No More Learning

]


[Footnote K: Names of rivers at the Chartreuse. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote L: Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote M: The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the
Alps by the Simplon Pass---W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote N: Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood and covered:
these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of
the scenery in some places. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote P: The Catholic religion prevails here; these cells are, as is
well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the
Roman tombs, along the roadside. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote Q: Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the
fall of snow and other accidents very common along this dreadful
road. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote R: The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built
of wood. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote S: See Burns's 'Postscript' to his 'Cry and Prayer':

And when he fa's,
His latest draught o' breathin' leaves him
In faint huzzas.

Ed. ]


[Footnote T: For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am
indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to his
translation of Coxe's 'Tour in Switzerland'. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote U: The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more
melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps: this, if
true, may proceed from their living more secluded. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote V: This picture is from the middle region of the Alps. --W. W.
1815. _Chalets_ are summer huts for the Swiss herdsmen. --W. W. 1836. ]


[Footnote W: Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind
through the trees. --W. W. 1793.

It may be as well to add that, in this Scotch word, the "gh" is
pronounced; so that, as used colloquially, the word could never rhyme
with "blue. "--Ed. ]


[Footnote X: See Smollett's 'Ode to Leven Water' in 'Humphry Clinker',
and compare 'The Italian Itinerant and the Swiss Goatherd', in
"Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" in 1820, part ii. 1. --Ed. ]


[Footnote Y: Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small
numbers have gained over their oppressors the house of Austria; and in
particular, to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred
and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand
Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with
this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out as I
was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians
attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote Z: As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror. Wetter-Horn, the pike
of storms, etc. , etc. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote Aa: The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des
Vaches upon the Swiss troops. --W. W. 1793. ]


[Footnote Bb: This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by
multitudes, from every corner of the Catholick world, labouring under
mental or bodily afflictions. --W. W. 1793. ]

[Footnote Cc: Compare the Stanzas 'Composed in one of the Catholic
Cantons', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" (1820), which
refer to Einsiedlen. --Ed. ]


[Footnote Dd: Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the
accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain. --W. W.
1793. ]


[Footnote Ee: Compare Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of
Chamouni':

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
. . .
. . . Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
. . .
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
. . .
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly;

Compare also Shelley's 'Mont Blanc'. --Ed. ]


[Footnote Ff: See note on Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise' on previous
page. --Ed. [in Footnote Ff directly above]]


[Footnote Gg: An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry,
heard, at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the
Loire. --W. W, 1793. ]


[Footnote Hh: The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so
exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water
carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land. --W. W. 1793. ]


* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTES


[Sub-Footnote i: In the edition of 1815, the 28 lines, from "No sad
vacuities" to "a wanderer came there," are entitled "Pleasures of the
Pedestrian. "--Ed. ]


[Sub-Footnote ii: See 'Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude', l.
54:

The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale.

Ed. ]


[Sub-Footnote iii: In the editions of 1820 to 1832 the four lines
beginning "The Grison gypsey," etc. , precede those beginning "The mind
condemned," etc. --Ed. ]


[Sub-Footnote iv: In the edition of 1793 Wordsworth put the following
note:

"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft
The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd. "

(HOME'S _Douglas_. )

See Act III. l. 86; or p. 32 in the edition of 1757. --Ed. ]


[Sub-Footnote v: This and the following line are only in the editions of
1815 and 1820. --Ed. ]


[Sub-Footnote vi: Compare the Sonnet entitled 'The Author's Voyage down
the Rhine, thirty years ago', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the
Continent' in 1820, and the note appended to it. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN


Composed 1791-4. --Published as 'The Female Vagrant' in "Lyrical Ballads"
in 1798, and as 'Guilt and Sorrow' in the "Poems of Early and Late
Years," and in "Poems written in Youth," in 1845, and onward.


ADVERTISEMENT, PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED
IN 1842.

Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time
to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as
the year 1798, under the title of 'The Female Vagrant'. The extract is
of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it
here; but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or
the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before
the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of
literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under
which it was produced.

During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in
the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for
sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place
with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in
memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would
be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain
being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would
be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond
all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by
having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary
France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving
the Isle of Wight, I spent two [A] days in wandering on foot over
Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread
through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive
appearance than it now retains.

The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over
that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of
those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with
calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than
other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections,
joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the
following stanzas originated.

In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who
are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say,
that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are
taken from other desolate parts of England.


* * * * *

[Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have assigned this poem
to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's
story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her
sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind
during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to
me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same
trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first
became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that
it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but
the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a
treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in
expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected
nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole.
It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this
attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates
accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to
be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the
mind, or in unity, which is effected by the identity of moral interest
that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's
sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as
mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my
mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this
day. From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the
banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In
remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the
verses,--'Five years have passed,' etc. --I. F. ]


* * * * *

The foregoing is the Fenwick note to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The note to
'The Female Vagrant',--which was the title under which one-third of the
longer poem appeared in all the complete editions prior to 1845--is as
follows. --Ed.


* * * * *


[I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by
mistake, to what I have asserted in 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The correct
date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her
description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life. --I.
F. ]


* * * * *


In 1798 there were thirty stanzas in this poem; in 1802, twenty-six; in
1815, fourteen; in 1820, twenty-five. Stanzas I. to XXII. , XXXV. to
XXXVII. , and LI. to LXXIV. occur only in the collected edition of 1842,
vol. vii. (also published as "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years"),
and in subsequent editions. Wordsworth placed 'The Female Vagrant' among
his "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 to 1832. In 1836, he included it along
with 'Descriptive Sketches' in his Table of Contents; [B] but as he
numbered it IV. in the text--the other poems belonging to the "Juvenile
Pieces" being numbered I. II. and III. --it is clear that he meant it to
remain in that class. The "Poems written in Youth," of the edition of
1845, include many others in addition to the "Juvenile Pieces" of
editions 1815 to 1836. --Ed.


* * * * *


I

A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain
Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;
Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain
Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air
Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 5
Both of the time to come, and time long fled:
Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair;
A coat he wore of military red
But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred.


II

While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 10
He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure
That welcome in such house for him was none.
No board inscribed the needy to allure
Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor
And desolate, "Here you will find a friend! " 15
The pendent grapes glittered above the door;--
On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend,
Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.


III

The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire,
In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 20
That inn he long had passed; the distant spire,
Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye,
Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky.
Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around,
And scarce could any trace of man descry, 25
Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound;
But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.


IV

No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green,
No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear;
Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 30
But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer.
Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near;
And so he sent a feeble shout--in vain;
No voice made answer, he could only hear
Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 35
Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.


V

Long had he fancied each successive slope
Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn
And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope
The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 40
Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn
Or hovel from the storm to shield his head,
But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn,
And vacant, a huge waste around him spread;
The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. 45


VI

And be it so--for to the chill night shower
And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared;
A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour
Hath told; for, landing after labour hard,
Full long [1] endured in hope of just reward, 50
He to an armed fleet was forced away
By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared
Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey,
'Gainst all that in _his_ heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.


VII

For years the work of carnage did not cease. 55
And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed,
Death's minister; then came his glad release,
And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made
Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid
The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 60
Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid
In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow
As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.


VIII

Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned.
The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 65
Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned,
Bears not to those he loves their needful food.
His home approaching, but in such a mood
That from his sight his children might have run,
He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; 70
And when the miserable work was done
He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun.


