 79 "l. 7." has been changed to p. 79 "l. 13." While the note correctly identifies the 7th line of the text of the poem printed on p. 79, it is actually l. 13. of the poem.

2. All poetry line markers have been retained as placed and numbered by the printer in 5, 4 or 6 line intervals.

3. Pg. 5 changed "in" to "on" (which befell him on the way.)

4. Pg. 197, Note II. incorrectly shows p. 201 for The Force of Prayer, or the Founding of Bolton Priory. This poem begins on Pg. 204 and the reference has been corrected.

5. Pg. 193 changed single close quote ['] to ["]. (motion of The White Doe.")

6. Pg. 273 removed single double quote from (..., deep embayed,)

7. Several word variations appearing in the text have been retained including but not limited to:

"achieves" and "atchieved"
"antient", "ancyent", and "ancient"
"belovèd" and "beloved"
"birthplace" (Ed.) and "birth-place" (poems)
"blessèd" and "blessed"
"Buonaparté" and "Buonaparte"
"cheer(ed)(ful)" and "chear(ed)(ful)"
"eye-sight" and "eyesight"
"farm-house" and "farmhouse"
"Mauleverers" and "Mauliverers"
"negociation" and "negotiation"
"out-spread" and "outspread"
"re-appearing" and "reappearing"
"recognised" and "recognized"
"Shakspeare"('s) (3) and "Shakespeare"('s) (3)
"Stockton-on-Tees" and "Stockton-upon-Tees"
"strong-hold" (in poetry) and "stronghold" (in letter)
"wingèd" and "winged"
"wreathèd" and "wreathed"

8. The translations of the Tyrolese Sonnets in German were originally printed in the Fraktur Font, and with other Blackletter Gothic fonts are represented in "Antiqua" in this e-text.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, VOLUME IV (OF 8)***

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