Chapter VI: Preface (6)

"The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields;
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused,
Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, [65] 435
Now coldly given, now utterly refused.
The ground [66] I for my bed have often used:
But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth,
Is that I have my inner self abused,
Forgone the home delight of constant truth, 440
And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

L

"Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed,
Through tears have seen him towards that world descend [67]
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
Three years a wanderer now my course I bend--[68] 445
Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend
Have I."--She ceased, and weeping turned away;
As if because her tale was at an end,
She wept; because she had no more to say
Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 450

LI

True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed,
His looks--for pondering he was mute the while.
Of social Order's care for wretchedness,
Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile,
Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 455
'Twas not for _him_ to speak--a man so tried.
Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style
Proverbial words of comfort he applied,
And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.

LII

Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, 460
Together smoking in the sun's slant beam,
Rise various wreaths that into one unite
Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam:
Fair spectacle,--but instantly a scream
Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; 465
They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme,
And female cries. Their course they thither bent,
And met a man who foamed with anger vehement.

LIII

A woman stood with quivering lips and pale,
And, pointing to a little child that lay 470
Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale;
How in a simple freak of thoughtless play
He had provoked his father, who straightway,
As if each blow were deadlier than the last,
Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay 475
The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast;
And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.

LIV

His voice with indignation rising high
Such further deed in manhood's name forbade;
The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480
With bitter insult and revilings sad;
Asked him in scorn what business there he had;
What kind of plunder he was hunting now;
The gallows would one day of him be glad;--
Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485
Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.

LV

Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched
With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round
His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched
As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- 490
Strange repetition of the deadly wound
He had himself inflicted. Through his brain
At once the griding iron passage found; [D]
Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495

LVI

Within himself he said--What hearts have we!
The blessing this a father gives his child!
Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,
Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild.
The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500
The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;
He kissed his son--so all was reconciled.
Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke
Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.

LVII

"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505
Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece;
Much need have ye that time more closely draw
The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,
And that among so few there still be peace:
Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510
Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"--
While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.

LVIII

Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look
Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515
Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook,
That babbled on through groves and meadows green;
A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between;
The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays,
And melancholy lowings intervene 520
Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,
Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.

LIX

They saw and heard, and, winding with the road
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;
Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525
Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale.
Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale:
It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread,
The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail,
And lustily the master carved the bread, 530
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.

LX

Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;
Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.
She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535
She left him there; for, clustering round his knees,
With his oak-staff the cottage children played;
And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees
And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade
Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540

LXI

A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;
Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.
She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood
As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one,
A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545
The carman wet her lips as well behoved;
Bed under her lean body there was none,
Though even to die near one she most had loved
She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.

LXII

The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 550
And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,
Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain
The jolting road and morning air severe.
The wain pursued its way; and following near
In pure compassion she her steps retraced 555
Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here,"
She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste
The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.

LXIII

While to the door with eager speed they ran,
From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 560
Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan;
No pity asking, on the group she gazed
With a dim eye, distracted and amazed;
Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan.
Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised, 565
I have a house that I can call my own;
Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!"

LXIV

So in they bear her to the chimney seat,
And busily, though yet with fear, untie
Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570
And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.
Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh
She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear;
Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die,
The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; 575
Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

LXV

"Barred every comfort labour could procure,
Suffering what no endurance could assuage,
I was compelled to seek my father's door,
Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580
But sickness stopped me in an early stage
Of my sad journey; and within the wain
They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage,
Unless beneath your roof I may remain:
For I shall never see my father's door again. 585

LXVI

"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;
But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek
May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb:
Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak
Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.-- 590
Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea
Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek,
My husband served in sad captivity
On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.

LXVII

"A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 595
Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed;
Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers
Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread;
Till one was found by stroke of violence dead,
Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; 600
A dire suspicion drove us from our shed;
In vain to find a friendly face we try,
Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

LXVIII

"For evil tongues made oath how on that day
My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; 605
Now he had fled, and whither none could say,
And _he_ had done the deed in the dark wood--
Near his own home!--but he was mild and good;
Never on earth was gentler creature seen;
He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 610
My husband's loving kindness stood between
Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen."

LXIX

Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath
The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness
His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, 615
He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless
With her last words, unable to suppress
His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;
And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,
He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live 620
I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive!"

LXX

To tell the change that Voice within her wrought
Nature by sign or sound made no essay;
A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,
And every mortal pang dissolved away. 625
Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;
Yet still while over her the husband bent,
A look was in her face which seemed to say,
"Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent
Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." 630

LXXI

_She_ slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped,
Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took
Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped,
When on his own he cast a rueful look.
His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 635
His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;
All night from time to time under him shook
The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;
And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"

LXXII

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; 640
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care
Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,
Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer
He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
The corse interred, not one hour he remained 645
Beneath their roof, but to the open air
A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,
He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

LXXIII

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared
For act and suffering, to the city straight 650
He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared:
"And from your doom," he added, "now I wait,
Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate."
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:
"O welcome sentence which will end though late," 655
He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came
Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

LXXIV

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case
(Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)
They hung not:--no one on _his_ form or face 660
Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought
By lawless curiosity or chance,
When into storm the evening sky is wrought,
Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 665
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

Three years ... 1842.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

... rose and pursued ... 1842.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

... demoniac ... 1842.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain! 1842.]