IX

From that day forth no place to him could be
So lonely, but that thence might come a pang
Brought from without to inward misery. 75
Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang
A sound of chains along the desert rang;
He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high
A human body that in irons swang,
Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 80
And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. [C]


X

It was a spectacle which none might view,
In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain;
Nor only did for him at once renew
All he had feared from man, but roused a train 85
Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain.
The stones, as if to cover him from day,
Rolled at his back along the living plain;
He fell, and without sense or motion lay;
But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued [2] his way. 90


XI

As one whose brain habitual [3] frensy fires
Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed
Profounder quiet, when the fit retires,
Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed
His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 95
Left his mind still as a deep evening stream.
Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed,
Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem
To traveller who might talk of any casual theme.


XII

Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 100
Gone is the raven timely rest to seek;
He seemed the only creature in the wild
On whom the elements their rage might wreak;
Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak
Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 105
A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek,
And half upon the ground, with strange affright,
Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.
XIII

All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound;
The weary eye--which, wheresoe'er it strays, 110
Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round,
Or on the earth strange lines, in former days
Left by gigantic arms--at length surveys
What seems an antique castle spreading wide;
Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 115
Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide
He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.


XIV

Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep
Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear
The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 120
Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year;
Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear
For sacrifice its throngs of living men,
Before thy face did ever wretch appear,
Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain 125
Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? [4]

XV

Within that fabric of mysterious form,
Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme;
And, from the perilous ground dislodged, [5] through storm
And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 130
From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam,
Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led;
Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam
Disclose a naked guide-post's double head,
Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. 135


XVI

No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm
To stay his steps with faintness overcome;
'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm
Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom;
No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom; 140
No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright,
Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room;
Along the waste no line of mournful light
From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.


XVII

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145
The downs were visible--and now revealed
A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose.
It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled,
Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build
A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150
From the night terrors of that waste to shield:
But there no human being could remain,
And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain.


XVIII

Though he had little cause to love the abode
Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155
Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed,
How glad he was at length to find some trace
Of human shelter in that dreary place.
Till to his flock the early shepherd goes,
Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160
In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows
He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close;


XIX

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come
From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head,
And saw a woman in the naked room 165
Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed:
The moon a wan dead light around her shed.
He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail,
He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped,
For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170
Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;


XX

Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud,
Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat
Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud,
While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175
Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet,
Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse:
The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat,
Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force
Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 180


XXI

Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned,
And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned,
By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned,
Cold stony horror all her senses bound.
Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; 185
Recovering heart, like answer did she make;
And well it was that, of the corse there found,
In converse that ensued she nothing spake;
She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake.


XXII

But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190
Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind
In fainter howlings told its _rage_ was spent:
Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind,
Which by degrees a confidence of mind
And mutual interest failed not to create. 195
And, to a natural sympathy resigned,
In that forsaken building where they sate
The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.
[6]


XXIII

"By Derwent's side my father dwelt--a man
Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; [7] 200
And I believe that, soon as I began
To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
And in his hearing there my prayers I said:
And afterwards, by my good father taught,
I read, and loved the books in which I read; 205
For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.


XXIV [8]

"A little croft we owned--a plot of corn,
A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme,
And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 210
Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime.
Can I forget our freaks at shearing time!
My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;
The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime;
The swans that with white chests upreared in pride 215
Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! [9]


XXV

"The staff I well [10] remember which upbore
The bending body of my active sire;
His seat beneath the honied sycamore
Where [11] the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220
When market-morning came, the neat attire
With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked;
Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire
The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; [12]
The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 225


XXVI

"The suns of twenty summers danced along,--
Too little marked how fast they rolled away:
But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong,
My father's substance fell into decay:
We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 230
When Fortune might [13] put on a kinder look;
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they;
He from his old hereditary nook
Must part; the summons [14] came;--our final leave we took. [15]
[16]


XXVII

"It was indeed a miserable hour [17] 235
When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,
Peering above the trees, the steeple tower
That on his marriage day sweet music made!
Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid
Close by my mother in their native bowers: 240
Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;--
I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers
Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! [18]


XXVIII

"There was a Youth whom I had loved so long,
That when I loved him not I cannot say: 245
'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song [19]
We two had sung, like gladsome birds [20] in May;
When we began to tire of childish play,
We seemed still more and more to prize each other;
We talked of marriage and our marriage day; 250
And I in truth did love him like a brother,
For never could I hope to meet with such another.


