No More Learning

--Published 1800


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




We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak, 5
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew! " said I, "let us match [1]
This water's pleasant tune 10
With some old border-song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon;

"Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 15
Which you last April made! "

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old Man replied,
The grey-haired man of glee: 20

"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; [2]
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.

"And here, on this delightful day, 25
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.

"My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred, 30
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away 35
Than what it leaves behind. [A]

"The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill, [3]
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will. 40

"With Nature never do _they_ wage
A foolish strife; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:

"But we are pressed by heavy laws; 45
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

"If there be [4] one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth, 50
The household hearts that were his own;
It is the man of mirth.

"My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none 55
Am I enough beloved. "

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains!
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains; 60

"And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee! "
At this he grasped my hand, [5] and said,
"Alas! that cannot be. "

We rose up from the fountain-side; 65
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
He sang those witty rhymes 70
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

Now, Matthew, let us try to match 1800. ]


[Variant 2:

1837.

Down to the vale this water steers, 1800.

Down to the vale with eager speed
Behold this streamlet run,
From subterranean bondage freed,
And glittering in the sun. C.

From subterranean darkness freed,
A pleasant course to run. C.

Down to the vale this streamlet hies,
Look, how it seems to run,
As if 't were pleased with summer skies,
And glad to meet the sun. C.

And glad to greet the sun. MS.

No guide it needs, no check it fears,
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows. C.

Down towards the vale with eager speed,
Behold this streamlet run
As if 'twere pleased with summer skies
And glad to meet the sun. C. ]


[Variant 3:

1837.

The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill, 1800. ]


[Variant 4:

1832.

. . . is . . . . 1800 and MS. ]


[Variant 5:

1815.

. . . his hands, . . . 1800. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"Pour me plaindre a moy, regarde noti tant ce qu'on moste, que ce qui
me reste de sauvre, et dedans et dehors. "

Montaigne, 'Essais', iii. 12.

Compare also:

"Themistocles quidem, cum ei Simonides, an quis alius artem memoriae
polliceretur, _Oblivionis_, inquit, _mallem_; _nam memini etiam quae
nolo, oblivisci non possum quae volo_. "

Cicero, 'De Finibus', II. 32. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





TO A SEXTON


Composed 1799. --Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799. --I. F. ]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy. "--Ed.




Let thy wheel-barrow alone--
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
'Tis already like a hill
In a field of battle made, 5
Where three thousand skulls are laid;
These died in peace each with the other,--
Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform, eight feet square, 10
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended, 15
Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride--
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families! 20
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, too heedless, [1] art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear, 25
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane, 30
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

Thou, old Grey-beard! . . . 1800. ]





* * * * *





THE DANISH BOY

A FRAGMENT


Composed 1799. --Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799. It was entirely a fancy; but intended as a
prelude to a ballad-poem never written. --I. F. ]

In the editions of 1800-1832 this poem was called 'A Fragment'. From
1836 onwards it was named 'The Danish Boy. A Fragment'. It was one of
the "Poems of the Fancy. "--Ed.




I Between two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell 5
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a lonely hut; [1]
And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 10
The shadow of a Danish Boy. [A]


II In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest; [2]
Within [3] this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her [4] nest. 15
No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on [5] the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers:--to other dells
Their burthens do they bear; [6] 20
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.

III A Spirit of noon-day is he;
Yet seems [7] a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 25
Nor herd-boy of the wood. [8]
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not [9] rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 30
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

IV A harp is from his shoulder slung;
Resting the harp upon his knee; 35
To words of a forgotten tongue,
He suits its melody. [10]
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill [11]
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears, 40
The mountain-ponies prick their ears,
--They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sings [12] alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.
[13]

V There sits he; in his face you spy 45
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove: 50
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem [14] like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien;
Like a dead Boy he is serene. 55



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

. . . a cottage hut; 1800. ]


[Variant 2:

1827.

He sings his blithest and his best; 1800.

She sings, regardless of her rest, 1820. ]


[Variant 3:

1827.

But in . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 4:

1820.

. . . his . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 5:

1827.

The bees borne on . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 6:

1827.

Nor ever linger there. 1800. ]


[Variant 7:

1836.

