"Dec. 21.—Wm. sate beside me, and wrote The Pedlar.Ed.
22nd.—W. composed a few lines of The Pedlar.
23rd.— William worked at The Ruined Cottage" (this was the name of the first part of 'The Excursion', in which The Pedlar was included), "and made himself very ill," etc.
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Behold, within the leafy shade, Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. I started—seeming to espy The home and sheltered bed, The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by My Father's house, in wet or dry My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. She looked at it and seemed to fear it; Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it: Such heart was in her, being then A little Prattler among men. The Blessing of my later years Was with me when a boy: She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love, and thought, and joy. Note Contents 1801 Main Contents |
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Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there! |
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She look'd at it as if she fear'd it; |
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Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled: His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified. Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds: What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds His double front among Atlantic clouds, And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. Contents 1801 Main Contents |
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illustrious ... |
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fairer ... |
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His double-fronted head in higher clouds, |
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... among Atlantic clouds, |
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'Or where on Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood.Ed.
Doth his broad forehead like two horns divide,
And the sweet waves of sounding Castaly
With liquid foot doth glide down easily.'
"I am glad that you enter so warmly into the Chaucerian project, and that Mr. L. Hunt is disposed to give his valuable aid to it. For myself, I cannot do more than I offered, to place at your disposal The Prioress' Tale already published, The Cuckoo and the Nightingale, The Manciple's Tale, and I rather think (but I cannot just now find it) a small portion of the Troilus and Cressida. You ask my opinion about that poem. Speaking from a recollection only, of many years past, I should say it would be found too long and probably tedious. The Knight's Tale is also very long; but, though Dryden has executed it, in his own way observe, with great spirit and harmony, he has suffered so much of the simplicity, and with that of the beauty and occasional pathos of the original to escape, that I should be pleased to hear that a new version was to be attempted upon my principle by some competent person. It would delight me to read every part of Chaucer over again—for I reverence and admire him above measure—with a view to your work; but my eyes will not permit me to do so. Who will undertake the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales? For your publication that is indispensable, and I fear it will prove very difficult. It is written, as you know, in the couplet measure; and therefore I have nothing to say upon its metre, but in respect to the poems in stanza, neither in The Prioress' Tale nor in The Cuckoo and Nightingale have I kept to the rule of the original as to the form, and number, and position of the rhymes; thinking it enough if I kept the same number of lines in each stanza; and this is, I think, all that is necessary, and all that can be done without sacrificing the substance of sense too often to the mere form of sound."In a subsequent letter to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia, dated "Rydal Mount, January 13th, 1841," Wordsworth said:
"So great is my admiration of Chaucer's genius, and so profound my reverence for him as an instrument in the hands of Providence, for spreading the light of literature through his native land, that notwithstanding the defects and faults in this publication" (referring, I presume, to the volume, The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised), "I am glad of it, as a means of making many acquainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of everything about him but his name."Ed.
"Call up him who left half toldIn the following Piece I have allowed myself no farther deviations from the original than were necessary for the fluent reading, and instant understanding, of the Author: so much however is the language altered since Chaucer's time, especially in pronunciation, that much was to be removed, and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions, such as also and alway, from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject.—W. W. (1820).
The story of Cambuscan bold."B
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I | "O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously," (quoth she) "Thy name in this large world is spread abroad! For not alone by men of dignity Thy worship is performed and precious laud; But by the mouths of children, gracious God! Thy goodness is set forth; they when they lie Upon the breast thy name do glorify. |
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II | "Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may, Jesu! of thee, and the white Lily-flower Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for aye, To tell a story I will use my power; Not that I may increase her honour's dower, For she herself is honour, and the root Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot. |
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III | "O Mother Maid! O Maid and Mother free! O bush unburnt! burning in Moses' sight! That down didst ravish from the Deity, Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might, Conceived was the Father's sapience, Help me to tell it in thy reverence! |
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IV | "Lady! thy goodness, thy magnificence, Thy virtue, and thy great humility, Surpass all science and all utterance; For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee Thou goest before in thy benignity, The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer, To be our guide unto thy Son so dear. |
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V | "My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen! To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, That I the weight of it may not sustain; But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, That laboureth his language to express, Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray, Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say. |
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VI | "There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might be, Assigned to them and given them for their own By a great Lord, for gain and usury, Hateful to Christ and to his company; And through this street who list might ride and wend; Free was it, and unbarred at either end. |
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VII | "A little school of Christian people stood Down at the farther end, in which there were A nest of children come of Christian blood, That learnèd in that school from year to year Such sort of doctrine as men used there, That is to say, to sing and read also, As little children in their childhood do. |
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VIII | "Among these children was a Widow's son, A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, Who day by day unto this school hath gone, And eke, when he the image did behold Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told, This Child was wont to kneel adown and say Ave Marie, as he goeth by the way. |
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IX | "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, To worship aye, and he forgat it not; For simple infant hath a ready ear. Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence, Calling to mind this matter when I may, Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, For he so young to Christ did reverence. |
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X | "This little Child, while in the school he sate His Primer conning with an earnest cheer, The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat The Alma Redemptoris did he hear; And as he durst he drew him near and near, And hearkened to the words and to the note, Till the first verse he learned it all by rote. |
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XI | "This Latin knew he nothing what it said, For he too tender was of age to know; But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed That he the meaning of this song would show, And unto him declare why men sing so; This oftentimes, that he might be at ease, This child did him beseech on his bare knees. |