XXIX

"Two years were passed since to a distant town
He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: [21]
What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 255
What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!
To him we turned:--we had no other aid:
Like one revived, upon his neck I wept;
And her whom he had loved in joy, he said,
He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; 260
And in a quiet home once more my father slept.


XXX

"We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest
With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. [22]
Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; [23]
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265
And knew not why. My happy father died,
When threatened war [24] reduced the children's meal:
Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide [25]
The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,
And tears that [26] flowed for ills which patience might [27] 270
not heal.


XXXI

"'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come;
We had no hope, and no relief could gain:
But soon, with proud parade, [28] the noisy drum
Beat round to clear [29] the streets of want and pain.
My husband's arms now only served to strain 275
Me and his children hungering in his view;
In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:
To join those miserable men he flew,
And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.


XXXII

"There were we long neglected, and we bore 280
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed [30]
Green fields before us, and our native shore,
We breathed a pestilential air, that made
Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed
For our departure; wished and wished--nor knew, 285
'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, [31]
That happier days we never more must view.
The parting signal streamed--at last the land withdrew.


XXXIII

"But the calm summer season now was past. [32]
On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 290
Ran mountains high before the howling blast,
And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep.
We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, [33]
Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,
Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 295
That we the mercy of the waves should rue:
We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew.
[34]


XXXIV

"The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,
Disease and famine, agony and fear,
In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 300
It would unman the firmest heart to hear. [35]
All perished--all in one remorseless year,
Husband and children! one by one, by sword
And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear
Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 305
A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored. "


XXXV

Here paused she of all present thought forlorn,
Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed,
Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne,
From her full eyes their watery load released. 310
He too was mute: and, ere her weeping ceased,
He rose, and to the ruin's portal went,
And saw the dawn opening the silvery east
With rays of promise, north and southward sent;
And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. 315


XXXVI

"O come," he cried, "come, after weary night
Of such rough storm, this happy change to view. "
So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight
Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw;
Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 320
Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear,
And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew:
The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer
Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near.


XXXVII

They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain 325
That rang down a bare slope not far remote:
The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain,
Whistled the waggoner with merry note,
The cock far off sounded his clarion throat;
But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, 330
Only were told there stood a lonely cot
A long mile thence. While thither they pursued
Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed.


XXXVIII

"Peaceful as this immeasurable plain
Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, [36] 335
In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main;
The very ocean hath its hour of rest.
I too forgot the heavings of my breast. [37]
How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were!
As quiet all within me. I was blest, 340
And looked, and fed upon the silent air
Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. [38]


XXXIX

"Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps,
And groans that rage of racking famine spoke;
The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps,[39] 345
The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke,
The shriek that from the distant battle broke,
The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host
Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke
To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, 350
Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!
[40]


XL

"Some mighty gulf of separation passed,
I seemed transported to another world;
A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast
The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 355
And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled
The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home
And from all hope I was for ever hurled.
For me--farthest from earthly port to roam
Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. 360


XLI

"And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong)
That I, at last, a resting-place had found;
'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, [41]
Roaming the illimitable waters round;
Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, 365
And end my days upon the peaceful flood. '--[42]
To break my dream the vessel reached its bound;
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,
And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.


XLII

"No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, 370
Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; [43]
Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,
Nor raised [44] my hand at any door to knock.
I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock
From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: 375
Dismally [45] tolled, that night, the city clock!
At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,
Nor to the beggar's language could I fit [46] my tongue.


XLIII

"So passed a second day; and, when the third
Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. [47] 380
--In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred,
Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort;
There, pains which nature could no more support,
With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;
And, after many interruptions short [48] 385
Of hideous sense, I sank, [49] nor step could crawl:
Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. [50]


XLIV

"Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain
Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; [51]
I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 390
Of many things which never troubled me--
Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,
Of looks where common kindness had no part,
Of service done with cold formality, [52]
Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 395
And groans which, as they said, might [53] make a dead man
start.


