No More Learning

There's a Thrush . . . 1800. ]



[Variant 2:

1802.

The only one . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 3: The following stanza, in the edition of 1800, was omitted in
subsequent ones:

Poor Outcast! return--to receive thee once more
The house of thy Father will open its door,
And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,
May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. [i]]



* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT


[Footnote A: Wordsworth originally wrote "sees. " S. T. C. suggested
"views. "--Ed. ]


* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON VARIANT 3

[Sub-Footnote i:

"Susan stood for the representative of poor '_Rus in urbe_. ' There was
quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten;
'bright volumes of vapour,' etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got
rid of, at all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral
conduct. Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her mop, and
contemplating the whirling phenomenon through blurred optics; but to
term her 'a poor outcast' seems as much as to say that poor Susan was
no better than she should be, which I trust was not what you meant to
express. "

Charles Lamb to Wordsworth. See 'The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by
Alfred Ainger, vol. i. , p. 287. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





1798

A NIGHT PIECE


Composed 1798. --Published 1815.


[Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I
distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as
described,--'He looks up, the clouds are split,' etc. --I. F. ]


Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination. "--Ed.


* * * * *


--The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 5
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while [1] he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 10
Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split
Asunder,--and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 15
And sharp, and bright, [A] along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not! --the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;--still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 20
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 25
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.



* * * * *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827

. . . as . . . 1815. ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The indebtedness of the Poet to his Sister is nowhere more
conspicuous than in this Poem. In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal
the following occurs, under date 25th January 1798:

"Went to Poole's after tea. The sky spread over with one continuous
cloud, whitened by the light of the moon, which, though her dim shape
was seen, did not throw forth so strong a light as to chequer the
earth with shadows. At once the clouds seemed to cleave asunder, and
lift her in the centre of a black-blue vault. She sailed along,
followed by multitudes of stars, small, and bright, and sharp; their
brightness seemed concentrated. "

Ed. ]





* * * * *





WE ARE SEVEN


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


[Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, under circumstances
somewhat remarkable. The little girl who is the heroine, I met within
the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left the Isle of
Wight, and crost Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to
'Guilt and Sorrow', I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to N.
Wales to the Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer under the roof of
the father of my friend, Robert Jones.

In reference to this poem, I will here mention one of the most
remarkable facts in my own poetic history, and that of Mr. Coleridge.
In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself, started
from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit
Linton and the Valley of Stones near it; and as our united funds were
very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a
poem, to be sent to the 'New Monthly Magazine', set up by Philips, the
bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off, and
proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet; and in the course
of this walk was planned the poem of 'The Ancient Mariner', founded on
a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the
greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain
parts I myself suggested: for example, some crime was to be committed
which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards
delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of
that crime, and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's
'Voyages', a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they
frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of
sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet.
'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed one of these
birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of
these regions take upon them to avenge the crime. ' The incident was
thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested
the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that
I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with
which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of
us at the time; at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have
no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought. We began the composition
together, on that to me memorable evening: I furnished two or three
lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular--

And listen'd like a three years' child;
The Mariner had his will.

These trifling contributions, all but one (which Mr. C. has with
unnecessary scrupulosity recorded), slipt out of his mind, as well
they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the
same evening), our respective manners proved so widely different, that
it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but
separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog.
We returned after a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have
many pleasant, and some of them droll enough, recollections. We
returned by Dulverton to Alfoxden. 'The Ancient Mariner' grew and grew
till it became too important for our first object, which was limited
to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to talk of a volume
which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of Poems
chiefly on natural subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as
much as might be, through an imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote
'The Idiot Boy', 'Her eyes are wild', etc. , 'We are Seven', 'The
Thorn', and some others. To return to 'We are Seven', the piece that
called forth this note, I composed it while walking in the grove at
Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, that
while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having
begun with the last line. When it was all but finished, I came in and
recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, "A prefatory
stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal
with greater pleasure if my task was finished. " I mentioned in
substance what I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge immediately
threw off the stanza, thus;

