Chapter XIII: Act V: SCENE--A wood on the edge of the Waste (3)

II My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain:
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live, 15
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20

III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon I yielded to despair;
Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5]
When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25
And oh, how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30

IV My Child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my Babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran, 35
A most strange working [8] did I see;
--As if he strove to be a man,
That he might pull the sledge for me:
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40

V My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send;
Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away;
For I had many things to say. 50

VI I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye [11] travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain
I'll look upon your tents again.
--My fire is dead, and snowy white 55
The water which beside it stood:
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I;
Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60

VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13]
I shall not see another sun;
I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken Child, if I 65
For once could have thee close to me,
With happy heart I then would die,
And my last thought would happy be; [14]
But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
Nor shall I see another day. [15] 70

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1798.

The stars were mingled with my dreams; 1815.

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1820.

In sleep did I behold the skies, 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

I saw the crackling flashes drive; 1798.

I heard, and saw the flashes drive; 1820.]

[Variant 4:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1815.

Too soon despair o'er me prevailed;
Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1845.

My friends, when you ... 1798.

... when ye ... 1815.]

[Variant 8:

1815.

A most strange something .... 1798.]

[Variant 9:

1815.

... a little child. 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1815.

... you ... 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1815.

You ... 1798.]

[Variant 12: This stanza was omitted in the editions 1815 to 1832, but restored in 1836.--Ed.]

[Variant 13:

1836.

My journey will be shortly run, 1798.]

[Variant 14:

1836.

... I then would die,
And my last thoughts ... 1798.

... I then should die, 1800.]

[Variant 15:

1836.

I feel my body die away,
I shall not see another day. 1798.]

* * * * *

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Produced at the same time as 'The Complaint', and for the same
purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by
Alfoxden.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

I In distant countries have I been, [1]
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground, 5
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a Lamb he had. 10

II He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
And with his coat did then essay [2]
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, "My friend, 15
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
--"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock:
He is the last of all my flock. 20

III "When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe [3] I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised, 25
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store. 30

IV "Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine [4] a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock hills they fed; [5] 35
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
--This lusty Lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty. 40

V "Six [6] Children, Sir! had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.
They said, I was a wealthy man; 45
My sheep upon the uplands [7] fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.
'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' 50

VI "I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me--it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me, 55
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away--
For me it was a woeful day. 60

VII "Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopped--
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
'Till thirty were not left alive 65
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;
And I may say, that many a time
I wished they all were gone--
Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past. [8] 70

VIII "To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find, 75
No ease, within doors or without;
And, crazily and wearily
I went my work about;
And oft was moved to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.[9] 80

IX "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time; 85
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away. 90

X "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;-.
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday 95
I had but only one:
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;--
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock." 100

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

... I have been, 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

Then with his coat he made essay 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1832.

... a ewe ... 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

As sweet ... 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1836.

Upon the mountain did they feed; 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1800.

Ten ... 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1836.

... upon the mountain ... 1798.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day. 1798.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day. 1798.

Bent oftentimes to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 1827.]

* * * * *

THE IDIOT BOY

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, 'The cocks did crow to-whoo,
to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,' was the foundation of the
whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole;
but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots. Let me add,
that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost
extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza
was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for,
in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night,
The moon is up,--the sky is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from [1] nobody knows where;
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5
Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

--Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?
And why on horseback have you set 10
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
[2]

Scarcely a soul is out of bed: [3]
Good Betty, put him down again;
His lips with joy they burr at you;
But, Betty! what has he to do 15
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
[4]

But Betty's bent on her intent;
For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 20
As if her very life would fail.

There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
And sorely puzzled are the twain, 25
For what she ails they cannot guess.

And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale;
There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 30
What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her Pony, that is mild and good;
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane, 35
Or bringing faggots from the wood.

And he is all in travelling trim,--
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has on the well-girt saddle set [5]
(The like was never heard of yet) 40
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And he must post without delay
Across the bridge and through the dale, [6]
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town, 45
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

There is no need of boot or spur,
There is no need of whip or wand;
For Johnny has his holly-bough,
And with a _hurly-burly_ now 50
He shakes the green bough in his hand.

And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The Boy, who is her best delight,
Both what to follow, what to shun,
What do, and what to leave undone, 55
How turn to left, and how to right.

And Betty's most especial charge,
Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all,--
Come home again, whate'er befal, 60
My Johnny, do, I pray you do."

To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too;
And then! his words were not a few, 65
Which Betty well could understand.

