Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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It was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their various hues Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.—Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But 'twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And, on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain-cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." —Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. Note Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 |
1845 | |
The budding groves appear'd as if in haste |
1800 |
1845 | |
... seem'd as though ... |
1800 |
"I have a fancy for a spot just beyond Goody Bridge to the left, where the brook makes a curve, and returns to the road two hundred yards farther on. But I have not discovered a trace of authority in favour of the idea farther than that the wooded bend of the brook with the stepping stones across it, connected with a field-path recently stopped, was a very favourite haunt of Wordsworth's. At the upper part of this bend, near to the place where the brook returns to the road, is a deep pool at the foot of a rush of water. In this pool, a man named Wilson was drowned many years ago. He lived at a house on the hill called Score Crag, which, if my conjecture as to Emma's Dell is right, is the 'single mountain cottage' on a 'summit, distant a short space.' Wordsworth, happening to be walking at no great distance, heard a loud shriek. It was that of Mr. Wilson, the father, who had just discovered his son's body in the beck."In the "Reminiscences" of the poet, by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge, which were contributed to the Memoirs of Wordsworth, written by his nephew (vol. ii. pp. 300-315), there is a record of a walk they took up Easdale to this place, entering the field just at the spot which Dr. Cradock supposes to be "Emma's Dell."
"He turned aside at a little farm-house, and took us into a swelling field to look down on the tumbling stream which bounded it, and which we saw precipitated at a distance, in a broad white sheet, from the mountain." (This refers to Easdale Force.) "Then, as he mused for an instant, he said,This walk and conversation took place in October 1836. If any one is surprised that Wordsworth, supposing him to have been then looking into the very dell on which he wrote the above poem in 1800, did not name it to Mr. Coleridge, he must remember that he was not in the habit of speaking of the places he had memorialised in verse, and that in 1836 his "Sister Emmeline" had for a year been a confirmed invalid at Rydal. I have repeatedly followed Easdale beck all the way up from its junction with the Rothay to the Tarn, and found no spot corresponding so closely to the realistic detail of this poem as the one suggested by Dr. Cradock. There are two places further up the dale where the "sallies of glad sound" such as are referred to in the poem, are even more distinctly audible; but they are not at "a sudden turning," as is the spot above Goody Bridge. If one leaves the Easdale road at this bridge, and keeps to the side of the beck for a few hundred yards, till he reaches the turning, —especially if it be a bright April morning, such as that described in the poem,—and remembers that this path by the brook was a favourite resort of Wordsworth and his sister, the probability of Dr. Cradock's suggestion will be apparent. Lady Richardson, who knew the place, and appreciated the poem as thoroughly as any of Wordsworth's friends, told me that she concurred in this identification of the "dell."—Ed.'I have often thought what a solemn thing it would be could we have brought to our mind at once all the scenes of distress and misery which any spot, however beautiful and calm before us, has been witness to since the beginning. That water break, with the glassy quiet pool beneath it, that looks so lovely, and presents no images to the mind but of peace—there, I remember, the only son of his father, a poor man who lived yonder, was drowned.'"
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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Amid the smoke of cities did you pass The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow to meet the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse, However trivial, if you thence be taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times. While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry, I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. —Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered between malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply:—"As it befel, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. —'Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short—and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. —When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again; That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,—old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet;—back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. —Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills. And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished To shelter from some object of her fear. —And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name deep in the living stone:— And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." Note Contents |
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5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 |
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Your time ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
Is slow towards... |
1800 |
... toward.... |
1827 |
1836 | |
... are taught... |
1800 |
1836 | |
... betwixt ... |
1800 |
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Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short, |
1800 |
... toward ... |
1827 |
1836 | |
And trac'd ... |
1800 |
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Is not for me to tell; but sure I am |
1800 |
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Joanna's name upon the living stone. |
1800 |
"When the road was enlarged, not many years ago, the roots of the trees were found by the workmen."(Dr. Cradock to the editor.) The
'tall rockby the banks of the Rotha, presenting a "lofty barrier" "from base to summit," is manifestly a portion of Helmcrag. It is impossible to know whether Wordsworth carved Joanna Hutchinson's name anywhere on Helmcrag, and it is useless to enquire. If he did so, the discovery of the place would not help any one to understand or appreciate the poem. It is obvious that he did not intend to be literally exact in details, as the poem was written in 1800, and addressed to Joanna Hutchinson,—who is spoken of as having been absent from Grasmere "for two long years;" and Wordsworth says that he carved the Runic characters in memoriam eighteen months after that summer morning when he heard the echo of her laugh. But the family took up residence at Grasmere only in December 1799, and the "Poems on the Naming of Places" were published before the close of 1800. The effect of these lines to Joanna, however, is certainly not impaired—it may even be enhanced—by our inability to localise them. Only one in the list of places referred to can occasion any perplexity, viz., Hammar-scar, since it is a name now disused in the district. It used to be applied to some rocks on the flank of Silver-how, to the wood around them, and also to the gorge between Silver-how and Loughrigg. Hammar, from the old Norse hamar, signifies a steep broken rock.