A little child, dear brother Jem,

I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous; but
we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend James Tobin's name,
who was familiarly called Jem. He was the brother of the dramatist;
and this reminds me of an anecdote which it may be worth while here to
notice. The said Jem got a sight of the "Lyrical Ballads" as it was
going through the press at Bristol, during which time I was residing
in that city. One evening he came to me with a grave face, and said,
"Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that Coleridge and you are about
to publish. There is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you will
cancel, for, if published, it will make you everlastingly ridiculous. "
I answered, that I felt much obliged by the interest he took in my
good name as a writer, and begged to know what was the unfortunate
piece he alluded to. He said, 'It is called 'We are Seven'. ' 'Nay,'
said I, 'that shall take its chance, however'; and he left me in
despair. I have only to add, that in the spring [A] of 1841, I
revisited Goodrich Castle, not having seen that part of the Wye since
I met the little girl there in 1793. It would have given me greater
pleasure to have found in the neighbouring hamlet traces of one who
had interested me so much, but that was impossible, as unfortunately I
did not even know her name. The ruin, from its position and features,
is a most impressive object. I could not but deeply regret that its
solemnity was impaired by a fantastic new Castle set up on a
projection of the same ridge, as if to show how far modern art can go
in surpassing all that could be done by antiquity and nature with
their united graces, remembrances, and associations. I could have
almost wished for power, so much the contrast vexed me, to blow away
Sir----Meyrick's impertinent structure and all the fopperies it
contains. --I. F. ]


* * * * *

The "structure" referred to is Goodrich Court, built in 1828 by Sir
Samuel Rush Meyrick--a collector of ancient armour, and a great
authority on the subject--mainly to receive his extensive private
collection. The armour has been removed from Goodrich to the South
Kensington Museum. 'We are Seven' was placed by Wordsworth among his
"Poems referring to the Period of Childhood. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


--A simple Child, [1]
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death? [B]

I met a little cottage Girl: 5
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad: 10
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be? "
"How many? Seven in all," she said, 15
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell. "
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea. 20

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother. "

"You say that two at Conway dwell, 25
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye [2] are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be. "

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we; 30
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree. "

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid, 35
Then ye are only five. "

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side. 40

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them. [3]

"And often after sun-set, Sir, 45
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane; [4]
In bed she moaning lay, 50
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry, [5]
Together round her grave we played, 55
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side. " 60

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven? "
Quick was the little Maid's reply, [6]
"O Master! we are seven. "

"But they are dead; those two are dead! 65
Their spirits are in heaven! "
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven! "



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT


[Variant 1:

1815.

A simple child, dear brother Jim, 1798. ]


[Variant 2:

1815.

. . . you . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 3:

1836.

I sit and sing to them. 1798. ]


[Variant 4:

1836.

. . . little Jane; 1798. ]


[Variant 5:

1827.

And all the summer dry, 1798. ]


[Variant 6:

1836.

The little Maiden did reply, 1798. ]


* * * * *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT


[Footnote A: It was in June, after leaving Alfoxden finally. --Ed. ]


[Footnote B: The whole of this stanza was written by Coleridge. In a MS.
copy of the poem, transcribed by him, after 1806, Wordsworth gave it the
title 'We are Seven, or Death', but afterwards restored the original
title. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS


Composed 1798. --Published 1798.


'Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges. '

EUSEBIUS. [A]


* * * * *

[This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. The boy was a son of my
friend, Basil Montagu, who had been two or three years under our care.
The name of Kilve is from a village on the Bristol Channel, about a
mile from Alfoxden; and the name of Liswyn Farm was taken from a
beautiful spot on the Wye, where Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and I had
been visiting the famous John Thelwall, who had taken refuge from
politics, after a trial for high treason, with a view to bring up his
family by the profits of agriculture, which proved as unfortunate a
speculation as that he had fled from. Coleridge and he had both been
public lecturers; Coleridge mingling, with his politics, Theology,
from which the other elocutionist abstained, unless it was for the
sake of a sneer. This quondam community of public employment induced
Thelwall to visit Coleridge at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my way.
He really was a man of extraordinary talent, an affectionate husband,
and a good father. Though brought up in the city, on a tailor's board,
he was truly sensible of the beauty of natural objects. I remember
once, when Coleridge, he, and I were seated together upon the turf, on
the brink of a stream in the most beautiful part of the most beautiful
glen of Alfoxden, Coleridge exclaimed, 'This is a place to reconcile
one to all the jarrings and conflicts of the wide world. ' 'Nay,' said
Thelwall, 'to make one forget them altogether. ' The visit of this man
to Coleridge was, as I believe Coleridge has related, the occasion of
a spy being sent by Government to watch our proceedings; which were, I
can say with truth, such as the world at large would have thought
ludicrously harmless. --I. F. ]


* * * * *

In the editions 1798 to 1843 the title of this poem is 'Anecdote for
Fathers, showing how the practice [1] of lying may be taught'. It was
placed among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 5
Our quiet home [2] all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 10
Our [3] pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain; [4]
With so much happiness to spare, 15
I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade. [5] 20

Birds warbled round me--and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,[6]
And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim 25
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him, [7]
In very idleness.