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XII | "His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, Answered him thus:—'This song, I have heard say, Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free; Her to salute, and also her to pray To be our help upon our dying day: If there is more in this, I know it not: Song do I learn,—small grammar I have got.' |
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XIII | "'And is this song fashioned in reverence Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent; 'Now, certès, I will use my diligence To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; Although I for my Primer shall be shent, And shall be beaten three times in an hour, Our Lady I will praise with all my power.' |
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XIV | "His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought, As they went homeward taught him privily And then he sang it well and fearlessly, From word to word according to the note: Twice in a day it passèd through his throat; Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he went, On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent. |
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XV | "Through all the Jewry (this before said I) This little Child, as he came to and fro, Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O Alma Redemptoris! high and low: The sweetness of Christ's Mother piercèd so His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, He cannot stop his singing by the way. |
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XVI | "The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled—'O woe, O Hebrew people!' said he in his wrath, 'Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so? That such a Boy where'er he lists shall go In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws, Which is against the reverence of our laws!' |
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XVII | "From that day forward have the Jews conspired Out of the world this Innocent to chase; And to this end a Homicide they hired, That in an alley had a privy place, And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace, This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. |
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XVIII | "I say that him into a pit they threw, A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale; O cursèd folk! away, ye Herods new! What may your ill intentions you avail? Murder will out; certès it will not fail; Know, that the honour of high God may spread, The blood cries out on your accursèd deed. |
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XIX | "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity! Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne, Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, "Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John, In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go Before the Lamb singing continually, That never fleshly woman they did know. |
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XX | "Now this poor widow waiteth all that night After her little Child, and he came not; For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light, With face all pale with dread and busy thought, She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought, Until thus far she learned, that he had been In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen. |
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XXI | "With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed She goeth, as she were half out of her mind, To every place wherein she hath supposed By likelihood her little Son to find; And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, And him among the accursèd Jews she sought. |
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XXII | "She asketh, and she piteously doth pray To every Jew that dwelleth in that place To tell her if her child had passed that way; They all said—Nay; but Jesu of his grace Gave to her thought, that in a little space She for her Son in that same spot did cry Where he was cast into a pit hard by. |
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XXIII | "O thou great God that dost perform thy laud By mouths of Innocents, lo! here thy might; This gem of chastity, this emerald, And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright, There, where with mangled throat he lay upright, The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing So loud, that with his voice the place did ring. |
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XXIV | "The Christian folk that through the Jewry went Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; And hastily they for the Provost sent; Immediately he came, not tarrying, And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King, And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind: Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind. |
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XXV | "This Child with piteous lamentation then Was taken up, singing his song alwày; And with procession great and pomp of men To the next Abbey him they bare away; His Mother swooning by the body lay: And scarcely could the people that were near Remove this second Rachel from the bier. |
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XXVI | "Torment and shameful death to every one This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare That of this murder wist, and that anon: Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare; Who will do evil, evil shall he bear; Them therefore with wild horses did he draw, And after that he hung them by the law. |
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XXVII | "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie Before the altar while the Mass doth last: The Abbot with his convent's company Then sped themselves to bury him full fast; And, when they holy water on him cast, Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water; And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater! |
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XXVIII | "This Abbot, for he was a holy man, As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, In supplication to the Child began Thus saying, 'O dear Child! I summon thee In virtue of the holy Trinity Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn, Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.' |
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XXIX | "'My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' Said this young Child, 'and by the law of kind I should have died, yea many hours ago; But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find, Will that his glory last, and be in mind; And, for the worship of his Mother dear, Yet may I sing, O Alma! loud and clear. |
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XXX | "'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet, After my knowledge I have loved alwày; And in the hour when I my death did meet To me she came, and thus to me did say, "Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," As ye have heard; and soon as I had sung Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue. |
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XXXI | "'Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, In honour of that blissful Maiden free, Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain; And after that thus said she unto me; "My little Child, then will I come for thee Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take: Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!"' |
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XXXII | "This holy Monk, this Abbot—him mean I, Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain; And he gave up the ghost full peacefully; And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen, His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain; And on his face he dropped upon the ground, And still he lay as if he had been bound. |
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XXXIII | "Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay, Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear; And after that they rose, and took their way, And lifted up this Martyr from the bier, And in a tomb of precious marble clear Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet.— Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet! |
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XXXIV | "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort laid low By cursèd Jews—thing well and widely known, For it was done a little while ago— Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, In mercy would his mercy multiply On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary!" Contents 1801 Main Contents |
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... list ... |
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... by the Bier ... |
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This Abbot who had been a holy man And was, as all Monks are, or ought to be,a |
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For not long since was dealt the cruel blow, |
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"Friday, 4th December 1801.... William translating The Prioress' Tale."(Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal).—Ed.