That eastward looks'
Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every HillPolyolbion, The Thirtieth Song, ll. 155-164. Any one who compares this passage with Wordsworth's Joanna will see the difference between the elaborate fancy of a topographical narrator, and the vivid imagination of a poetical idealist. A somewhat similar instance of indebtedness—in which the debt is repaid by additional insight—is seen when we compare a passage from Sir John Davies's Orchestra, or a poem on Dancing (stanza 49), with one from The Ancient Mariner, Part VI. stanzas 2 and 3—although there was more of the true imaginative light in Davies than in Drayton.
Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill;
Helvillon from his height, it through the mountains threw,
From whence as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase drew,
From whose stone-trophèd head, it on the Wendrosse went,
Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent,
That Brodwater therewith within her banks astound,
In sailing to the sea, told it to Egremound,
Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with echoes loud and long,
Did mightily commend old Copland for her song.
For lo, the sea that fleets about the land,Davies.
And like a girdle clips her solid waist,
Music and measure both doth understand;
For his great crystal eye is always cast
Up to the moon, and on her fixed fast:
And as she danceth in her palid sphere
So danceth he about his centre here.
Still as a slave before his lord,Coleridge.
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the moon is cast—
If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.
"William was composing all the morning ... W. read us the poem of Joanna, beside the Rothay, by the roadside."Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in January 1801, of
"these continuous echoes in the story of 'Joanna's laugh,' when the mountains and all the scenery seem absolutely alive."Ed.
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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There is an Eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun; We can behold it from our orchard-seat; And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Peak, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. Note Contents |
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... this Cliff, ... |
1800 |
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Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name. |
1800 |
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy: And there myself and two belovèd Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. —Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore— Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, Suddenly halting now—a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. —And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern, So stately, of the queen Osmunda named; Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. —So fared we that bright morning: from the fields, Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. Delighted much to listen to those sounds, And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced Along the indented shore; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen Before us, on a point of jutting land, The tall and upright figure of a Man Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Angling beside the margin of the lake. "Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed, "The Man must be, who thus can lose a day Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stored Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time." Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turned his head To greet us—and we saw a Man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean That for my single self I looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained.— Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The Man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. —Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then received The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by mariner was given to bay Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast; And Point Rash-Judgment is the name it bears. Note Contents |
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5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 |
1815. (Compressing five lines into three.) | |
... thistle's beard, |
1800 |
1820 | |
Its very playmate, and its moving soul. |
1800 |
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... tall plant ... |
1800 |
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... sweet ... |
1800 |
1800 | |
... with listening ... |
C. |
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And in the fashion which I have describ'd, |
1800 |
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... we saw |
1800 |
1800 | |
... a lake. |
1802 |
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... the margin of the lake. |
1800 |
Did all cry out, that he must be indeed |
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The better the uncouther;at least because of the incident which gave rise to the poem. The date of composition is fixed by Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal,
Do roses stick like burrs?
"10th Oct. 1800, Wm. sat up after me, writing Point Rash-Judgment."Ed.
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Our walk was far among the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But a thick umbrage—checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf Beneath the branches—of itself had made A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods. All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well, Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun, Or wind from any quarter, ever come, But as a blessing to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself; The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death-hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still Nook, With all its beeches, we have named from You! Note Contents |
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But the ... |
1800 |
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... on the soft green turf |
1800 |
... smooth dry ground |
MS. |
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... which ... |
1800 |
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... for You. |
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'With all its poplars, we have named from you.'Of the circular pool beneath this fall it may be said, as Wordsworth describes it, that
'... both flocks and herds might drinkand a "small slip of lawn" might easily have existed there in his time. We cannot, however, be confident as to the locality, and I add the opinion of several, whose judgment may be deferred to. Dr. Cradock writes:
On its firm margin, even as from a well;'
"As to Mary Hutchinson's pool, I think that it was not on the beck anywhere, but some detached little pool, far up the hill, to the eastwards of the Hall, in 'the woods.' The description does not well suit any part of Rydal beck; and no spot thereon could long 'remain unknown,' as the brook was until lately much haunted by anglers."My difficulty as to a site "far up the hill" is, that it must have been a pool of some size, if "both flocks and herds might drink" all round it; and there is no stream, scarce even a rill that joins Rydal beck on the right, all the way up from its junction with the Rothay. The late Mr. Hull of Rydal Cottage, wrote:
"Although closely acquainted with every nook about Rydal Park, I have never been able to discover any spot corresponding to that described in Wordsworth's lines to M. H. It is possible, however, that the 'small bed of water' may have been a temporary rain pool, such as sometimes lodges in the hollows on the mountain-slope after heavy rain."Mr. F. M. Jones, the agent of the Rydal property, writes:
"I do not know of any pool of water in the Upper Rydal Park. There are some pools up the river, 'Mirror Pool' among them; but I hardly think there can ever have been 'beech-trees' growing near them."There are many difficulties, and the place cannot now be identified. Wordsworth's own wish will doubtless be realised,
'The travellers know it not, and 'twill remainEd.
Unknown to them.'