XLV

"These things just served to stir the slumbering [54] sense,
Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.
With strength did memory return; [55] and, thence
Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 400
At houses, men, and common light, amazed.
The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired,
Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;
The travellers [56] saw me weep, my fate inquired,
And gave me food--and rest, more welcome, more desired. 405
[57]


XLVI

"Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly
With panniered asses driven from door to door;
But life of happier sort set forth to me, [58]
And other joys my fancy to allure--
The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 410
In barn uplighted; and companions boon,
Well met from far with revelry secure
Among the forest glades, while jocund June [59]
Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.


XLVII

"But ill they suited me--those journeys dark [60] 415
O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch!
To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark,
Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch.
The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match.
The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 420
And ear still busy on its nightly watch,
Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill:
Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.


XLVIII

"What could I do, unaided and unblest?
My [61] father! gone was every friend of thine: 425
And kindred of dead husband are at best
Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,
With little kindness would to me incline.
Nor was I [62] then for toil or service fit;
My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; 430
In open air forgetful would I sit [63]
Whole hours, with [64] idle arms in moping sorrow knit.


XLIX

"The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields;
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused,
Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, [65] 435
Now coldly given, now utterly refused.
The ground [66] I for my bed have often used:
But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth,
Is that I have my inner self abused,
Forgone the home delight of constant truth, 440
And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.


L

"Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed,
Through tears have seen him towards that world descend [67]
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
Three years a wanderer now my course I bend--[68] 445
Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend
Have I. "--She ceased, and weeping turned away;
As if because her tale was at an end,
She wept; because she had no more to say
Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 450


LI

True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed,
His looks--for pondering he was mute the while.
Of social Order's care for wretchedness,
Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile,
Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 455
'Twas not for _him_ to speak--a man so tried.
Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style
Proverbial words of comfort he applied,
And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.


LII

Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, 460
Together smoking in the sun's slant beam,
Rise various wreaths that into one unite
Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam:
Fair spectacle,--but instantly a scream
Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; 465
They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme,
And female cries. Their course they thither bent,
And met a man who foamed with anger vehement.


LIII

A woman stood with quivering lips and pale,
And, pointing to a little child that lay 470
Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale;
How in a simple freak of thoughtless play
He had provoked his father, who straightway,
As if each blow were deadlier than the last,
Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay 475
The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast;
And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.


LIV

His voice with indignation rising high
Such further deed in manhood's name forbade;
The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480
With bitter insult and revilings sad;
Asked him in scorn what business there he had;
What kind of plunder he was hunting now;
The gallows would one day of him be glad;--
Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485
Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.


LV

Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched
With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round
His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched
As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- 490
Strange repetition of the deadly wound
He had himself inflicted. Through his brain
At once the griding iron passage found; [D]
Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495


LVI

Within himself he said--What hearts have we!
The blessing this a father gives his child!
Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,
Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild.
The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500
The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;
He kissed his son--so all was reconciled.
Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke
Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.


LVII

"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505
Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece;
Much need have ye that time more closely draw
The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,
And that among so few there still be peace:
Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510
Your pains shall ever with your years increase? "--
While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.


LVIII


Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look
Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515
Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook,
That babbled on through groves and meadows green;
A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between;
The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays,
And melancholy lowings intervene 520
Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,
Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.


LIX

They saw and heard, and, winding with the road
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;
Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525
Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale.
Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale:
It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread,
The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail,
And lustily the master carved the bread, 530
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.


LX


Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;
Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.
She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535
She left him there; for, clustering round his knees,
With his oak-staff the cottage children played;
And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees
And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade
Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540


LXI

A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;
Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.
She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood
As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one,
A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545
The carman wet her lips as well behoved;
Bed under her lean body there was none,
Though even to die near one she most had loved
She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.