"Now tell me, had you rather be,"
I said, and took him by the arm, 30
"On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm? " [8]

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be 35
Than here at Liswyn farm. "

"Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why. "--
"I cannot tell, I do not know. "--
"Why, this is strange," said I; 40

"For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: [9]
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea. "

At this, my boy hung down his head, 45
He blushed with shame, nor made reply; [10]
And three times to the child I said, [11]
"Why, Edward, tell me why? "

His head he raised--there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-- 50
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply: [12]
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock; 55
And that's the reason why. "

O dearest, dearest boy!
my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn. [B] 60


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

the art . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 2:

1802.

. . . house . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 3:

1802.

My . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 4:

1827.

To think, and think, and think again; 1798. ]


[Variant 5:

1827.

The young lambs ran a pretty race;
The morning sun shone bright and warm;
"Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,
And so is Liswyn farm. " 1798. ]


[Variant 6:

1836.

. . . --every trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
"Kilve," said I, . . . 1827.

This verse was introduced in 1827. ]


[Variant 7: 1836.

My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talked to him, 1798.

This was stanza v. from 1798 to 1820.

And, as we talked, I questioned him, 1827. ]


[Variant 8:

1827.

"My little boy, which like you more,"
I said and took him by the arm--
"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
Or here at Liswyn farm? "

"And tell me, had you rather be,"
I said and held him by the arm,
"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm? " 1798.

These two stanzas were compressed into one in 1827. ]


[Variant 9:

1836.

For, here are woods and green-hills warm; 1798. ]


[Variant 10:

1800.

At this, my boy, so fair and slim,
Hung down his head, nor made reply; 1798. ]


[Variant 11:

1845.

And five times did I say to him, 1798.

And five times to the child I said, 1800. ]


[Variant 12:

1836.

And thus to me he made reply; 1798. ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Appendix IV. --Ed. ]


[Footnote B: Mr. Ernest H. Coleridge writes to me of this poem:

"The Fenwick note is most puzzling.

1. If Coleridge went to visit Thelwall, with Wordsworth and Dorothy in
July 1798, this is the only record; but I suppose that he did.

2. How could the poem have been suggested in front of Alfoxden? The
visit to Liswyn took place after the Wordsworths had left Alfoxden
never to return. If little Montagu ever did compare Kilve and Liswyn
Farm, he must have done so after he left Alfoxden. The scene is laid
at Liswyn, and if the poem was written at Alfoxden, before the party
visited Liswyn, the supposed reply was invented to a supposed question
which might be put to the child when he got to Liswyn. How unlike
Wordsworth.

3. Thelwall came to Alfoxden at the commencement of Wordsworth's
tenancy; and the visit to Wales took place when the tenancy was over,
July 3-10. "

Ed. ]





* * * * *





"A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL"


Composed March 18, 1798. --Published 1800.


[Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were
written in the spring of 1799. [A] I had the pleasure of again seeing,
with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years
after. [B]--I. F. ]

Classed among the "Poems of the Fancy. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


A whirl-blast from behind the hill
Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;
Then--all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above, 5
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er, 10
[1] And all the year the bower is green. [C]
But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze--no breath of air--
Yet here, and there, and every where 15
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 20
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. [2] [3] [D]


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

You could not lay a hair between:

Inserted in the editions 1800-1815. ]


[Variant 2:

1815.

