Can I forget that
miserable
hour, 1798.
Wordsworth - 1
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.
. . . yet . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 11:
1802.
When . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 12:
1836.
My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,
When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; 1798. ]
[Variant 13:
1845.
. . . would . . . 1842. ]
[Variant 14:
1845.
. . . summer . . . 1842. ]
[Variant 15:
1845.
The suns of twenty summers danced along,--
Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:
Then rose a mansion proud our woods among,
And cottage after cottage owned its sway,
No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray
Through pastures not his own, the master took;
My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;
He loved his old hereditary nook,
And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. 1798.
Then rose a stately hall our woods among, 1800.
. . . how fast they rolled away:
But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong,
My father's substance fell into decay;
We toiled, and struggled--hoping for a day
When Fortune should put on a kinder look;
But vain were wishes--efforts vain as they:
He from his old hereditary nook
Must part,--the summons came,--our final leave we took. 1820. ]
[Variant 16: The following stanza occurs only in the editions 1798 to
1805:
But, when he had refused the proffered gold,
To cruel injuries he became a prey,
Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:
His troubles grew upon him day by day,
Till all his substance fell into decay.
His little range of water was denied; [i]
All but the bed where his old body lay,
All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,
We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. 1798.
And all his substance fell into decay.
They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried
To move their hearts--but it was vain--for they
Seized all he had; and, weeping . . . 1802-5. ]
[Variant 17:
1820.
Can I forget that miserable hour, 1798.
It was in truth a lamentable hour 1802. ]
[Variant 18:
1798.
I saw our own dear home, that was . . . 1802.
The edition of 1820 returns to the text of 1798. ]
[Variant 19:
1827.
. . . many and many a song 1798. ]
[Variant 20:
1800.
. . . little birds . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 21:
1836.
His father said, that to a distant town
He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. 1798.
Two years were pass'd, since to a distant Town
He had repair'd to ply the artist's trade. 1802. ]
[Variant 22:
1802.
Four years each day with daily bread was blest,
By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 1798. ]
[Variant 23:
1836.
Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; 1798. ]
[Variant 24:
1842.
When sad distress. . . 1798. ]
[Variant 25:
1836.
. . . from him the grave did hide 1798.
. . . for him . . . 1820. ]
[Variant 26:
1798.
. . . which . . . Only in 1820. ]
[Variant 27:
1836.
. . . could . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 28:
1798.
But soon, day after day, . . . 1802.
The edition of 1820 reverts to the reading of 1798. ]
[Variant 29:
1836.
. . . to sweep . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 30:
1836.
There foul neglect for months and months we bore,
Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. 1798.
There, long were we neglected, and we bore
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh'd; 1802. ]
[Variant 31:
1802.
Green fields before us and our native shore,
By fever, from polluted air incurred,
Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.
Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,
'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, 1798. ]
[Variant 32:
1802.
But from delay the summer calms were past. 1798. ]
[Variant 33:
1802.
We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep
Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, 1798. ]
[Variant 34:
Oh! dreadful price of being to resign
All that is dear _in_ being! better far
In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine,
Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;
Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,
Better our dying bodies to obtrude,
Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,
Protract a curst existence, with the brood
That lap (their very nourishment! ) their brother's blood.
Only in the editions of 1798 and 1800. ]
[Variant 35:
1842.
It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 1798. ]
[Variant 36:
1842.
Peaceful as some immeasurable plain
By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, 1798. ]
[Variant 37:
1827.
. . . has its hour of rest,
That comes not to the human mourner's breast. 1798.
I too was calm, though heavily distress'd! 1802. ]
[Variant 38:
1842.
Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,
A heavenly silence did the waves invest;
I looked and looked along the silent air,
Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 1798.
Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were!
My heart was healed within me, I was bless'd.
And looked, and looked . . . 1802.
My heart was hushed within me, . . . 1815.
As quiet all within me, . . . 1827. ]
[Variant 39:
1800.
Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 1798. ]
[Variant 40: The following stanza appeared only in the editions
1798-1805:
Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,
When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,
While like a sea the storming army came,
And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape,
And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape
Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child!
But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape!
--For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,
And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1798.
At midnight once the storming Army came,
Yet do I see the miserable sight,
The Bayonet, the Soldier, and the Flame
That followed us and faced us in our flight:
When Rape and Murder by the ghastly light
Seized their joint prey, the Mother and the Child!
But I must leave these thoughts. --From night to night,
From day to day, the air breathed soft and mild;
And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1802-5. ]
[Variant 41:
1802.
And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought
At last my feet a resting-place had found:
Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) 1798. ]
[Variant 42:
1842.
Here watch, of every human friend disowned,
All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood-- 1798.
Here will I live:--of every friend disown'd,
Here will I roam about the ocean flood. -- 1802.
And end my days upon the ocean flood. "-- 1815. ]
[Variant 43:
1842.
By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift,
Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; 1798.
Helpless as sailor cast on some bare rock; 1836. ]
[Variant 44:
1842.
Nor dared . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 45:
1802.
How dismal . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 46:
1832.
. . . frame . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 47:
1836.
So passed another day, and so the third:
Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, 1798. ]
[Variant 48:
1827.
Dizzy my brain, with interruption short 1798.
And I had many interruptions short 1802. ]
[Variant 49:
1802.
. . . sunk . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 50:
1827.
And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. 1798.
And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital. 1802. ]
[Variant 51:
1827.
Recovery came with food: but still, my brain
Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 1798. ]
[Variant 52:
1842.
. . . with careless cruelty, 1798. ]
[Variant 53:
1815.
. . . would . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 54:
1836.
.