And now that Johnny is just going,
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
She gently pats the Pony's side,
On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 70
And seems no longer in a hurry.

But when the Pony moved his legs,
Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy!
For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For joy his head and heels are idle, 75
He's idle all for very joy.

And while the Pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left hand you may see
The green bough [7] motionless and dead:
The Moon that shines above his head 80
Is not more still and mute than he.

His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship: 85
Oh! happy, happy, happy John.

And while the Mother, at the door,
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows [8]
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim, 90
How quietly her Johnny goes.

The silence of her Idiot Boy,
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
He's at the guide-post--he turns right;
She watches till he's out of sight, 95
And Betty will not then depart.

Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr.
As loud as any mill, or near it;
Meek as a lamb the Pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 100
And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

Away she hies to Susan Gale:
Her Messenger's in merry tune; [9]
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 105
As [10] on he goes beneath the moon.

His steed and he right well agree;
For of this Pony there's a rumour,
That, should he lose his eyes and ears,
And should he live a thousand years, 110
He never will be out of humour.

But then he is a horse that thinks!
And when he thinks, his pace is slack;
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 115
What he has got upon his back.

So through the moonlight lanes they go,
And far into the moonlight dale,
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town, 120
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And Betty, now at Susan's side,
Is in the middle of her story,
What speedy help her Boy will bring, [11]
With many a most diverting thing, 125
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.

And Betty, still at Susan's side,
By this time is not quite so flurried: [12]
Demure with porringer and plate
She sits, as if in Susan's fate 130
Her life and soul were buried.

But Betty, poor good woman! she,
You plainly in her face may read it,
Could lend out of that moment's store
Five years of happiness or more 135
To any that might need it.

But yet I guess that now and then
With Betty all was not so well;
And to the road she turns her ears,
And thence full many a sound she hears, 140
Which she to Susan will not tell.

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
"As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"
Cries Betty, "he'll be back again;
They'll both be here--'tis almost ten-- 145
Both will be [13] here before eleven."

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
The clock gives warning for eleven;
'Tis on the stroke--"He must be near,"
Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, [14] 150
As sure as there's a moon in heaven."

The clock is on the stroke of twelve,
And Johnny is not yet in sight:
--The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,
But Betty is not quite at ease; 155
And Susan has a dreadful night.

And Betty, half an hour ago,
On Johnny vile reflections cast:
"A little idle sauntering Thing!"
With other names, an endless string; 160
But now that time is gone and past.

And Betty's drooping at the heart,
That happy time all past and gone,
"How can it be he is so late?
The Doctor, he has made him wait; 165
Susan! they'll both be here anon."

And Susan's growing worse and worse,
And Betty's in a sad _quandary_;
And then there's nobody to say
If she must go, or she must stay! 170
--She's in a sad _quandary_.

The clock is on the stroke of one;
But neither Doctor nor his Guide
Appears [15] along the moonlight road;
There's neither horse nor man abroad, 175
And Betty's still at Susan's side.

And Susan now begins to fear [16]
Of sad mischances not a few,
That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;
Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 180
Which they must both for ever rue.

She prefaced half a hint of this
With, "God forbid it should be true!"
At the first word that Susan said
Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 185
"Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.

"I must be gone, I must away:
Consider, Johnny's but half-wise;
Susan, we must take care of him,
If he is hurt in life or limb"-- 190
"Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.

"What can I do?" says Betty, going,
"What can I do to ease your pain?
Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay;
I fear you're in a dreadful way, 195
But I shall soon be back again."

"Nay, Betty, [17] go! good Betty, go!
There's nothing that can ease my pain."
Then off she hies; but with a prayer
That God poor Susan's life would spare, 200
Till she comes back again.

So, through the moonlight lane she goes,
And far into the moonlight dale;
And how she ran, and how she walked,
And all that to herself she talked, 205
Would surely be a tedious tale.

In high and low, above, below,
In great and small, in round and square,
In tree and tower was Johnny seen,
In bush and brake, in black and green; 210
'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

And while she crossed the bridge, there came
A thought with which her heart is sore--[18]
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,
To hunt the moon within the brook, [19] 215
And never will be heard of more.

Now is she high [20] upon the down,
Alone amid a prospect wide;
There's neither Johnny nor his Horse
Among the fern or in the gorse; 220
There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.

"Oh saints! what is become of him?
Perhaps he's climbed into an oak,
Where he will stay till he is dead;
Or, sadly he has been misled, 225
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.