And all those leaves, that jump and spring,
Were each a joyous, living thing. 1800. ]


[Variant 3: The following additional lines occur in the editions 1800 to
1805:

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease
That I may never cease to find,
Even in appearances like these
Enough to nourish and to stir my mind! ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date 1798, and in
the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths were not at Alfoxden but in
Germany. --Ed. ]


[Footnote B: The friends were Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, Edward and
Dora Quillinan, and William Wordsworth (the poet's son). The date was
May 13, 1841. --Ed. ]


[Footnote C: Compare a letter from Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont,
written in November 1806, and one to Lady Beaumont in December
1806. --Ed. ]


[Footnote D:

"March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked
with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during
a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William
wrote a description of the storm"

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal). --Ed. ]





* * * * *





THE THORN


Composed March 19, 1798. --Published 1798.


In the editions of 1800-1805, Wordsworth added the following note to
this poem:

"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which
I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a
mood when it was probable that I should write it well. --The character
which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The
Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known
a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past
the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small
independent income to some village or country town of which he was not
a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men
having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and
from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is
probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to
superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a
character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which
superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always
men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but
adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I
mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple
elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which
pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and
by accumulated imagery.

"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men
cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always
different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is
swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture
which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character
that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in
which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their
minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to
Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that
manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done
by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was
necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly;
yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all
enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly.
The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible
that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full
effect.

"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words
closely connected with 'The Thorn' and many other Poems in these
Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the
same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great
error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different
words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more
particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not
measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader
cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history
or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is
rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of
an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers,
or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a
craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will
cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are
also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are
frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these
reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as
symbols of the passion, but as 'things', active and efficient, which
are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of
fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the
repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its
feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable
passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every
nation.

Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and
lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.

At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he
fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.

Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his
Chariot?

(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th. )

See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem. "

"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not
supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the
loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the
story. "

W. W. Advertisement to "Lyrical Ballads," 1798.


* * * * *

[Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock
Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and
bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by
some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an
impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment? "
I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir
George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his
best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal
Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to
paint the same subject over again. ' The sky in this picture is nobly
done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however,
of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit
for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call. --I. F. ]


* * * * *

'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination. "--Ed.



* * * * *

THE POEM


I "There is a Thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child 5
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone 10
With lichens is it overgrown. [2]


II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop: 15
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground; 20
And all have [4] joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.


III "High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain path,
This Thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond 30
Of water--never dry
Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]


IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy network too is there, 40
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.


V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white!
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair. 55


VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits between the heap 60
So like [6] an infant's grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A Woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery! 65
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '


VII "At all times of the day and night
This wretched Woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows; 70
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still
And to herself she cries, 75
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery! '"


VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80
Does this poor Woman go?
And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still, 85
And wherefore does she cry? --
O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry? "


IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows: 90
But would you [7] gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;
The hillock like [8] an infant's grave,
The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey;
Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- 95
And, if you see her in her hut--
Then to the spot away!
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there. "


X "But wherefore to the mountain-top 100
Can this unhappy Woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow? " [9]
"Full twenty years are past and gone [10]
Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 105
Gave with a maiden's true good-will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,
While friends and kindred all approved
Of him whom tenderly she loved. [11] 110


XI "And they had fixed the wedding day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another Maid
Had sworn another oath;
And, with this other Maid, to church 115
Unthinking Stephen went--
Poor Martha! on that woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;
A fire was kindled in her breast, 121
Which might not burn itself to rest. [12]


XII "They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go, 125
And there was often seen.
What could she seek? --or wish to hide?
Her state to any eye was plain; [13]
She was with child, and she was mad;
Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130
From her exceeding pain.
O guilty Father--would that death
Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15]


XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child! 135
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again:
And, when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.


XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, 145
And it should all be told to you; [17]
For what became of this poor child
No mortal ever knew; [18]
Nay--if a child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150
And if 'twas born alive or dead,
Far less could this with proof be said; [20]
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb. 155


XV "And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The churchyard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard 160
Cries coming from the mountain head:
Some plainly living voices were;
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:
I cannot think, whate'er they say, 165
They had to do with Martha Ray.


XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn,
The Thorn which I described [21] to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
I will be sworn is true. 170
For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height:-- 175
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.


XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
No screen, no fence could I discover;
And then the wind! in sooth, [22] it was 180
A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag,--and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain; 185
And, as I am a man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A Woman seated on the ground.


XVIII "I did not speak--I saw her face;
Her face! --it was [23] enough for me: 190
I turned about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery! '
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make 195
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know,
She shudders, and you hear her cry,
'Oh misery!