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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I | "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed an angry Voice, "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!" A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. |
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II | "Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past; But, seeing no relief, at last, He ventured to reply. |
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III | "Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this sequestered spot Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed— What pleasure through my veins you spread The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. |
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IV | "When spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours, I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; And in my leaves—now shed and gone, The linnet lodged, and for us two Chanted his pretty songs, when you Had little voice or none. |
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V | "But now proud thoughts are in your breast— What grief is mine you see, Ah! would you think, even yet how blest Together we might be! Though of both leaf and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left— Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I, in my humble way, Would deck you many a winter day, A happy Eglantine!" |
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VI | What more he said I cannot tell, The Torrent down the rocky dell Came thundering loud and fast; I listened, nor aught else could hear; The Briar quaked—and much I fear Those accents were his last. Note Contents |
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... a thundering Voice, |
1800 |
1820 | |
A falling Water swoln with snows |
1800 |
1820 | |
... in this, our natal spot, |
1800 |
1815 | |
... wreath ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
... Winter's day, |
1800 |
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The stream came thundering down the dell |
1800 |
The Torrent thundered down the dell |
1815 |
With aggravated haste; |
1827 |
The Stream came thundering down the dell |
1836 |
And now the Storm-blast came, and heEd.
Was tyrannous and strong.
"The plant itself of course has long disappeared: but in following up the rill through the copse, above the cottages, I found an unusually large Eglantine, growing by the side of the stream."(Dr Cradock to the editor, in 1877.) It still grows luxuriantly there.
"Friday, 23rd April 1802.—It being a beautiful morning, we set off at eleven o'clock, intending to stay out of doors all the morning. We went towards Rydal, under Nab Scar. The sun shone and we were lazy. Coleridge pitched upon several places to sit down upon; but we could not be all of one mind respecting sun and shade, so we pushed on to the foot of the Scar. It was very grand when we looked up, very stony; here and there a budding tree. William observed that the umbrella Yew-tree that breasts the wind had lost its character as a tree, and had become like solid wood. Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence, and I sat down upon a rocky seat, a couch it might be, under the Bower of William's 'Eglantine,' 'Andrew's Broom.' He was below us, and we could see him. He came to us, and repeated his Poems, while we sat beside him. We lingered long, looking into the vales; Ambleside Vale, with the copses, the village under the hill, and the green fields; Rydale, with a lake all alive and glittering, yet but little stirred by breezes; and our own dear Grasmere, making a little round lake of Nature's own, with never a house, never a green field, but the copses and the bare hills enclosing it, and the river flowing out of it. Above rose the Coniston Fells, in their own shape and colour, ... the sky, and the clouds, and a few wild creatures. Coleridge went to search for something new. We saw him climbing up towards a rock. He called us, and we found him in a bower,—the sweetest that was ever seen. The rock on one side is very high, and all covered with ivy, which hung loosely about, and bore bunches of brown berries. On the other side, it was higher than my head. We looked down on the Ambleside vale, that seemed to wind away from us, the village lying under the hill. The fir tree island was reflected beautifully.... About this bower there is mountain-ash, common ash, yew tree, ivy, holly, hawthorn, roses, flowers, and a carpet of moss. Above at the top of the rock there is another spot. It is scarce a bower, a little parlour, not enclosed by walls, but shaped out for a resting-place by the rocks, and the ground rising about it. It had a sweet moss carpet. We resolved to go and plant flowers, in both these places to-morrow."This extract is taken from the "Journal" as originally transcribed by me in 1889. When it appears in this edition it will be greatly enlarged.—Ed.
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I | His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills; A careful student he had been Among the woods and hills. One winter's night, when through the trees The wind was roaring, on his knees His youngest born did Andrew hold: And while the rest, a ruddy quire, Were seated round their blazing fire, This Tale the Shepherd told. |
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II | "I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a cheerful noon— The thaw wind, with the breath of June, Breathed gently from the warm south-west: When, in a voice sedate with age, This Oak, a giant and a sage, His neighbour thus addressed:— |
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III | "'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge, The Frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up! and think, above your head What trouble, surely, will be bred; Last night I heard a crash—'tis true, The splinters took another road— I see them yonder—what a load For such a Thing as you! |
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IV | "'You are preparing as before To deck your slender shape; And yet, just three years back—no more— You had a strange escape: Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; It thundered down, with fire and smoke, And hitherward pursued its way; This ponderous block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, 'Tis hanging to this day! |
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V | "'If breeze or bird to this rough steep Your kind's first seed did bear; The breeze had better been asleep, The bird caught in a snare: For you and your green twigs decoy The little witless shepherd-boy To come and slumber in your bower; And, trust me, on some sultry noon, Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour. |
4 |
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VI | "'From me this friendly warning take'— The Broom began to doze, And thus, to keep herself awake, Did gently interpose: 'My thanks for your discourse are due; That more than what you say is true, I know, and I have known it long; Frail is the bond by which we hold Our being, whether young or old, Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. |
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VII | "'Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant heritage; My father many a happy year, Spread here his careless blossoms, here Attained a good old age. |
7 |
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VIII | "'Even such as his may be my lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not In truth a favoured plant! On me such bounty Summer pours, That I am covered o'er with flowers; And, when the Frost is in the sky, My branches are so fresh and gay That you might look at me and say, This Plant can never die. |
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IX | "'The butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own. When grass is chill with rain or dew, Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe Lies with her infant lamb; I see The love they to each other make, And the sweet joy which they partake, It is a joy to me.' |
85 90 |
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X | "Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed; But in the branches of the oak Two ravens now began to croak Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; And to her own green bower the breeze That instant brought two stripling bees To rest, or murmur there. |
10 |
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XI | "One night, my Children! from the north There came a furious blast; At break of day I ventured forth, And near the cliff I passed. The storm had fallen upon the Oak, And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirled, and whirled him far away; And, in one hospitable cleft, The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day." Note Contents |
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... thundering, ... |
1800 |
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... half giant and half sage, |
1800 |
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It came, you know, with fire and smoke |
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And hitherward it bent its way. |
1802 |
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The Thing had better been asleep, |
1800 |
Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, |
1802 |
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That it is true, and more than true, |
1800 |
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... be we young or old, |
1800 |
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Here spread ... |
1800 |
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The Spring for me a garland weaves |
1800 |
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... on me ... |
1800 |
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To feed and ... |
1800 |
To rest and ... |
1815 |
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One night the Wind came from the North |
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"The poem of The Oak and the Broom proceeded from his" (Wordsworth) "beholding a tree in just such a situation as he described the broom to be in."Ed.