"Or him that wicked Pony's carried
To the dark cave, the goblin's hall;
Or in the castle he's pursuing
Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230
Or playing with the waterfall."

At poor old Susan then she railed,
While to the town she posts away;
"If Susan had not been so ill,
Alas! I should have had him still, 235
My Johnny, till my dying day."

Poor Betty, in this sad distemper,
The Doctor's self could [21] hardly spare:
Unworthy things she talked, and wild;
Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240
The Pony had his share.

But now she's fairly in the town, [22]
And to the Doctor's door she hies;
'Tis silence all on every side;
The town so long, the town so wide, 245
Is silent as the skies.

And now she's at the Doctor's door,
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;
The Doctor at the casement shows
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 250
And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?"
"I'm here, what is't you want with me?"
"Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy,
And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 255
You know him--him you often see;

"He's not so wise as some folks be":
"The devil take his wisdom!" said
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,
"What, Woman! should I know of him?" 260
And, grumbling, he went back to bed!

"O woe is me! O woe is me!
Here will I die; here will I die;
I thought to find my lost one here, [23]
But he is neither far nor near, 265
Oh! what a wretched Mother I!"

She stops, she stands, she looks about;
Which way to turn she cannot tell.
Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
If she had heart to knock again; 270
--The clock strikes three--a dismal knell!

Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her senses fail;
This piteous news so much it shocked her,
She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 275
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And now she's high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road:
"O cruel! I'm almost threescore;
Such night as this was ne'er before, 280
There's not a single soul abroad."

She listens, but she cannot hear
The foot of horse, the voice of man;
The streams with softest sound are flowing,
The grass you almost hear it growing, 285
You hear it now, if e'er you can.

The owlets through the long blue night
Are shouting to each other still:
Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob,
They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 290
That echoes far from hill to hill.

Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin,
A green-grown pond she just has past,
And from the brink she hurries fast, 295
Lest she should drown herself therein.

And now she sits her down and weeps;
Such tears she never shed before;
"Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! 300
And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

A thought is come into her head:
The Pony he is mild and good,
And we have always used him well;
Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 305
And carried Johnny to the wood.

Then up she springs as if on wings;
She thinks no more of deadly sin;
If Betty fifty ponds should see,
The last of all her thoughts would be 310
To drown herself therein.

O Reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and his Horse are doing!
What they've been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme, 315
A most delightful tale pursuing!

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
He with his Pony now doth roam
The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
To lay his hands upon a star, 320
And in his pocket bring it home.

Perhaps he's turned himself about,
His face unto his horse's tail,
And, still and mute, in wonder lost,
All silent as a horseman-ghost, 325
He travels slowly down the vale. [24]

And now, perhaps, is hunting [25] sheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he;
Yon valley, now so trim [26] and green,
In five months' time, should he be seen, 330
A desert wilderness will be!

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
And like the very soul of evil,
He's galloping away, away,
And so will gallop [27] on for aye, 335
The bane of all that dread the devil!

I to the Muses have been bound
These fourteen years, by strong indentures: [A]
O gentle Muses! let me tell
But half of what to him befel; 340
He surely met [28] with strange adventures.

O gentle Muses! is this kind?
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended [29] leave me; 345
Ye Muses! whom I love so well?

Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,
Which thunders down with headlong force
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,
As careless as if nothing were, 350
Sits upright on a feeding horse?

Unto his horse--there feeding [30] free,
He seems, I think, the rein to give;
Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
Of such we in romances read: 355
--'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

And that's the very Pony, too!
Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
She hardly can sustain her fears;
The roaring waterfall she hears, 360
And cannot find her Idiot Boy.

Your Pony's worth his weight in gold:
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
She's coming from among the trees,
And now all full in view she sees 365
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And Betty sees the Pony too:
Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?
It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
'Tis he whom you so long have lost, 370
He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.

She looks again--her arms are up--
She screams--she cannot move for joy;
She darts, as with a torrent's force,
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 375
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.

And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud;
Whether in cunning or in joy
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 380
To hear again her Idiot Boy.

And now she's at the Pony's tail,
And now is [31] at the Pony's head,--
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 385
A few sad tears does Betty shed.

She kisses o'er and o'er again
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;
She's happy here, is happy there, [32]
She is uneasy every where; 390
Her limbs are all alive with joy.

She pats the Pony, where or when
She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
The little Pony glad may be,
But he is milder far than she, 395
You hardly can perceive his joy.

"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
You've done your best, and that is all:"
She took the reins, when this was said,
And gently turned the Pony's head 400
From the loud waterfall.