[Variant 5:

1845.

And, from its perilous shelter driven, ... 1842.]

[Variant 6: The following stanza was only in the editions of 1798 and 1800:

By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,
(The Woman thus her artless story told)
One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood
Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.
Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:
With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore
My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold
High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store,
A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. 1798.

... or from the mountain fold
Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar
Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more. 1800.]

[Variant 7:

1842.

My father was a good and pious man,
An honest man by honest parents bred, 1798.]

[Variant 8: Stanzas XXIV. and XXV. were omitted from the editions of 1802 and 1805. They were restored in 1820.]

[Variant 9:

1842.

Can I forget what charms did once adorn
My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,
And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?
The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;
The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;
My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;
The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime;
The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,
From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. 1798.

Can I forget our croft and plot of corn;
Our garden, stored ... 1836.

The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; 1820.

The swans, that with white chests upheaved in pride,
Rushing and racing came to meet me at the waterside. 1836.]

[Variant 10:

1842.

... yet ... 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1802.

When ... 1798.]

[Variant 12:

1836.

My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,
When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; 1798.]

[Variant 13:

1845.

... would ... 1842.]

[Variant 14:

1845.

... summer ... 1842.]

[Variant 15:

1845.

The suns of twenty summers danced along,--
Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:
Then rose a mansion proud our woods among,
And cottage after cottage owned its sway,
No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray
Through pastures not his own, the master took;
My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;
He loved his old hereditary nook,
And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. 1798.

Then rose a stately hall our woods among, 1800.

... how fast they rolled away:
But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong,
My father's substance fell into decay;
We toiled, and struggled--hoping for a day
When Fortune should put on a kinder look;
But vain were wishes--efforts vain as they:
He from his old hereditary nook
Must part,--the summons came,--our final leave we took. 1820.]

[Variant 16: The following stanza occurs only in the editions 1798 to 1805:

But, when he had refused the proffered gold,
To cruel injuries he became a prey,
Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:
His troubles grew upon him day by day,
Till all his substance fell into decay.
His little range of water was denied; [i]
All but the bed where his old body lay,
All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,
We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. 1798.

And all his substance fell into decay.
They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried
To move their hearts--but it was vain--for they
Seized all he had; and, weeping ... 1802-5.]

[Variant 17:

1820.

Can I forget that miserable hour, 1798.

It was in truth a lamentable hour 1802.]

[Variant 18:

1798.

I saw our own dear home, that was ... 1802.

The edition of 1820 returns to the text of 1798.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

... many and many a song 1798.]

[Variant 20:

1800.

... little birds ... 1798.]

[Variant 21:

1836.

His father said, that to a distant town
He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. 1798.

Two years were pass'd, since to a distant Town
He had repair'd to ply the artist's trade. 1802.]

[Variant 22:

1802.

Four years each day with daily bread was blest,
By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 1798.]

[Variant 23:

1836.

Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; 1798.]

[Variant 24:

1842.

When sad distress... 1798.]

[Variant 25:

1836.

... from him the grave did hide 1798.

... for him ... 1820.]

[Variant 26:

1798.

... which ... Only in 1820.]

[Variant 27:

1836.

... could ... 1798.]

[Variant 28:

1798.

But soon, day after day, ... 1802.

The edition of 1820 reverts to the reading of 1798.]

[Variant 29:

1836.

... to sweep ... 1798.]

[Variant 30:

1836.

There foul neglect for months and months we bore,
Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. 1798.

There, long were we neglected, and we bore
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh'd; 1802.]

[Variant 31:

1802.

Green fields before us and our native shore,
By fever, from polluted air incurred,
Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.
Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,
'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, 1798.]

[Variant 32:

1802.

But from delay the summer calms were past. 1798.]

[Variant 33:

1802.

We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep
Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, 1798.]

[Variant 34:

Oh! dreadful price of being to resign
All that is dear _in_ being! better far
In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine,
Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;
Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,
Better our dying bodies to obtrude,
Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,
Protract a curst existence, with the brood
That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.

Only in the editions of 1798 and 1800.]

[Variant 35:

1842.

It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 1798.]

[Variant 36:

1842.

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain
By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, 1798.]

[Variant 37:

1827.

... has its hour of rest,
That comes not to the human mourner's breast. 1798.