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'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known; He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved—the pretty Barbara died; And thus he makes his moan: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid When thus his moan he made: "Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I look—the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. "O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, It robs my heart of peace. Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. "Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough Headlong yon waterfall must come, Oh let it then be dumb! Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. "Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend,— Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." The Man who makes this feverish complaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know Such happiness as I have known to-day. Note Contents |
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5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 |
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... Ye leaves, |
1800 |
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... yon ... |
MS. |
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Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers |
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... the rainbow ... |
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... or ... |
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'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,and Browning's May and Death:
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An' I sae weary, fu' o' care!'
'I wish that when you died last May,This mood of mind Wordsworth appreciated as fully as the opposite, or complementary one, which finds expression in the great Ode, Intimations of Immortality (vol. viii.), l. 26.
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of spring's delightful things;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.'
'No more shall grief of mine the season wrong,'and which Browning expresses in other verses of his lyric, and repeatedly elsewhere. The allusion in the last stanza of this poem is to Wordsworth's sister Dorothy.—Ed.
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"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds." —Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show. Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door; A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away! Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. Perhaps to himself at that moment he said; "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." But of this in my ears not a word did he speak; And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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The basin of box-wood, just six months before, |
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The basin had offered, just six months before, |
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Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep. Clouds that love through air to hasten, Ere the storm its fury stills, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centre Of the Alps the Chamois bound, Yet he has a home to enter In some nook of chosen ground: And the Sea-horse, though the ocean Yield him no domestic cave, Slumbers without sense of motion, Couched upon the rocking wave. If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven In the bosom of the cliff. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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This stanza was added in the edition of 1827. |
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Though almost with eagle pinion |
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Though, as if with eagle pinion |
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Though the Sea-horse in the ocean |
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Yet he slumbers—by the motion |
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... he loves his haven |
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On ... |
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This stanza was added in 1827. |
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Never—never does the trouble |
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These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who, in the open air, with due accord Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked; and, down the path That from his cottage to the church-yard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 'Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters; with the mariners A fellow-mariner;—and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds Of caves and trees:—and, when the regular wind Between the tropics filled the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn. And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. —They were the last of all their race: and now, When Leonard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, He to the solitary church-yard turned; That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his Brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added.—He had found Another grave,—near which a full half-hour He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and even to hope That he had seen this heap of turf before,— That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to him: And oh what joy this recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, And everlasting hills themselves were changed. By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short,—and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead.—Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. |
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Leonard | You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you: And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish.—I remember, (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side—'tis gone—and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had! |
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Priest | Nay, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same— |
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Leonard | But, surely, yonder— | |||
Priest | Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false.—On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning—one hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still, For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them;—a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; A wood is felled:—and then for our own homes! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries,—one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side— Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys! |
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Leonard | Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, Cross-bones nor skull,—type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. |
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Priest | Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English church-yard were like ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. And then, for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains. |
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Leonard | Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves? |
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Priest | For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, [23] If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world. Now there's a grave—your foot is half upon it,— It looks just like the rest; and yet that man Died broken-hearted. |
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Leonard | 'Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall. |
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Priest | That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage— You see it yonder! and those few green fields. They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little—yet a little,—and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: His pace was never that of an old man: I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him:—but you, Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel,—and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer— |
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Leonard | But those two Orphans! | 27 | ||
Priest | Orphans!—Such they were— Yet not while Walter lived:—for, though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father: and if tears, Shed when he talked of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old Man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred! Ay—you may turn that way—it is a grave Which will bear looking at. |
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Leonard | These boys—I hope They loved this good old Man?— |
250 |
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Priest | They did—and truly: But that was what we almost overlooked, They were such darlings of each other. Yes, Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to both by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar, tenderness; They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!—From their house the school Is distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone, Upon the hither side: and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety— |
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Leonard | It may be then— | |||
Priest | Never did worthier lads break English bread; The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep those boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks, and every hollow place That venturous foot could reach, to one or both Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; They played like two young ravens on the crags: Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well As many of their betters—and for Leonard! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A bible, and I'd wager house and field That, if he be alive, he has it yet. |
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280 285 290 295 |
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Leonard | It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other— |
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Priest | That they might Live to such end is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wished, And what, for my part, I have often prayed: But Leonard— |