By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was setting on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir, 405
Though yet their tongues were still.

The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, betimes abroad,
That hobbles up the steep rough road? 410
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

Long time lay Susan lost in thought; [33]
And many dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her Messenger and Nurse;
And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 415
Her body--it grew better.

She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
Point after point did she discuss;
And, while her mind was fighting thus, 420
Her body still grew better.

"Alas! what is become of them?
These fears can never be endured;
I'll to the wood."--The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed, 425
As if by magic cured.

Away she goes [34] up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come;
She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting 430
As ever was in Christendom.

The owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four travellers homeward wend;
The owls have hooted all night long,
And with the owls began my song, 435
And with the owls must end.

For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do,
Where all this long night you have been,
What you have heard, what you have seen: 440
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true."

Now Johnny all night long had heard
The owls in tuneful concert strive;
No doubt too he the moon had seen;
For in the moonlight he had been 445
From eight o'clock till five.

And thus, to Betty's question, he
Made answer, like a traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)
"The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 450
And the sun did shine so cold!"
--Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel's story.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

He shouts from ... 1798.]

[Variant 2: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.

Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;
But wherefore set upon a saddle
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?]

[Variant 3:

1836.

There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 1798.]

[Variant 4: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.

The world will say 'tis very idle,
Bethink you of the time of night;
There's not a mother, no not one,
But when she hears what you have done,
Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.]

[Variant 5:

1836.

Has up upon the saddle set, 1798.]

[Variant 6:

1820.

... that's in the dale, 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1827.

... bough's ... 1798.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

And Betty's standing at the door,
And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 1798.]

[Variant 9:

1820.

And Johnny's in a merry tune, 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1827.

And ... 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1836.

What comfort Johnny soon will bring, 1798.

What comfort soon her Boy will bring, 1827.]

[Variant 12:

1827.

And Betty's still at Susan's side:
By this time she's not quite so flurried; 1798.]

[Variant 13:

1827.

They'll both be ... 1798.]

[Variant 14:

1827.

'Tis on the stroke--"If Johnny's near,"
Quoth Betty, "he will soon be here," 1798.]

[Variant 15:

1836.

Appear ... 1798.]

[Variant 16:

1827.

... she begins to fear 1798.]

[Variant 17:

1800.

Good Betty [i] ... 1798.]

[Variant 18:

1836.

She's past the bridge that's in the dale,
And now the thought torments her sore, 1798.

She's past the bridge far in the dale; 1820.

The bridge is past--far in the dale; 1827.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

... that's in the brook, 1798.]

[Variant 20:

1827.

And now she's high ... 1798.]

[Variant 21.

1827.

...would ... 1798.]

[Variant 22.

1836.

And now she's got into the town, 1798.]

[Variant 23:

1827.

... my Johnny here, 1798.]

[Variant 24.

1836.

All like a silent horseman-ghost,
He travels on along the vale. 1798.]

[Variant 25.

1820.

... he's hunting . . 1798.]

[Variant 26.

1820.

...that's so trim .... 1798.]

[Variant 27.

1827.

...he'll gallop .... 1798.]

[Variant 28.

1802.

For sure he met ..... 1798.]

[Variant 29.

1798.

...unfriendly....

Only in MS. and in the edition of 1805.]

[Variant 30:

1827.

...that's feeding ... 1798.]

[Variant 31:

1827.

And now she's ... 1798.]

[Variant 32:

1827.

... she's happy there, 1798.]

[Variant 33:

1827

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, 1798.]

[Variant 34: 1836.

... she posts ... 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: As Wordsworth gives the date of this poem as 1798, the above line implies that his poetical work began at least in 1784, when he was fourteen years of age. The note to 'An Evening Walk' dictated to Miss Fenwick (see p. 5) implies the same.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT

[Sub-Footnote i: This change was made by S. T. C.--Ed.]

* * * * *

THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR [A]

Composed 1798.--Published 1800.

The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.-W. W. 1800.

[Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child.
Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. [B] The
Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon
mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on
alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it
can go by the AMENDED Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails
in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of
its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their
neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a
condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of
their Christian grace and spirit, as being _forced_ rather from the
benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and
all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep
all they possess from their distressed brethren.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 5
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 10
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate [1] his food in solitude: 15
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him 25
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground,
But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30
Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3]
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4]
The old man does not change his course, the boy 40
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground 45
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
_They_ move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5]
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,--in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7]
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60
In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8]
Ere he has [9] passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: 65
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 70
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or [10] wisdom, deem him not
A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute, 75
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught--that ever owned 80
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime [C]
Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 85
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. [11] While from door to door
This old Man creeps, [12] the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity, 90
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 95
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
To acts of love; and habit does the work 100
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued
Doth find herself [13] insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness. 105
Some there are,
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds [14] 110
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received [15]
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 115
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,--and, like the pear
That [16] overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, 120
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;--all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought 125
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve 130
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.