LXII

The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 550
And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,
Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain
The jolting road and morning air severe.
The wain pursued its way; and following near
In pure compassion she her steps retraced 555
Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here,"
She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste
The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.


LXIII

While to the door with eager speed they ran,
From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 560
Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan;
No pity asking, on the group she gazed
With a dim eye, distracted and amazed;
Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan.
Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised, 565
I have a house that I can call my own;
Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone! "


LXIV

So in they bear her to the chimney seat,
And busily, though yet with fear, untie
Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570
And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.
Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh
She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear;
Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die,
The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; 575
Till now I did not think my end had been so near.


LXV

"Barred every comfort labour could procure,
Suffering what no endurance could assuage,
I was compelled to seek my father's door,
Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580
But sickness stopped me in an early stage
Of my sad journey; and within the wain
They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage,
Unless beneath your roof I may remain:
For I shall never see my father's door again. 585


LXVI

"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;
But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek
May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb:
Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak
Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. -- 590
Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea
Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek,
My husband served in sad captivity
On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.


LXVII

"A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 595
Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed;
Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers
Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread;
Till one was found by stroke of violence dead,
Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; 600
A dire suspicion drove us from our shed;
In vain to find a friendly face we try,
Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;


LXVIII

"For evil tongues made oath how on that day
My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; 605
Now he had fled, and whither none could say,
And _he_ had done the deed in the dark wood--
Near his own home! --but he was mild and good;
Never on earth was gentler creature seen;
He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 610
My husband's loving kindness stood between
Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen. "


LXIX

Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath
The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness
His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, 615
He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless
With her last words, unable to suppress
His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;
And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,
He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live 620
I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive! "


LXX

To tell the change that Voice within her wrought
Nature by sign or sound made no essay;
A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,
And every mortal pang dissolved away. 625
Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;
Yet still while over her the husband bent,
A look was in her face which seemed to say,
"Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent
Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content. " 630


LXXI

_She_ slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped,
Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took
Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped,
When on his own he cast a rueful look.
His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 635
His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;
All night from time to time under him shook
The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;
And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead! "


LXXII

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; 640
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care
Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,
Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer
He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
The corse interred, not one hour he remained 645
Beneath their roof, but to the open air
A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,
He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.


LXXIII

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared
For act and suffering, to the city straight 650
He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared:
"And from your doom," he added, "now I wait,
Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate. "
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:
"O welcome sentence which will end though late," 655
He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came
Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name! "


LXXIV

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case
(Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)
They hung not:--no one on _his_ form or face 660
Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought
By lawless curiosity or chance,
When into storm the evening sky is wrought,
Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 665
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT


[Variant 1:

1845.

Three years . . . 1842. ]


[Variant 2:

1845.

. . . rose and pursued . . . 1842. ]


[Variant 3:

1845.

. . . demoniac . . . 1842. ]


[Variant 4:

1845.

Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain! 1842. ]


[Variant 5:

1845.

And, from its perilous shelter driven, . . . 1842. ]


[Variant 6: The following stanza was only in the editions of 1798 and
1800:

By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,
(The Woman thus her artless story told)
One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood
Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.
Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:
With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore
My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold
High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store,
A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. 1798.

. . . or from the mountain fold
Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar
Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more. 1800. ]


[Variant 7:

1842.

My father was a good and pious man,
An honest man by honest parents bred, 1798. ]


[Variant 8: Stanzas XXIV. and XXV. were omitted from the editions of
1802 and 1805. They were restored in 1820. ]


[Variant 9:

1842.

Can I forget what charms did once adorn
My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,
And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?
The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;
The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;
My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;
The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime;
The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,
From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. 1798.

Can I forget our croft and plot of corn;
Our garden, stored . . . 1836.

The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; 1820.

The swans, that with white chests upheaved in pride,
Rushing and racing came to meet me at the waterside. 1836. ]


[Variant 10:

1842.

. . .