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Leonard | Then James still is left among you! | |||
Priest | Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle;—he was at that time A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud: For the boy loved the life which we lead here; And though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil. But, as I said, old Walter was too weak To strive with such a torrent; when he died, The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:— Well—all was gone, and they were destitute, And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont. The day would be a joyous festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you see— Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir! This is sad talk—they'll never sound for him— Living or dead.—When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast.—'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the Youth Was sadly crossed.—Poor Leonard! when we parted, He took me by the hand, and said to me, If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, To live in peace upon his father's land, And lay his bones among us. |
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Leonard | If that day Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him— |
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Priest | Happy! Sir— | |||
Leonard | You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one Brother— |
345 | ||
Priest | That is but A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many offices about him, That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, The little colour that he had was soon Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined— |
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Leonard | But these are all the graves of full-grown men! | |||
Priest | Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale—he lived Three months with one, and six months with another; And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: And many, many happy days were his. But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent Brother still was at his heart. And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard.—You are moved! Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly. |
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Leonard | But this Youth, How did he die at last? |
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Priest | One sweet May-morning, (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun—till he, at length, Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagged behind. You see yon precipice;—it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; And in the midst is one particular rock That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar. Upon its aëry summit crowned with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was feared; till one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learned That nobody had seen him all that day: The morning came, and still he was unheard of: The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies! |
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Leonard | And that then is his grave!—Before his death You say that he saw many happy years? |
50 |
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Priest | Ay, that he did— | |||
Leonard | And all went well with him?— | 405 | ||
Priest | If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes. | 51 | ||
Leonard | And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?— | |||
Priest | Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talked about him with a cheerful love. |
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Leonard | He could not come to an unhallowed end! | |||
Priest | Nay, God forbid!—You recollect I mentioned A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down On the soft heath, and, waiting for his comrades, He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong: And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock It had been caught mid way; and there for years It hung;—and mouldered there. |
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The Priest here ended— The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,— And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!" The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating That Leonard would partake his homely fare: The other thanked him with an earnest voice; But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted. It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove That overhung the road: he there stopped short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him:—his long absence, cherished hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquished all his purposes. He travelled back to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, Reminding him of what had passed between them; And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart He had not dared to tell him who he was. This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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... their ... |
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Upon the forehead of a jutting crag |
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... youngest child, |
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Which ... |
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... who ere his thirteenth year |
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... green ... |
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... at length, ... |
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... traffic in ... |
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... which he liv'd there, ... |
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... of one whom he so dearly lov'd, |
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Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside, |
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... and he had hopes |
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... and hope was his |
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As up the vale he came that afternoon, |
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... the ... |
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... he thought that he perceiv'd |
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And the eternal hills, ... |
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And the everlasting hills, ... |
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He scann'd him ... |
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... cheeks, ... |
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Why, Sir, ... |
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Companions for each other: ten years back, |
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Why we have store of them! ... |
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Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state |
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... winter's evening, |
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For five ... |
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... still preserv'd |
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... in ... |
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... these ... |
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... For |
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The only Kinsman near them, and though he |
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Was ... |
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... when elder boys perhaps |
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... I've ... |
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The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw, |
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... these .... |
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Where foot could come, to one or both of them |
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... and I'd wager twenty pounds, |
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.. and I'd wager house and field |
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... that end, ... |
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... this ... |
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And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old; |
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'Tis now twelve years ... |
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... was ... |
1800 |
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... a very festival, |
1800 |
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... the Lad |
1800 |
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If ever the day came when he was rich, |
1800 |
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... liv'd ... |
1800 |
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With two or three companions whom it chanc'd |
1800 |
... it almost looks |
1800 |
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... it is called, The Pillar. |
1800 |
... but they did not find him |
1802 |
Which at that time ... |
1802 |
Upon the Summit—at the appointed place. |
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... they found that he was gone. |
1820 |
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Some went, and some towards the Lake; ... |
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Some hastened, some towards the Lake: ... |
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... Lad ... |
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... said ... |
1800 |
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... Lad ... |
1800 |
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Upon the grass, ... |
1800 |
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... he perish'd: at the time, |
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must have held |
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... for midway in the cliff |
1800 |
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... but he felt |
1800 |
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Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated |
1800 |
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... fervent |
1800 |
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Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, |
1800 |
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... travell'd on ... |
1800 |
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That night, address'd a letter to the Priest |
1800 |
"Friday, 6th August (1800).—In the morning I copied The Brothers."Ed.