He seems . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 8:

1802.

A piping Shepherd he might be,
A Herd-boy of the wood. 1800. ]


[Variant 9:

1802.

. . . nor . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 10:

1836.

He rests the harp upon his knee,
And there in a forgotten tongue
He warbles melody. 1800. ]


[Variant 11:

1827.

Of flocks and herds both far and near 1800.

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills 1802. ]


[Variant 12:

1845.

. . . sits . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 13:

When near this blasted tree you pass,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover'd fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie,
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
But side by side the two are laid,
As if just sever'd by the spade.

This stanza occurs only in the edition of 1800. ]


[Variant 14:

1815.

They seem . . . 1800. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: These Stanzas were designed to introduce a Ballad upon the
Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and, for the sake of
the valuables about him, was murdered by the Inhabitant of a Cottage in
which he had taken refuge. The House fell under a curse, and the Spirit
of the Youth, it was believed, haunted the Valley where the crime had
been committed. --W. W. 1827. ]





* * * * *





LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE


Composed 1799. --Published 1800


[Written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1799. It was founded on a
circumstance told me by my sister, of a little girl, who, not far from
Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow storm. Her footsteps were
tracked by her parents to the middle of a lock of a canal, and no other
vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body, however,
was found in the canal. The way in which the incident was treated, and
the spiritualizing of the character, might furnish hints for contrasting
the imaginative influences, which I have endeavoured to throw over
common life, with Crabbe's matter-of-fact style of handling subjects of
the same kind. This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it; but
to direct the attention of thoughtful readers into whose hands these
notes may fall, to a comparison that may enlarge the circle of their
sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judgment. --I. F. ]

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




Oft I had heard [1] of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 5
She dwelt on a wide moor, [2]
--The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green; 10
But the sweet [3] face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light 15
Your mother through the snow. "

"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon! " 20

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped [4] a faggot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: 25
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down; 30
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight 35
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door. 40

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, [5]
"In heaven we all shall meet;"
--When in the snow the mother spied [6]
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards [7] from the steep hill's edge 45
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same; 50
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And [8] to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
Those [9] footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank; 55
And further there were [10] none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild. 60

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind. [A]




This poem was illustrated by Sir George Beaumont, in a picture of some
merit, which was engraved by J. C. Bromley, and published in the
collected editions of 1815 and 1820. Henry Crabb Robinson wrote in his
'Diary', September 11, 1816 (referring to Wordsworth):

"He mentioned the origin of some poems. 'Lucy Gray', that tender and
pathetic narrative of a child lost on a common, was occasioned by the
death of a child who fell into the lock of a canal. His object was to
exhibit poetically entire 'solitude', and he represents the child as
observing the day-moon, which no town or village girl would ever
notice. "

A contributor to 'Notes and Queries', May 12, 1883, whose signature is
F. , writes:

"THE SCENE OF 'LUCY GRAY'. --In one of the editions of Wordsworth's
works the scene of this ballad is said to have been near Halifax, in
Yorkshire. I do not think the poet was acquainted with the locality
beyond a sight of the country in travelling through on some journey. I
know of no spot where all the little incidents mentioned in the poem
would exactly fit in, and a few of the local allusions are evidently
by a stranger. There is no 'minster'; the church at Halifax from time
immemorial has always been known as the 'parish church,' and sometimes
as the 'old church,' but has never been styled 'the minster. ' The
'mountain roe,' which of course may be brought in as poetically
illustrative, has not been seen on these hills for generations, and I
scarcely think even the 'fawn at play' for more than a hundred years.
These misapplications, it is almost unnecessary to say, do not detract
from the beauty of the poetry. Some of the touches are graphically
true to the neighbourhood, as, for instance, 'the wide moor,' the
'many a hill,' the 'steep hill's edge,' the 'long stone wall,' and the
hint of the general loneliness of the region where Lucy 'no mate, no
comrade, knew. ' I think I can point out the exact spot--no longer a
'plank,' but a broad, safe bridge--where Lucy fell into the water.
Taking a common-sense view, that she would not be sent many miles at
two o'clock on a winter afternoon to the town (Halifax, of course),
over so lonely a mountain moor--bearing in mind also that this moor
overlooked the river, and that the river was deep and strong enough to
carry the child down the current--I know only one place where such an
accident could have occurred. The clue is in this verse:

'At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door. '

The hill I take to be the high ridge of Greetland and Norland Moor,
and the plank she had to cross Sterne Mill Bridge, which there spans
the Calder, broad and rapid enough at any season to drown either a
young girl or a grown-up person. The mountain burns, romantic and wild
though they be, are not dangerous to cross, especially for a child old
enough to go and seek her mother. To sum up the matter, the hill
overlooking the moor, the path to and distance from the town, the
bridge, the current, all indicate one point, and one point only, where
this accident could have happened, and that is the bridge near Sterne
Mill. This bridge is so designated from the Sterne family, a branch of
whom in the last century resided close by. The author of 'Tristram
Shandy' spent his boyhood here; and Lucy Gray, had she safely crossed
the plank, would immediately have passed Wood Hall, where the boy
Laurence had lived, and, pursuing her way to Halifax, would have gone
through the meadows in which stood Heath School, where young Sterne
had been educated. The mill-weir at Sterne Mill Bridge was, I believe,
the scene of Lucy Gray's death. "

Sterne Mill Bridge, however, crosses the river Calder, while Wordsworth
tells us that the girl lost her life by falling "into the lock of a
canal. " The Calder runs parallel with the canal near Sterne Mill Bridge.
See J. R. Tutin's 'Wordsworth in Yorkshire'. --Ed.



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

Oft had I heard . . .

Only in the second issue of 1800. ]


[Variant 2:

1800 (2nd issue).

She dwelt on a wild Moor 1800.

She lived on a wide Moor MS. ]


[Variant 3:

1800.

. . . bright . . . C. ]


[Variant 4:

1800.

He snapped . . . MS. ]


[Variant 5:

1827.

And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd 1800.

And, turning homeward, now they cried 1815. ]


[Variant 6:

1800.

The Mother turning homeward cried,
"We never more shall meet,"
When in the driven snow she spied MS. ]


[Variant 7:

1840.

Then downward . . . 1800.

Half breathless . . . 1827. ]


[Variant 8:

1800.

. . . and never lost
Till . . . MS. ]


[Variant 9:

1827.

The . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 10:

1800.

. . . was . . . 1802.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Gray's ode, 'On a Distant Prospect of Eton
College', II. 38-9:

'Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind. '

Ed. ]





* * * * *





RUTH


Composed 1799. --Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799. Suggested by an account I had of a wanderer
in Somersetshire. --I. F. ]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections" in the editions of
1815 and 1820. In 1827 it was transferred to the "Poems of the
Imagination. "--Ed.




When Ruth was left half desolate,
Her Father took another Mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will [1]
Went wandering over dale and hill, 5
In thoughtless freedom, bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw,
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods; [2]
Had built a bower upon the green, 10
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone [3]
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight; 15
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to woman's height. [4]

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore--
A military casque he wore, 20
With splendid feathers drest; [A]
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 25
But no! [5] he spake the English tongue,
And bore [6] a soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came. 30

With hues of genius on his cheek
In finest tones the Youth could speak:
--While he was yet a boy,
The moon, the glory of the sun,
And streams that murmur as they run, 35
Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth! I guess
The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he;
And, when he chose to sport and play, 40
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought,
And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear; 45
Such tales as told to any maid
By such a Youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.

He told of girls--a happy rout!
Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 50
Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.

He spake of plants that hourly change 55
Their blossoms, through a boundless range
Of intermingling hues; [7] [B]
With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews, [C] 60
[8]
He told of the magnolia, [D] spread
High as a cloud, high over head!
The cypress and her spire; [E]
--Of flowers [F] that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 65
To set the hills on fire. [G]

The Youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie 70
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds. [H]

"How pleasant," then he said, "it were [9]
A fisher or a hunter there,
In sunshine or in shade 75
To wander with an easy mind;
And build a household fire, and find [10]
A home in every glade!