Yet further.--Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency, 135
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, [17] 140
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.
Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
--But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 145
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No--man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been, 150
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
--Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 155
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store [18] of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 160
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne [19] him, he appears 165
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 170
To tender offices and pensive thoughts. [D]
--Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 175
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 180
Make him a captive!--for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not, 185
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun, [20] 190
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, _where_ and _when_ he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a [21] grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds 195
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die! [E]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1805.

... eat ... 1800.]

[Variant 2:

1837.

The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw
With careless hand ... 1800.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, 1800.]

[Variant 4:

1827.

... and, if perchance 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1800.

... and, evermore,
Instead of Nature's fair variety,]
Her ample scope of hill and dale, of clouds
And the blue sky, the same short span of earth
Is all his prospect. When the little birds
Flit over him, if their quick shadows strike
Across his path, he does not lift his head
Like one whose thoughts have been unsettled. So
Brow-bent, his eyes for ever ... MS.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

And never ... 1800.]

[Variant 7:

1800.

... his slow footsteps scarce MS.]

[Variant 8:

1800.

... that the miller's dog
Is tired of barking at him. MS.]

[Variant 9:

1837.

... have ... 1800.]

[Variant 10:

1837.

... and ... 1800.]

[Variant 11: The lines from "Then be assured" to "worthless" were added in the edition of 1837.]

[Variant 12:

1837.

... While thus he creeps
From door to door, ... 1800.]

[Variant 13:

1832.

... itself ... 1800.]

[Variant 14:

1827.

... ; minds like these, 1800.]

[Variant 15:

1827.

This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, 1800.]

[Variant 16:

1827.

Which ... 1800.]

[Variant 17:

1827.

... and not negligent,
Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart
Or act of love ... 1800.]

[Variant 18:

1827.

... chest ... 1800.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

... led ... 1800.]

[Variant 20:

1837.

... if his eyes, which now
Have been so long familiar with the earth,
No more behold the horizontal sun 1800.

... if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle on the earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun, 1815.]

[Variant 21:

1837.

... or by the ... 1800.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In an early MS. the title of this poem is 'Description of a Beggar', and in the editions 1800 to 1820 the title was 'The Old Cumberland Beggar, a Description'.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Wordsworth went to Racedown in 1795, when he was twenty-five years of age; and was at Alfoxden in his twenty-eighth year.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Compare Ovid's 'Metamorphoses' I. 84:

Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque videre
Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus.

Ed.]

[Footnote D: With this poem compare Frederick William Faber's "Hymn," which he called 'The Old Labourer', beginning:

What end doth he fulfil!
He seems without a will.
Ed.]

[Footnote E: In January 1801 Charles Lamb thus wrote to Wordsworth of his 'Old Cumberland Beggar':

"It appears to me a fault that the instructions conveyed in it are too
direct, and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the
reader while he is imagining no such matter,"

At the same time he refers to

"the delicate and curious feeling in the wish of the Beggar that he
may have about him the melody of birds, although he hears them not."

('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 163.)--Ed.]

* * * * *

ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY

Composed 1798.--Published 1798.

[If I recollect right, these verses were an overflowing from 'The Old
Cumberland Beggar'.--I. F.]

They were published in the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798), but 'The Old Cumberland Beggar' was not published till 1800. In an early MS., however, the two are incorporated.

In the edition of 1798, the poem was called, 'Old Man Travelling; Animal Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch'. In 1800, the title was 'Animal Tranquillity and Decay. A Sketch'. In 1845, it was 'Animal Tranquillity and Decay'.

It was included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought.--He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath [1] such mild composure given, 10
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. [2]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1805.

...has... 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

--I asked him whither he was bound, and what
The object of his journey; he replied
"Sir! I am going many miles to take
A last leave of my son, a mariner,
Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth,
And there is dying in an hospital." 1798.

... he replied
That he was going many miles to take
A last leave of his son, a mariner,
Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth,
And there was dying [i] in an hospital. 1800 to 1805.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT

[Sub-Footnote i: The edition of 1800 has "lying," evidently a misprint.--Ed.]

* * * * *