'the gleam,It is the only poem of his referring to Ennerdale; but perhaps the chief association with that dale, to those who visit it after becoming acquainted with this poem, will be the fact that the brothers Ewbank were supposed to have spent their youth under the shadow of the Pillar, and Leonard to have had this conversation, on his return from sea, with the venerable priest of Ennerdale. The district is described with all that local accuracy which Wordsworth invariably showed in idealization. The height whence James Ewbank is supposed to have fallen is not the Pillar-Rock—a crag somewhat difficult to ascend, except by practised climbers, and which has only been accessible since mountaineering became an art and a passion to Englishmen. But, if we suppose the conversation with the priest of Ennerdale to have taken place at the Bridge, below the Lake—as that is the only place where there is both a hamlet and "a churchyard"—the "precipice" will refer to the Pillar "Mountain." Both are alluded to in the poem. The lines,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream.'
You see yon precipice;—it wears the shapeare definite enough. The great mass of the Pillar Mountain is first referred to, and then the Rock which is a characteristic spur, halfway up the mountain on its northern side. The "aëry summit crowned with heath," however, on which "the loiterer" "lay stretched at ease," could neither be the top of this "rock" nor the summit of the "mountain": not the former, because there is no heath on it, and it would be impossible for a weary man, loitering behind his companions, to ascend it to rest; not the latter, because no one resting on the summit of the mountain could be "not unnoticed by his comrades," and they would not pass that way over the top of the mountain "on their return" to Ennerdale. This is an instance, therefore, in which precise localization is impossible. Probably Wordsworth did not know either that the pillar "rock" was bare on the summit, or that it had never been ascended in 1800; and he idealised it to suit his imaginative purpose. In connection with this poem, a remark he made to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge may be recalled.
Of a vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar,
"He said there was some foundation in fact, however slight, for every poem he had written of a narrative kind; ... The Brothers was founded on a young shepherd, in his sleep, having fallen down a crag, his staff remaining suspended mid-way."(See the Memoirs of Wordsworth, by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.) It should be added that the character of Leonard Ewbank was drawn in large part from that of the poet's brother John—Ed.
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I | Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies, wrought! Seven Sisters that together dwell; But he, bold Knight as ever fought, Their Father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! |
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II | Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a Rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the Leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
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III | Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The Seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to right— Of your fair household, Father-knight, Methinks you take small heed! Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
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IV | Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful Rovers follow. Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
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V | Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather; They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There never foot had been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. |
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VI | The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little Islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say, those sisters fair, By faeries all are buried there, And there together sleep. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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I could ... |
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1807 | |
The Irish Rovers ... |
MS. |
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The sisters ran like mountain sheep |
MS. |
And in together did they leap |
MS. |
"William read us The Seven Sisters."It is uncertain whether this refers to his own poem or not, but I incline to think it does.—Ed.
"This poem, in the groundwork of the story, is from the German of Frederica Brun."Ed.
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There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a counsellor's bag; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb: And there they built up, without mortar or lime, A Man on the peak of the crag. They built him of stones gathered up as they lay: They built him and christened him all in one day, An urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the north, Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. And what did these school-boys?—The very next day They went and they built up another. —Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks, Spirits busy to do and undo: At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag; Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag; And I'll build up a giant with you. Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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From the meadows of Armath, on Thirlmere's wild shore, |
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... were once tempted to climb; |
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In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks, |
1800 |
This last stanza was omitted from the editions of 1805 and 1815. It was restored in 1820. |
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I marvel how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease. There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs; Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. This picture from nature may seem to depart, Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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5 10 15 20 |
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For the weight and the levity seen in his face: |
1800 |
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... and ... |
1800 |
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What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art, |
1800 |
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If thou in the dear love of some one Friend Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts Will sometimes in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, After long exercise in social cares And offices humane, intent to adore The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things, In utter solitude.—But he had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he would pray that both (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he:—as our chronicles report, Though here the Hermit numbered his last day Far from St. Cuthbert his belovèd Friend, Those holy Men both died in the same hour. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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5 10 15 20 25 |
If thou in the dear love of some one friend |
1800 |
He dwelt in solitude.—But he had leftAnd the following variants occur in 1802 and 1805:
A Fellow-labourer, whom ...
Make the heart sick, ....The text of 1815, which is continued in 1820, begins thus:
... he would pray that both
This Island, guarded from profane approach |
1815 and 1820 |
Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth |
1827 |
"The remains of his hermitage are still visible, being built of stone and mortar, and formed into two apartments, one of which, about twenty feet long and sixteen feet wide, seems to have been his chapel; the other, of less dimensions, his cell. Near these ruins the late Sir Wilfred Lawson (to whose representative the island at present belongs) erected some years ago a small octagonal cottage, which, being built of unhewn stone, and artificially mossed over, has a venerable appearance."(See Guide to the Lakes, by John Robinson, D.D., 1819). This cottage has now disappeared. The following version of this "Inscription" occurs in a letter from Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, dated 26th November 1811:
This Island, guarded from profane approachIn a previous letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated 16th November 1811:
By mountains high and waters widely spread,
Gave to St. Herbert a benign retreat.
Upon a staff supported, and his Brow
White with the peaceful diadem of age.
Hither he came—a self-secluded Man,
...
Behold that shapeless Heap of stones and earth!