"Saturday, 5th. William finished The Prioress' Tale, and after tea, Mary and he wrote it out"
"Chaucer's text is:(Professor Edward Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'Thus hath this widow her litel child i-taught'For sely child wil alway soone leere,' i.e. for a happy child will always learn soon. Wordsworth renders:
Our blissful lady, Criste's moder deere,
To worschip ay, and he forgat it nought;
For sely child wil alway soone leere.''For simple infant hath a ready ear,'and adds:'Sweet is the holiness of youth,'extending the stanza to receive this addition from seven to eight lines, with an altered rhyme-system."
'This litel child his litel book lernyngeEd.
As he sat in the schole in his primere.'
'And in a tombe of marble stoones clereEd.
Enclosed they this litel body swete.'
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I | The God of Love—ah, benedicite! How mighty and how great a Lord is he! For he of low hearts can make high, of high He can make low, and unto death bring nigh; And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. |
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II | Within a little time, as hath been found, He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound: Them who are whole in body and in mind, He can make sick,—bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound, or have unbound. |
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III | To tell his might my wit may not suffice; Foolish men he can make them out of wise;— For he may do all that he will devise; Loose livers he can make abate their vice, And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. |
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IV | In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; Against him dare not any wight say nay; To humble or afflict whome'er he will, To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. |
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V | For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring—whether To joy, or be it to some mourning; never At other time, methinks, in like degree. |
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VI | For now when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng, This unto their remembrance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing; And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. |
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VII | And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. |
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VIII | In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,— How hard, alas! to bear, I only know. |
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IX | Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May that I have little sleep; And also 'tis not likely unto me, That any living heart should sleepy be In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. |
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X | But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which Lovers heed; How among them it was a common tale, That it was good to hear the Nightingale, Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be utterèd. |
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XI | And then I thought anon as it was day, I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, For yet had I heard none, of all that year, And it was then the third night of the May. |
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XII | And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide, But straightway to a wood that was hard by, Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, And held the pathway down by a brook-side; |
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XIII | Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen. |
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XIV | There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honour May with all their powers. |
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XV | Well did they know that service all by rote, And there was many and many a lovely note, Some, singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat. |
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XVI | They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay, Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; And ever two and two together were, The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. |
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XVII | Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man's ear a passage won. |
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XVIII | And for delight, but how I never wot, I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly; And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. |
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XIX | And that was right upon a tree fast by, And who was then ill satisfied but I? Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry. |
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XX | And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing through all the green wood wide. |
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XXI | Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer, Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, And she hath been before thee with her song; Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong. |
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XXII | But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent, And of their speech, and all that they would say. |
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XXIII | The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:— Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. |
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XXIV | What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now? It seems to me I sing as well as thou; For mine's a song that is both true and plain,— Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. |
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XXV | All men may understanding have of me, But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:— Thou say'st, Osee, Osee, then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be? |
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XXVI | Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is? Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain, Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. |
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XXVII | And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead; For who is both the God of Love to obey, Is only fit to die, I dare well say, And for that cause Osee I cry; take heed! |
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XXVIII | Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, That all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, For mine intent it neither is to die, Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. |
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XXIX | For lovers of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have and least do thrive; Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share; What need is there against the truth to strive? |
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XXX | What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood; For in this world no service is so good To every wight that gentle is of kind. |
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XXXI | For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; All gentiless and honour thence come forth; Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure, And full-assured trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth; |
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XXXII | And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company, And dread of shame that will not do amiss; For he that faithfully Love's servant is, Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. |
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XXXIII | And that the very truth it is which I Now say—in such belief I'll live and die; And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, If with that counsel I do e'er comply. |
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XXXIV | Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis; And Love in old folk a great dotage is; Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair. |
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XXXV | For thereof come all contraries to gladness; Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. |