"What days and what bright [11] years! Ah me!
Our life were life indeed, with thee 80
So passed in quiet bliss,
And all the while," said he, "to know
That we were in a world of woe,
On such an earth as this! "

And then he sometimes interwove 85
Fond [12] thoughts about a father's love:
"For there," said he, "are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our own children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun. 90

"Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be,
Our shed at night to rear;
Or run, my own adopted bride,
A sylvan huntress at my side, 95
And drive the flying deer!

"Beloved Ruth! "--No more he said.
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed [13]
A solitary tear:
She thought again--and did agree 100
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.

"And now, as fitting is and right,
We in the church our faith will plight,
A husband and a wife. " 105
Even so they did; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.

Through dream and vision did she sink,
Delighted all the while to think 110
That on those lonesome floods,
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.

But, as you have before been told, 115
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And, with his dancing crest,
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West. 120

The wind, the tempest roaring high,
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a Youth to whom was given
So much of earth--so much of heaven, 125
And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulse, seemed allied 130
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.

Nor less, to feed voluptuous [14] thought,
The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
Fair trees and gorgeous [15] flowers; 135
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those favored [16] bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes [17] there did intervene 140
Pure hopes of high intent:
For passions linked to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share [18]
Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, [19] much evil saw, 145
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life was known;
Deliberately, and undeceived,
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them back his own. 150

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires:
A Man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul 155
Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn:
What could he less than love a Maid 160
Whose heart with so much nature played
So kind and so forlorn!

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 165
Encompassed me on every side
When I, in confidence and pride,
Had crossed the Atlantic main. [20]

"Before me shone a glorious world--
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 170
To music suddenly: [21]
I looked upon those hills and plains,
And seemed as if let loose from chains,
To live at liberty.
[22]
"No more of this; for now, by thee, 175
Dear Ruth! more happily set free
With nobler zeal I burn; [23]
My soul from darkness is released,
Like the whole sky when to the east [24]
The morning doth return. " 180
[25]
Full soon that better mind was gone; [26]
No hope, no wish remained, not one,--
They stirred him now no more;
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wished to live 185
As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
They for the voyage were prepared,
And went to the sea-shore,
But, when they thither came, the Youth 190
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.

God help thee, Ruth! -Such pains she had,
That she in half a year was mad,
And in a prison housed; 195
And there, with many a doleful song
Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
She fearfully caroused. [27]

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 200
Nor pastimes of the May;
--They all were with her in her cell;
And a clear brook [28] with cheerful knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 205
There came a respite to her pain;
She from her prison fled;
But of the Vagrant none took thought;
And where it liked her best she sought
Her shelter and her bread. 210

Among the fields she breathed again:
The master-current of her brain
Ran permanent and free;
And, coming to the Banks of Tone, [I]
There did she rest; and dwell alone [29] 215
Under the greenwood tree.

The engines of her pain, [30] the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves--she loved them still; 220
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.

A Barn her _winter_ bed supplies;
But, till the warmth of summer skies
And summer days is gone, 225
(And all do in this tale agree) [31]
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
And other home hath none.

An innocent life, yet far astray!
And Ruth will, long before her day, [32] 230
Be broken down and old:
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
From damp, and rain, and cold. [33]

If she is prest by want of food, 235
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road-side;
And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride. 240

That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk 245
The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild--
Such small machinery as she turned 250
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be, 255
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.




The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date
of the stanzas added to 'Ruth' in subsequent editions:

"Sunday, March 8th, 1802. --I stitched up 'The Pedlar,' wrote out
'Ruth', read it with the alterations. . . . William brought two new
stanzas of 'Ruth'. "

The transpositions of stanzas, and their omission from certain editions
and their subsequent re-introduction, in altered form, in later ones,
make it extremely difficult to give the textual history of 'Ruth' in
footnotes. They are even more bewildering than the changes introduced
into 'Simon Lee'. --Ed.



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1802.

And so, not seven years old,
The slighted Child . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 2:

1836.

And from that oaten pipe could draw
All sounds . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 3: This stanza was added in the edition of 1802. ]


[Variant 4:

1827.

She pass'd her time; and in this way
Grew up to Woman's height. 1802. ]


[Variant 5:

1836.

Ah no! . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 6:

1805.

. . . bare . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 7:

1836.

He spake of plants divine and strange
That ev'ry day their blossoms change,
Ten thousand lovely hues! 1800.

. .