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

Author: William Wordsworth

Editor: William Knight

Release Date: May 20, 2010 [eBook #32459]

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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6. Many poems begin in the middle of a page, therefore page links in the Table of Contents are linked to the poem's title.

 

 

 

 

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