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XXXVI | Loving is aye an office of despair, And one thing is therein which is not fair; For whoso gets of love a little bliss, Unless it alway stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man's hair. |
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XXXVII | And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh, For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are; Then shall thou raise a clamour as do I. |
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XXXVIII | Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen! The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold; For many a one hath virtues manifold, Who had been nought, if Love had never been. |
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XXXIX | For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth; And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, In loyalty, and worshipful desire, And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. |
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XL | Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still, For Love no reason hath but his own will;— For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, He lets them perish through that grievous ill. |
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XLI | With such a master would I never be; For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; Within this court full seldom Truth avails, So diverse in his wilfulness is he. |
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XLII | Then of the Nightingale did I take note, How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, And said, Alas! that ever I was born, Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,— And with that word, she into tears burst out. |
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XLIII | Alas, alas! my very heart will break, Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak Of Love, and of his holy services; Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. |
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XLIV | And so methought I started up anon, And to the brook I ran and got a stone, Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, And he for dread did fly away full fast; And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. |
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XLV | And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, Kept crying, "Farewell!—farewell, Popinjay!" As if in scornful mockery of me; And on I hunted him from tree to tree, Till he was far, all out of sight, away. |
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XLVI | Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, That thou wert near to rescue me; and now Unto the God of Love I make a vow, That all this May I will thy songstress be. |
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XLVII | Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, By this mishap no longer be dismayed, Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me; Yet if I live it shall amended be, When next May comes, if I am not afraid. |
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XLVIII | And one thing will I counsel thee also, The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw; All that she said is an outrageous lie. Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. |
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XLIX | Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine; This May-time, every day before thou dine, Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, Although for pain thou may'st be like to die, Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. |
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L | And mind always that thou be good and true, And I will sing one song, of many new, For love of thee, as loud as I may cry; And then did she begin this song full high, "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." |
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LI | And soon as she had sung it to the end, Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend; And, God of Love, that can right well and may, Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, As ever he to Lover yet did send. |
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LII | Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; I pray to God with her always to be, And joy of love to send her evermore; And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, For there is not so false a bird as she. |
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LIII | Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, To all the Birds that lodged within that dale, And gathered each and all into one place; And them besought to hear her doleful case, And thus it was that she began her tale. |
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LIV | The Cuckoo—'tis not well that I should hide How she and I did each the other chide, And without ceasing, since it was daylight; And now I pray you all to do me right Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide. |
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LV | Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave; This matter asketh counsel good as grave, For birds we are—all here together brought; And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; And therefore we a Parliament will have. |
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LVI | And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, And other Peers whose names are on record; A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, And judgment there be given; or that intent Failing, we finally shall make accord. |
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LVII | And all this shall be done, without a nay, The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, Under a maple that is well beseen, Before the chamber-window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. |
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LVIII | She thankèd them; and then her leave she took, And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; And there she sate and sung—upon that tree— "For term of life Love shall have hold of me"— So loudly, that I with that song awoke. |
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Unlearnèd Book and rude, as well I know, For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, Who did on thee the hardiness bestow To appear before my Lady? but a sense Thou surely hast of her benevolence, Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; For of all good she is the best alive. |
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Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness, To show to her some pleasant meanings writ In winning words, since through her gentiless, Thee she accepts as for her service fit! Oh! it repents me I have neither wit Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; For of all good she is the best alive. |
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Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, Though I be far from her I reverence, To think upon my truth and stedfastness, And to abridge my sorrow's violence, Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, She of her liking proof to me would give; For of all good she is the best alive. |
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L'Envoy | Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness! Luna by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse, Write, and allay, by your beneficence, My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give! Since of all good, you are the best alive. Explicet Contents 1801 Main Contents |
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The God of Love—ah, benedicite! |
W. W., Nov. 27, 1819. |
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... have heard ... |
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... sorrow's ... |
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... gentleness ... |
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... gentleness, ... |
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"Sunday, 6th December 1801. A very fine beautiful sun-shiny morning. William worked a while at Chaucer; then he set forward to walk into Easdale.... In the afternoon I read Chaucer aloud."The question as to whether The Cuckoo and the Nightingale was written by Chaucer or not, may be solved either way without affecting the literary value of Wordsworth's "modernisation" of it.—Ed.
"Monday, 7th.... William at work with Chaucer, The God of Love...."