I too was calm, though heavily distress'd! 1802.]

[Variant 38:

1842.

Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,
A heavenly silence did the waves invest;
I looked and looked along the silent air,
Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 1798.

Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were!
My heart was healed within me, I was bless'd.
And looked, and looked ... 1802.

My heart was hushed within me, ... 1815.

As quiet all within me, ... 1827.]

[Variant 39:

1800.

Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 1798.]

[Variant 40: The following stanza appeared only in the editions 1798-1805:

Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,
When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,
While like a sea the storming army came,
And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape,
And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape
Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child!
But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape!
--For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,
And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1798.

At midnight once the storming Army came,
Yet do I see the miserable sight,
The Bayonet, the Soldier, and the Flame
That followed us and faced us in our flight:
When Rape and Murder by the ghastly light
Seized their joint prey, the Mother and the Child!
But I must leave these thoughts.--From night to night,
From day to day, the air breathed soft and mild;
And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1802-5.]

[Variant 41:

1802.

And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought
At last my feet a resting-place had found:
Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) 1798.]

[Variant 42:

1842.

Here watch, of every human friend disowned,
All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood-- 1798.

Here will I live:--of every friend disown'd,
Here will I roam about the ocean flood.-- 1802.

And end my days upon the ocean flood."-- 1815.]

[Variant 43:

1842.

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift,
Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; 1798.

Helpless as sailor cast on some bare rock; 1836.]

[Variant 44:

1842.

Nor dared ... 1798.]

[Variant 45:

1802.

How dismal ... 1798.]

[Variant 46:

1832.

... frame ... 1798.]

[Variant 47:

1836.

So passed another day, and so the third:
Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, 1798.]

[Variant 48:

1827.

Dizzy my brain, with interruption short 1798.

And I had many interruptions short 1802.]

[Variant 49:

1802.

... sunk ... 1798.]

[Variant 50:

1827.

And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. 1798.

And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital. 1802.]

[Variant 51:

1827.

Recovery came with food: but still, my brain
Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 1798.]

[Variant 52:

1842.

... with careless cruelty, 1798.]

[Variant 53:

1815.

... would ... 1798.]

[Variant 54:

1836.

... torpid ... 1798.]

[Variant 55:

1827.

Memory, though slow, returned with strength; ... 1798.

My memory and my strength returned; ... 1802.]

[Variant 56:

1802.

The wild brood ... 1798.]

[Variant 57: The following stanza occurs only in the editions of 1798 to 1805:

My heart is touched to think that men like these,
The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief:
How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!
And their long holiday that feared not grief,
For all belonged to all, and each was chief.
No plough their sinews strained; on grating road
No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf
In every vale for their delight was stowed:
For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. 1798.

My heart is touched to think that men like these,
Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief: 1802.

In every field, with milk their dairy overflow'd. 1802.]

[Variant 58:

1836.

Semblance, with straw and pannier'd ass, they made
Of potters wandering on from door to door:
But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 1798.

They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made
Of Potters ... 1802.]

[Variant 59:

1836.

In depth of forest glade, when ... 1798.

Among the forest glades when ... 1802.]

[Variant 60:

1802.

But ill it suited me, in journey dark 1798.]

[Variant 61:

1802.

Poor father! ... 1798.]

[Variant 62:

1842.

Ill was I ... 1798.]

[Variant 63:

1842.

With tears whose course no effort could confine,
By high-way side forgetful would I sit 1798.

By the road-side forgetful would I sit 1802.

In the open air forgetful ... 1836.]

[Variant 64:

1836.

... my ... 1798.]

[Variant 65:

1836.

I lived upon the mercy of the fields,
And oft of cruelty the sky accused;
On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 1798.

I led a wandering life among the fields;
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused,
I liv'd upon what casual bounty yields, 1802.]

[Variant 66:

1802.

The fields ... 1798.]

[Variant 67:

1836.

Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd,
In tears, the sun towards that country tend 1798.

Three years thus wandering, ... 1802.]

[Variant 68:

1836.

And now across this moor my steps I bend-- 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote A: In the 'Prelude', he says it was "three summer days." See book xiii. l. 337.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this edition (1840). See p. 37.--Ed.[Footnote D of 'Descriptive Sketches', the preceding poem in this text.]]

[Footnote C: From a short MS. poem read to me when an under-graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young.--W. W. 1842.

Charles Farish was the author of 'The Minstrels of Winandermere'.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Compare Milton's "grinding sword," 'Paradise Lost', vi. l. 329.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE

[Sub-Footnote i: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.--W. W. 1798.]

