Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
In liveried poverty.
Wordsworth - 1
--on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80
Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about, 85
The by-way [6] back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast, 90
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last! "
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95
To God that is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm! " 100
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow 105
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he: 110
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again. 120
No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold. "
A-bed or up, by night or day; 125
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1802.
Auld 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1836
--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.
Remote from sheltering village green,
Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 1820.
On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827. ]
[Variant 3.
1820.
. . . dwelt . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 4.
1827.
. . . wood . . . 1798]
[Variant 5.
1836.
And . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 6.
1827.
The bye-road . . . 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the
Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
HER EYES ARE WILD
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of
Bristol, who had seen the poor creature. --I. F. ]
From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad
Mother'.
In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems
founded on the Affections. " In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was
classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination. " In 1836 and
afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the
Affections. "--Ed.
I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm, 5
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue. 10
II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe. 20
III "A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me;
But then there came a sight of joy; 25
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he. 30
IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me. 40
V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm, 45
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die. 50
VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be; [2]
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shall sing
As merry as the birds in spring. 60
VII "Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own! --and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be. 70
VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away. 80
IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
--Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad. 90
X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am:
My love for thee has well been tried:
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade; 95
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye. " [A] 100
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1.
1820.
. . . breasts . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2.
1832.
. . . I will be; 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the
works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors,
that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the
loss of Paradise. "
(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800. ) See 'William Godwin: his
Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN;
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at
the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage
stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden
Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in
the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more
natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to
those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had
much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned
in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the
image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him
yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love
their voice,' was word for word from his own lips. --I. F. ]
This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said [1] he once was tall.
[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]
No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee: 10
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15
The sleepers of the village. [5]
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase [6] was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind. 20
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!
But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. [8]
And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. [10] 40
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath 45
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer? [11]
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50
For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12]
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little--all 55
That they can do between them. [13]
Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear [15] that you expect
Some tale will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mind 65
Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B]
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must [16] kindly take it: 70
It is no tale; but, should you think, [17]
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever. 80
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow 85
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.
The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run 90
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
--I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men 95
Hath oftener [19] left me mourning. [C]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
I've heard . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor. ]
[Variant 3:
1827.
. . . five and twenty . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 4:
1845.
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry. 1798.
And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry. 1820. ]
[Variant 5:
1827.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. 1798.
Worn out by hunting feats--bereft
By time of friends and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead, . . . 1827.
The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the
second stanza being third in 1827. ]
[Variant 6:
1827.
. . . race . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 7:
Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.
In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828. ]
[Variant 8:
1832.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common. 1798.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see,
And Simon to the world is left,
In liveried poverty.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now is forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1820. ]
[Variant 9:
1798.
But . . . 1820.
The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798. ]
[Variant 10:
1827.
His little body's half awry,
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1798.
His dwindled body's half awry, 1800.
His ancles, too, are swoln and thick; 1815.
And now is forced to work, 1815.
His dwindled body half awry,
Rests upon ancles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child,
His Wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. 1820. ]
[Variant 11:
1845.
But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer? 1798.
"But what," saith he, "avails the land,
Which I can till no longer? " 1827.
But what avails it now, the land
Which he can till no longer? 1832.
'Tis his, but what avails the land
Which he can till no longer? 1837.
The time, alas! is come when he
Can till the land no longer. 1840.
The time is also come when he
Can till the land no longer. C. ]
[Variant 12:
1827.
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb, 1798. ]
[Variant 13:
1840.
Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can . . . 1798.
That they can . . . 1837. ]
[Variant 14:
1815.
His poor old ancles swell. 1798. ]
[Variant 15:
1820.
And I'm afraid . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 16:
1820.
I hope you'll . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 17:
1798.
. . . _think_,
In the editions 1832 to 1843. ]
[Variant 18:
1815.
About the root . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 19:
1820.
Has oftner . . . 1798.
Has oftener . . . 1805. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in
Milton's 'Lycidas'. (Professor Dowden. ) See 'Lycidas', l. 37. --Ed. ]
[Footnote B: Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx. :
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past;
and in Spenser's 'An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip
Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing. '
Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.