"Tis reverenced as a Vestige of the Abode
...
... —And when within his Cell
Alone he knelt before the crucifix,
By mountains high and waters widely spread,Ed.
Is that Seclusion which St. Herbert chose;
...
Hither he came in life's austere decline:
And, Stranger! this blank Heap of stones and earth
Is reverenced ...
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Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To closer fellowship with ideal grace. But take it in good part:—alas! the poor Vitruvius of our village had no help From the great City; never, upon leaves Of red Morocco folio saw displayed, In long succession, pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn—the rustic Lodge Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts, Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep— Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy! Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
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... and approach'd |
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... alas! the poor |
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... on the leaves |
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The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts |
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... yet unborn, the rustic Box, |
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It is a homely pile, ... |
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He through that door-place looks ... |
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If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story—unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;—not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; hills, which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts The certainty of honourable gain; Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days had not been passed in singleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old— Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn—and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which, going by from year to year, had found, And left the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while far into the night The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighbourhood, And was a public symbol of the life That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. Thus living on through such a length of years, The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear— Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all— Than that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the Young-one in his sight, when he Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched Under the large old oak, that near his door Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. There, while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old; Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help; And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his Father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his Father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the Shepherd loved before Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came Feelings and emanations—things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up: And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means; But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him; and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. "When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, Another kinsman—he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go, And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He was a parish-boy—at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; And, with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and monies to the poor, And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this scheme These two days, has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. —We have enough—I wish indeed that I Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope. Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: —If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The Housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work: for, when she lay By Michael's side, she through the last two nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: We have no other Child but thee to lose, None to remember—do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father he will die." The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; To which, requests were added, that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old Man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, And thus the old Man spake to him:—"My Son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should touch On things thou canst not know of.—After thou First cam'st into the world—as oft befals To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side First uttering, without words, a natural tune; While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou knowest, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I see That these are things of which I need not speak. —Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father: and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their Forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. —It looks as if it never could endure Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go," At this the old Man paused; Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: "This was a work for us; and now, my Son, It is a work for me. But, lay one stone— Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part; I will do mine.—I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee: Up to the heights, and in among the storms, Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone, Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes— I knew that thou could'st never have a wish To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me Only by links of love: when thou art gone, What will be left to us!—But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well— When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here: a covenant 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave." The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, And, as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart He pressed his Son, he kissèd him and wept; And to the house together they returned. —Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell:—with morrow's dawn the Boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight. A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and, at length, He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart: I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the old Man—and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone. There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. The length of full seven years, from time to time, He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her Husband: at her death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The Cottage which was named the Evening Star Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. Note Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 / 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 |
B C D E F G |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 255 260 265 270 275 280 285 290 295 300 305 310 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 355 360 365 370 375 380 385 390 395 400 405 410 415 420 425 430 435 440 445 450 455 460 465 470 475 480 485 |
1827 | |
... beside ... |
1800 |
1827 | |
No habitation there is seen; but such |
1800 |
1827 | |
There is ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
And to that place a story appertains, |
1800 |
1827 | |
... It was the first, |
1800 |
1827 | |
... he had learn'd ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
... the hills, which he so oft |
1800 |
1832 | |
... linking to such acts, |
1800 |
... gain ... |
1805 |
1815 | |
He had not passed his days in singleness. |
1800 |
1836 | |
... their ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
... their ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
... their ... |
1800 |
1827 | |
Which ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
Did with a huge projection overbrow |
1800 |
1827 | |
... was in his ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
... while late ... |
1800 |
Not with a waste of words, but for the sake |
1815 | |
The ... |
1800 |
1832 | |
The ... |
1800 |
1827 | |
... yet more dear— |
1800 |
1836 | |
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all, |
1800 |
1827 | |
Or ... |
1800 |
This line was first printed in the edition of 1836. |
From such, and other causes, to the thoughts |
Only in the editions of 1800 to 1820. |
1827 | |
For dalliance ... |
1800 |
1836 | |
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. |
1800 |
1836 | |
... when he |
1800 |
1815 | |
While this good household thus were living on |
1800 |
While in the fashion which I have described |
1800 (2nd issue). |
1836 | |
As soon as he had gather'd so much strength |
1800 |
1827 | |
... itself |
1800 |
1836 | |
May come again to us ... |
1800 |
Italics were first used in 1827. |
1836 | |
... for the two last nights |
1800 |
... through the |
1815 |
1815 | |
The Lad ... |
1800 |
1820 | |
Next morning ... |
1800 |
1815 | |
... which close to the brook side |
1800 |
1836 | |
... should speak |
1800 |
1827 | |
... as it befalls |
1800 |
1836 | |
When ... |
1800 |
1815 | |
... in ... |
1800 |
1827 | |
... from sixty years. |
1800 |
I for the purpose brought thee to this place. |
1827 | |
... stout; ... |
1800 |
1802 | |
... should evil men |
1800 |
This line was added in the edition of 1815. |
1815 | |
Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy |
1800 |
1820 | |
Would break the heart:—Old Michael found it so. |
1800 |
1836 | |
... look'd up upon the sun, |
1800 |
... towards the sun, |
1832 |
1836 | |
Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, |
1800 |
"on the blank page facing the announcement, written in Wordsworth's handwriting, the following lines: 'Ed.Though it be in th' humblest rank of life,
And in the lowest region of our speech,
Yet is it in that kind as best accords
With rural passion.'"
