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.
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.
Wordsworth - 1
]
[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. ]
* * * * *
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many
occasions. It was composed in front of the house of Alfoxden, in the
spring of 1798. [A]--I. F. ]
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books? --that light bequeathed 5
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you; 10
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you! "
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15
And thus I made reply.
"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will. 20
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may, 30
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away. "
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical
Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes,
"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow,
arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably
attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy. "
Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it--a much more probable
supposition--his friend, S. T. Coleridge? --Ed. ]
* * * * *
THE TABLES TURNED
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT
Composed 1798. --Published 1798
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble? [1]
The sun, above the mountain's head, 5
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is [2] no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things, 15
Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can. [A]
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those [3] barren leaves; 30
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double. 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1815.
And he is . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 3:
1837.
. . . these . . . 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: A mediaeval anticipation of this may be quoted in a
footnote.
"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will
find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach
you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters. "
I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all
approaching to it which I can verify is the following:
"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit,
maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur
accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi
quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet. "
See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of 'Bernardi Opera', ii. 1072,
'S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo'. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey
with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins,
and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place
will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend
to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes
alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in
with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the
females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that
very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the
Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs
us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling
noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the
following poem. --W. W. 1798.
[At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep
interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads. "--I. F. ]
Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars, they were among my dreams; [1]
In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5
I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3]
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive;
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away! 10
II My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain:
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live, 15
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20
III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon I yielded to despair;
Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5]
When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25
And oh, how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30
IV My Child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my Babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran, 35
A most strange working [8] did I see;
--As if he strove to be a man,
That he might pull the sledge for me:
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40
V My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send;
Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away;
For I had many things to say. 50
VI I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye [11] travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain
I'll look upon your tents again.
--My fire is dead, and snowy white 55
The water which beside it stood:
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I;
Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60
VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13]
I shall not see another sun;
I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
[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. ]
* * * * *
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
[This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many
occasions. It was composed in front of the house of Alfoxden, in the
spring of 1798. [A]--I. F. ]
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books? --that light bequeathed 5
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you; 10
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you! "
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15
And thus I made reply.
"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will. 20
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may, 30
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away. "
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical
Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes,
"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow,
arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably
attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy. "
Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it--a much more probable
supposition--his friend, S. T. Coleridge? --Ed. ]
* * * * *
THE TABLES TURNED
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT
Composed 1798. --Published 1798
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble? [1]
The sun, above the mountain's head, 5
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is [2] no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things, 15
Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can. [A]
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those [3] barren leaves; 30
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double. 1798. ]
[Variant 2:
1815.
And he is . . . 1798. ]
[Variant 3:
1837.
. . . these . . . 1798. ]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: A mediaeval anticipation of this may be quoted in a
footnote.
"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will
find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach
you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters. "
I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all
approaching to it which I can verify is the following:
"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit,
maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur
accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi
quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet. "
See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of 'Bernardi Opera', ii. 1072,
'S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo'. --Ed. ]
* * * * *
THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN
Composed 1798. --Published 1798.
When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey
with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins,
and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place
will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend
to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes
alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in
with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the
females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that
very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the
Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs
us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling
noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the
following poem. --W. W. 1798.
[At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep
interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads. "--I. F. ]
Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars, they were among my dreams; [1]
In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5
I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3]
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive;
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away! 10
II My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain:
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live, 15
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20
III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon I yielded to despair;
Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5]
When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25
And oh, how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30
IV My Child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my Babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran, 35
A most strange working [8] did I see;
--As if he strove to be a man,
That he might pull the sledge for me:
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40
V My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send;
Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away;
For I had many things to say. 50
VI I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye [11] travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain
I'll look upon your tents again.
--My fire is dead, and snowy white 55
The water which beside it stood:
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I;
Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60
VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13]
I shall not see another sun;
I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