Ed. ]
[Footnote C: See Appendix VI. to this volume. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that
runs down from the 'Comb', in which stands the village of Alford,
through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The
brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable
for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree--an ash
if I rightly remember--from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in
search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs
bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost
lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge
depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the
breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the
waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of
water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot,
after an interval of more than forty years, [A] this interesting
feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not
but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not
tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or
obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep
along without difficulty. --I. F. ]
These 'Lines' were included among the "Poems of Sentiment
and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link 5
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green [1] bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes. [B]
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made, 15
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there. 20
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan, [2]
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
* * * * *
This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a
trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge
thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This Lime-Tree Bower, my
Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb:
The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the midday sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fanned by the waterfall!
Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly
associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as
suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880,
I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored. An ash tree, having fallen
across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the
Fenwick note. --Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
. . . sweet 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1837.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan, 1798.
If this belief from Heaven is sent,
If such be nature's holy plan, 1820.
From Heaven if this belief be sent, 1827. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: See the Fenwick note to "A whirl-blast from behind the
hill," p. 238. --Ed. ]
[Footnote B: See Appendix VII. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
TO MY SISTER
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this
occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the
first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more
than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in
appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of
age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch
sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we
inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen.
The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size,
and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the
banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted
themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent
moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs
of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden,
but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the
tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have
been wilfully destroyed. --I. F. ]
In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, 'Lines written
at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the
person to whom they are addressed'. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, 'To
my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my
little Boy'. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply 'To my Sister'. The
poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and
Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air, 5
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done, 10
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day 15
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year. 20
Love, now a [1] universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
--It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more 25
Than years of toiling reason: [2]
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make, [3]
Which they shall long obey: 30
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls: 35
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness. 40
* * * * *
The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be
identified. --Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
. . . an . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1837.
Than fifty years of reason; 1798. ]
[Variant 3:
1820.
. . . may. 1798.
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80
Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about, 85
The by-way [6] back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast, 90
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last! "
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95
To God that is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm! " 100
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow 105
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he: 110
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again. 120
No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold. "
A-bed or up, by night or day; 125
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1802.
Auld 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1836
--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.
Remote from sheltering village green,
Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 1820.
On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827. ]
[Variant 3.
1820.
. . . dwelt . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 4.
1827.
. . . wood . . . 1798]
[Variant 5.
1836.
And . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 6.
1827.
The bye-road . . . 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the
Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
HER EYES ARE WILD
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of
Bristol, who had seen the poor creature. --I. F. ]
From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad
Mother'.
In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems
founded on the Affections. " In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was
classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination. " In 1836 and
afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the
Affections. "--Ed.
I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm, 5
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue. 10
II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe. 20
III "A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me;
But then there came a sight of joy; 25
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he. 30
IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me. 40
V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm, 45
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die. 50
VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be; [2]
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shall sing
As merry as the birds in spring. 60
VII "Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own! --and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be. 70
VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away. 80
IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
--Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad. 90
X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am:
My love for thee has well been tried:
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade; 95
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye. " [A] 100
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1.
1820.
. . . breasts . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2.
1832.
. . . I will be; 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the
works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors,
that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the
loss of Paradise. "
(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800. ) See 'William Godwin: his
Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN;
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at
the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage
stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden
Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in
the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more
natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to
those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had
much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned
in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the
image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him
yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love
their voice,' was word for word from his own lips. --I. F. ]
This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said [1] he once was tall.
[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]
No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee: 10
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15
The sleepers of the village. [5]
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase [6] was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind. 20
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!
But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. [8]
And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. [10] 40
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath 45
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer? [11]
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50
For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12]
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little--all 55
That they can do between them. [13]
Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear [15] that you expect
Some tale will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mind 65
Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B]
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must [16] kindly take it: 70
It is no tale; but, should you think, [17]
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever. 80
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow 85
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.