'Though in their occupations they would passEd.
Whole hours with but small interchange of speech,
Yet were there times in which they did not want
Discourse both wise and prudent, shrewd remarks
Of daily providence, clothed in images
Lively and beautiful, in rural forms
That made their conversation fresh and fair
As is a landscape;—And the shepherd oft
Would draw out of his heart the obscurities
And admirations that were there, of God
And of His works, or, yielding to the bent
Of his peculiar humour, would let loose
The tongue and give it the wind's freedom,—then
Discoursing on remote imaginations, story,
Conceits, devices, day-dreams, thoughts and schemes,
The fancies of a solitary man.'
"Hugil, a chapelry six and a quarter miles from Kendal. The chapel, rebuilt in 1743 by Robert Bateman, stands in the village of Ings, which is in this chapelry. The free school was endowed with land in 1650 by Roland Wilson, producing at present £12 per annum. The average number of boys is twenty-five. This endowment was augmented by £8 per annum by Robert Bateman, who gave £1000 for purchasing an estate, and erected eight alms-houses for as many poor families, besides a donation of £12 per annum to the curate. This worthy benefactor was born here, and from a state of indigence succeeded in amassing considerable wealth by mercantile pursuits. He is stated to have been poisoned, in the straits of Gibraltar, on his voyage from Leghorn, with a valuable cargo, by the captain of the vessel,"(See The Topographical Dictionary of England, by Samuel Lewis, vol. ii. p. 1831.)—Ed.
'had learned the meaning of all winds,and where he
Of blasts of every tone,'
'had been alone,By so doing he will be better able to realize the spirit of the poem, than by trying to identify the site either of the "unfinished sheep-fold," or of the house named the "Evening Star." What Wordsworth said to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge in reference to The Brothers has been quoted in the note to that poem, p. 203. On the same occasion he remarked, in reference to Michael:—
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.'
"Michael was founded on the son of an old couple having become dissolute, and run away from his parents; and on an old shepherd having been seven years in building up a sheep-fold in a solitary valley."(Memoirs of Wordsworth, by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.)
Oct. 11 [1800.] "We walked up Green-head ghyll in search of a sheepfold.... The sheepfold is falling away. It is built nearly in the form of a heart unequally divided."It is impossible to say with certainty that the entry under Dec. 9 refers to Michael, but if it does, it is evident that Wordsworth wrought continuously at this poem for nearly two months.
13. "William composing in the evening."
15. "W. composed a little." ... "W. again composed at the sheepfold after dinner."
18. "W. worked all the morning at the sheepfold, but in vain. He lay down till 7 o'clock, but did not sleep."
19. "William got to work."
20. "W. worked in the morning at the sheepfold."
21. "W. had been unsuccessful in the morning at the sheepfold."
22. "W. composed, without much success, at the sheepfold."
23. "W. was not successful in composition in the evening."
24. "W. was only partly successful in composition."
26. "W. composed a good deal all the morning."
28. "W. could not compose much; fatigued himself with altering."
30. "W. worked at his poem all the morning."
Nov. 10. "W. at the sheepfold."
12. "W. has been working at the sheepfold."
Dec. 9. "W. finished his poem to-day."
"In writing it" (Michael), "I had your character often before my eyes; and sometimes thought that I was delineating such a man as you yourself would have been, under the same circumstances."The following is part of a letter written by Wordsworth to Charles James Fox in 1802, and sent with a copy of "Lyrical Ballads":
"In the two poems, The Brothers and Michael, I have attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist amongst a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of England. They are small independent proprietors of land, here called 'statesmen,' men of respectable education, who daily labour on their own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population; if these men are placed above poverty. But, if they are proprietors of small estates which have descended to them from their ancestors, the power which these affections will acquire amongst such men, is inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing hired labourers, farmers, and the manufacturing poor. Their little tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rallying point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet on which they are written, which makes them objects of memory in a thousand instances, when they would otherwise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to the nature of social man, from which supplies of affection as pure as his heart was intended for, are daily drawn. This class of men is rapidly disappearing.... The two poems that I have mentioned were written with a view to show that men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply. Pectus enim est quod disertos facit, et vis mentis. Ideoque imperitis quoque, si modo sint aliquo affectu concitati, verba non desunt. The poems are faithful copies from nature; and I hope whatever effect they may have upon you, you will at least be able to perceive that they may excite profitable sympathies in many kind and good hearts; and may in some small degree enlarge our feelings of reverence for our species, and our knowledge of human nature, by showing that our best qualities are possessed by men whom we are too apt to consider, not with reference to the points in which they resemble us, but to those in which they manifestly differ from us."A number of fragments, originally meant to be parts of Michael,—or at least written with such a possibility in view,— will be found in the Appendix to the eighth volume of this edition.—Ed.
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents
1800 | ← | end of Volume II: Poems on the Naming of Places | → | 1801 |
Main Contents |