"8th November ... William worked at The Cuckoo and the Nightingale till he was tired."
"Wednesday, December 9th. I read Palemon and Arcite, William writing out his alterations of Chaucer's Cuckoo and Nightingale."
"In The Cuckoo and Nightingale, a poem of the third of May—a date corresponding to the mid-May, the very heart of May according to our modern reckoning—the poet after a wakeful night rises, and goes forth at dawn, and comes to a 'laund' or plain 'of white and green.'(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society. No. III.)—Ed.'So feire oon had I nevere in bene,Nothing seen but the short green grass and the white daisies,—grass and daisies being of equal height. Unfortunately in Tyrwhitt's text the description is nonsensical,
The grounde was grene, y poudred with daysé,
The floures and the gras ilike al hie,
Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.''The flowres and the greves like hie.'The daisy flowers are as high as the groves! Wordsworth retained the groves, but refused to make daisies of equal height with them.'Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen.'"
"In Chaucer's poem, after 'the cuckoo, bird unholy,' has said his evil say, the Nightingale breaks forth 'so lustily,'(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'That with her clere voys she made ryngeWordsworth has taken a poet's licence with these lines:
Thro out alle the grene wode wide,''I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,This 'loud rioting' is Wordsworth's, not Chaucer's; and it belongs, as it were, to that other passage of his:
That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
Echoing through all the green wood wide.''O Nightingale, thou surely art
A creature of a fiery heart,
These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine.'"
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Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida; For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least! And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the Town to go, And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went; But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two; For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold, How shut was every window of the place, Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold; For which, with changèd, pale, and deadly face, Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, That no wight his continuance espied. Then said he thus,—O Palace desolate! O house of houses, once so richly dight! O Palace empty and disconsolate! Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light; O Palace whilom day that now art night, Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. O, of all houses once the crownèd boast! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; O ring of which the ruby now is lost, O cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss: Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout; Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out! Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, With changed face, and piteous to behold; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, So piteously, and with so dead a hue, That every wight might on his sorrow rue. Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And everything to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise. And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully; And yonder once she unto me 'gan say— Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray! And there so graciously did me behold, That hers unto the death my heart I hold. And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, So womanly, with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, That in my soul methinks I yet do hear The blissful sound; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace. O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried, When I the process have in memory, How thou hast wearied me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history; What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief; Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief; And live and die I will in thy belief; For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon. Constrain her heart as quickly to return, As thou dost mine with longing her to see, Then know I well that she would not sojourn. Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, As Juno was unto the Theban blood, From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude. And after this he to the gate did go Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas! From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. O would the blissful God now for his joy, I might her see again coming to Troy! And up to yonder hill was I her guide; Alas, and there I took of her my leave; Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;— And hither home I came when it was eve; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. And of himself did he imagine oft, That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness? All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. Another time he took into his head, That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die: And thus a day or two drove wearily; As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread. For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might; And made a fitting song, of words but few, Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light; And when he was removed from all men's sight, With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear, That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. O star, of which I lost have all the light, With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death with wind I steer and sail; For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, My ship and me Charybdis will devour. As soon as he this song had thus sung through, He fell again into his sorrows old; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; And all his trouble to the moon he told, And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew, I shall be glad if all the world be true. Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, That cause is of my torment and my sorrow; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, For love of God, run fast above thy sphere; For when thy horns begin once more to spring, Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be—for he thought so; And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, That Phäeton his son is yet alive, His too fond father's car amiss to drive. Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see; And ever thus he to himself would talk:— Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free; Or yonder is it that the tents must be; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it. And certainly this wind, that more and more By moments thus increaseth in my face, Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore; I prove it thus; for in no other space Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain? A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, Till fully past and gone was the ninth night; And ever at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might To comfort him, and make his heart more light; Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow. Contents 1801 Main Contents |
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... burst |
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... whose words ... |
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The "even" of 1841 is evidently a misprint. |
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... too light; |
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"Chaucer's text is:(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'And therwithalle his meynye for to blende'His meynye for to blende,' i. e. to keep his household or his domestics in the dark. But Wordsworth writes:
A cause he fonde in toune for to go.''And therewithal to cover his intent,'possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."
"When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady's house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast, says Wordsworth,(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.'That no wight his continuance espied.'But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed:'And as God wolde he gan so faste ride
That no wight of his countenance espied.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed."'Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.'This is Urry's version, but Chaucer's text is,'Toward my death, with wind in stern I sail,'Troilus' bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a fierce stern-wind."
Poems on the Naming of Places | ← | end of Volume II: 1801 | → | 1802 |
Main Contents |