The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run 90
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
--I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men 95
Hath oftener [19] left me mourning. [C]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
I've heard . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor. ]
[Variant 3:
1827.
. . . five and twenty . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 4:
1845.
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry. 1798.
And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry. 1820. ]
[Variant 5:
1827.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. 1798.
Worn out by hunting feats--bereft
By time of friends and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead, . . . 1827.
The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the
second stanza being third in 1827. ]
[Variant 6:
1827.
. . . race . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 7:
Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.
In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828. ]
[Variant 8:
1832.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common. 1798.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see,
And Simon to the world is left,
In liveried poverty.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now is forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1820. ]
[Variant 9:
1798.
But . . . 1820.
The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798. ]
[Variant 10:
1827.
His little body's half awry,
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1798.
His dwindled body's half awry, 1800.
His ancles, too, are swoln and thick; 1815.
And now is forced to work, 1815.
His dwindled body half awry,
Rests upon ancles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child,
His Wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. 1820. ]
[Variant 11:
1845.
But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer? 1798.
"But what," saith he, "avails the land,
Which I can till no longer? " 1827.
But what avails it now, the land
Which he can till no longer? 1832.
'Tis his, but what avails the land
Which he can till no longer? 1837.
The time, alas! is come when he
Can till the land no longer. 1840.
The time is also come when he
Can till the land no longer. C. ]
[Variant 12:
1827.
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb, 1798. ]
[Variant 13:
1840.
Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can . . . 1798.
That they can . . . 1837. ]
[Variant 14:
1815.
His poor old ancles swell. 1798. ]
[Variant 15:
1820.
And I'm afraid . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 16:
1820.
I hope you'll . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 17:
1798.
. . . _think_,
In the editions 1832 to 1843. ]
[Variant 18:
1815.
About the root . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 19:
1820.
Has oftner . . . 1798.
Has oftener . . . 1805. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in
Milton's 'Lycidas'. (Professor Dowden. ) See 'Lycidas', l. 37. --Ed. ]
[Footnote B: Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx. :
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past;
and in Spenser's 'An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip
Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing. '
Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.
Ed. ]
[Footnote C: See Appendix VI. to this volume. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that
runs down from the 'Comb', in which stands the village of Alford,
through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The
brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable
for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree--an ash
if I rightly remember--from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in
search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs
bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost
lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge
depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the
breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the
waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of
water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot,
after an interval of more than forty years, [A] this interesting
feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not
but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not
tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or
obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep
along without difficulty. --I. F. ]
These 'Lines' were included among the "Poems of Sentiment
and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link 5
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green [1] bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes. [B]
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made, 15
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there. 20
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan, [2]
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
* * * * *
This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a
trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge
thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This Lime-Tree Bower, my
Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb:
The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the midday sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fanned by the waterfall!
Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly
associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as
suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880,
I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored. An ash tree, having fallen
across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the
Fenwick note. --Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
. . . sweet 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1837.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan, 1798.
If this belief from Heaven is sent,
If such be nature's holy plan, 1820.
From Heaven if this belief be sent, 1827. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: See the Fenwick note to "A whirl-blast from behind the
hill," p. 238. --Ed. ]
[Footnote B: See Appendix VII. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
TO MY SISTER
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this
occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the
first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more
than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in
appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of
age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch
sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we
inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen.
The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size,
and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the
banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted
themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent
moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs
of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden,
but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the
tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have
been wilfully destroyed. --I. F. ]
In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, 'Lines written
at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the
person to whom they are addressed'. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, 'To
my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my
little Boy'. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply 'To my Sister'. The
poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and
Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air, 5
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done, 10
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day 15
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year. 20
Love, now a [1] universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
--It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more 25
Than years of toiling reason: [2]
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make, [3]
Which they shall long obey: 30
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls: 35
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness. 40
* * * * *
The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be
identified. --Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
. . . an . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1837.
Than fifty years of reason; 1798. ]
[Variant 3:
1820.
. . . may. 1798.