* * * * *

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING [A] A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT

Composed 1795.--Published 1798

[Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared,
and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the
lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has
lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the
evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual
whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the
neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at
one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on
his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the
beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks
above the peninsula on which the Ferry House [B] stands. This property
afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr. Curwen. The site was
long ago pointed out by Mr. West, in his 'Guide', as the pride of the
Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station." So much used I to be
delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years
before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from
Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a
servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the
pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the
islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and
I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be
thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these
notes.--I. F.]

* * * * *

From 1815 to 1843 these 'Lines' were placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." In 1845, they were classed among "Poems written in Youth."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if the bee love not these barren boughs? [1]
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 5
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
First covered, and here taught this aged Tree [2] 10
With its dark arms to form a circling bower, [3]
I well remember.--He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 15
A favoured Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn,--against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away, [4]
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: [5]
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, [6]
Fixing his downcast [7] eye, he many an hour 30
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,--how lovely 'tis
Thou seest,--and he would gaze till it became 35
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself, [8]
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds
Warm from the labours of benevolence 40
The world, and human life, [9] appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think [10] that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed, 45
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died,--this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 50
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.

* * * * *

The place where this Yew-tree stood may be found without difficulty. It was about three-quarters of a mile from Hawkshead, on the eastern shore of the lake, a little to the left above the present highway, as one goes towards Sawrey. Mr. Bowman, the son of Wordsworth's last teacher at the grammar-school of Hawkshead, told me that it stood about forty yards nearer the village than the yew which is now on the roadside, and is sometimes called "Wordsworth's Yew." In the poet's school-days the road passed right through the unenclosed common, and the tree was a conspicuous object. It was removed, he says, owing to the popular belief that its leaves were poisonous, and might injure the cattle grazing in the common. The present tree is erroneously called "Wordsworth's Yew." Its proximity to the place where the tree of the poem stood has given rise to the local tradition.--Ed.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1832.

What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1800.

Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 1798.]

[Variant 4:

1802.

... In youth, by genius nurs'd,
And big with lofty views, he to the world
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped
At once, with rash disdain he turned away, 1798.

... The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service: he was like a plant
Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds,
But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by,
Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once,
With indignation did he turn away 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1798.

The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird
Piping along the margin of the lake; 1815.

The text of 1820 returned to that of 1798. [i]]

[Variant 6:

1820.

And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er. 1798.]

[Variant 7:

1800.

... downward [ii] ... 1798.]

[Variant 8: This line was added by S. T. C. in the edition of 1800.]

[Variant 9:

1827.

... and man himself, ... 1798.]

[Variant 10:

1836.

With mournful joy, to think ... 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Yet commanding, 1798-1805.]

[Footnote B: The Ferry on Windermere.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTES TO THE VARIANTS

[Sub-Footnote i: The final retention of the reading of 1798 was probably due to a remark of Charles Lamb's, in 1815, in which he objected to the loss of the "admirable line" in the first edition, "a line quite alive," he called it. Future generations may doubt whether the reading of 1798, or that of 1815, is the better.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote ii: An emendation by S. T. C.--Ed.]

* * * * *

THE BORDERERS

A TRAGEDY

Composed 1795-6.--Published 1842

Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the
following composition, some eight or ten lines, [A] which I have not
scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is
proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere,
if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this
Tragedy.

February 28, 1842. [B]

This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in
1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three
months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my
most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which
made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the
responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose
upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has
been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is
now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not
the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or
the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two
leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change.
The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the
trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from
their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening
of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they
may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the
Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had
frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it
was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of
'The Borderers' was composed. [C]

* * * * *

[Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short
printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at
Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in
the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it
would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The
plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of
characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of
incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended
to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the
characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood
relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought
of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights
penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour,
I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the
scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose
than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents
might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do
remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from
local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read
Redpath's 'History of the Borders', but found there nothing to my
purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he
concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could
be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little
after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of 'Remorse'; and
it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr.
Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays,
and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's
also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself,
I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the
then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good
fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no
disappointment when the piece was _judiciously_ returned as not
calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and
had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public
notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have
reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as
is well known, brought forward several years after, through the
kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I
was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that
constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the
apparently 'motiveless' actions of bad men intelligible to careful
observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of
Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into
so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct
remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the
reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of
the changes through which the French Revolution passed.--I. F.]

'The Borderers' was first published in the 1842 edition of "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years." In 1845, it was placed in the class of "Poems written in Youth."--Ed.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

MARMADUKE. \ OSWALD. | WALLACE. |- Of the Band of LACY. | Borderers. LENNOX. | HERBERT. /

WILFRED, Servant to MARMADUKE. Host. Forester. ELDRED, a Peasant. Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.

IDONEA. Female Beggar. ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED.

SCENE--Borders of England and Scotland

TIME--The Reign of Henry III.