WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDCJE 
 
 LYRICAL BALLADS 
 
 1798 
 
 EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES AND APPENDIX 
 CONTAINING WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 
 
 BY 
 
 HAROLD LITTLEDALE, M.A., D.I JIT. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF EXGUSH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE 
 rNIVERSITV COLLEGE, CARDIFF 
 
 LONDON 
 
 HENRY FROWDE 
 1911
 
 OXFORD : HORACE IIART 
 PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
 
 SKLF 
 OKI 
 
 . 
 
 NOTE 
 
 EXCEPT that the Errata of 1 798 have been incorporated 
 in the text, and the lines numbered, this is verbatim et 
 literatim a reprint of the original edition of the Lyrical 
 Ballads, 1 798. A page and a half of Advertisement of 
 books ' Published for Joseph Cottle, Bristol ', have been 
 omitted at end ; in 1 800, when writing to Biggs and 
 Cottle, Wordsworth said : ' N.B. It is my particular desire 
 that no advertisements of Books be printed at the end 
 of the volume.' (See Longman MSS., ed. W. Hale White, 
 p. 31.) The pagination goes wrong after page 69 owing 
 to the substitution of The Nightingale for a shorter 
 poem, l^eiHi, after some few copies had been printed off. 
 Coleridge, in a letter to Biggs (Cottle's partner), asks 
 him to be careful that the last word of the line 
 
 O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer through the woods, 
 be correctly given, ' woods ', and not 'wood ', as in 'some 
 of the copies '. This letter (giving corrections for the 
 1 800 edition) thus seems further evidence (Mr. W. Hale 
 White, p. 44, thinks) that ' alterations must have been 
 made in the 1798 edition while it was passing through 
 the press '. 
 
 On p. 19 (A.M. line 200) 'Off darts the Spectre- 
 ship' was printed 'Oft darts, c.' and altered with a 
 pen to 'Off' in all extant copies except three (says 
 Mr. R. A. Potts, quoted by Mr. Hutchinson in his 
 edition, p. Iv). 
 
 H. L.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 LYRICAL BALLADS 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 CONTENTS . . vii 
 
 TEXT 
 
 ERRATA . -211 
 
 NOTES . -213 
 APPENDIX 223
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 THE volume of Lyrical Ballads made its appeal in 1 798 
 to a small and unprepared public ; it had to create 
 the taste by which it was enjoyed. 
 
 We can infer its progress from the facts that in 1 800 
 a new edition, enlarged to two volumes, came forth ; that 
 this was followed by another edition, again revised 
 carefully, in 1802; and that this in due course was 
 reprinted, without further significant change, in 1 805 ; 
 after which the Wordsworthian poems were merged in 
 the larger, classified, collections of 1815 and 1820; 
 while Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, in a further revised 
 form and with the marginal gloss added, was transferred 
 to the Sibylline Leares of 1817. 
 
 The Ballad as a humble literary type had a certain 
 vogue towards the end of the eighteenth century. It 
 covered the crudest realism as well as the most fantas- 
 tical romance, and varied in style and treatment as 
 widely as in subject-matter and level of culture. But 
 it hardly held full rank as serious poetry. It was not 
 considered to belong to the literature of culture, but 
 rather to the ruder poetry of the common people. 
 Hence the very title of the new ' experiment ', Lyrical 
 Ballads, marked somewhat emphatically the limited 
 pretensions of the supposed single author. Moreover, 
 if we set aside the Ancient Mariner as avowedly archaic 
 (and therefore as deliberately uncouth), and if we also
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 exclude the ' Few Other Poems ' mentioned thus 
 generally on the title-page of the volume, as distin- 
 guished from the bulk of the ballads by the author 
 himself, these Lyrical Ballads of 1798 seemed to come 
 in one special way under the usual uncultured-ballad 
 category : their language was plain even to the extreme 
 of baldness. This, added to the elemental simplicity 
 of the subject-matter and treatment, seemed to have 
 produced something of a shock to sympathetically- 
 minded readers. As in 1579-80 Sir Philip Sidney dared 
 not ' allow ' the Shepherd's ' Framing of his style in an 
 old rusticke language', so in 1798 even the kindliest 
 disposed critics of the new poetical experiments found 
 difficulty in ' allowing ' either the Mariner's grotesque 
 archaisms or the balladist's rustic simplicity of language. 
 Spenser's attempt failed, just so far as his new diction 
 was itself artificial and insincere ; Wordsworth's, on the 
 contrary, resting itself on nature and simple truth, 
 succeeded to a very considerable extent in modifying 
 the 'peccant humours' of a poetic diction that had 
 become unnatural and false. 
 
 Nor was the diction the only new thing about these 
 Lyrical Ballads, although it was the difference most 
 dwelt upon in the Advertisement prefixed to the 
 collection. They were distinguished no less by a special 
 choice of subject-matter and a special mode of treat- 
 ment. 
 
 Men of a time that had seen the poems of Joseph 
 Warton and Shenstone, and the Percy Ballads, were 
 not unprepared to look at experiments in an old form 
 of narrative verse ; they were not unused to reflective
 
 IMHtUHCTION 
 
 |>oems such as Gray's Elegy, that professed to relate 
 the short and simple annals of the poor, or Crabbe's 
 tillage, that protested against ' mechanic echoes of 
 the Mantuan song ', and dealt realistically with the 
 life of the lower classes ; but they were hardly prepared 
 for lyric poems that treated the simplest themes with 
 a new emotional interest, which seemed to derive no 
 inspiration either from the poetry of literary convention 
 or irom the ballads of quasi-popular origin. 
 
 We now recognize that there were certain spiritual 
 affinities between the new poems and the earlier work 
 of William Blake (Poetical Sketches, 1783), as there were 
 more obvious traces of sympathy with some of the work 
 of Bums ; but the songs of Blake had fallen upon deaf 
 ears, and were unknown save to a few, while the poetry 
 of Burns was also a thing apart not only as the quite 
 abnormal and phenomenal production of an inspired 
 ploughman, but also as being mainly rustic song in a 
 distinct and almost foreign dialect. Hence the claim 
 of these new poems to be a new departure both in 
 language and in handling was not intermingled with 
 questions of concurrent types of poetry. They asked 
 to be judged by a new standard, which, if accepted, 
 implied the acceptance of new ideals, affecting both the 
 form and the moral attributes of a considerable range 
 of poetic material. Looking back, we can see that 
 ultimately they largely made good their claim. The 
 name of Darwin is no longer venerable in poetry. The 
 verse written after 1798 is seen to have come under 
 new influences that have prevailed more or less down to 
 our own day.
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 It must be remembered, too, that these poetic 
 principles, first thought out in 1 796-7 and exemplified 
 in 1 798, were not only new to the readers of the book ; 
 they constituted for the author himself (rather than the 
 authors themselves) a declaration of a new poetic faith. 
 This was certainly the main reason for the carefully 
 preserved anonymity of the work. The single author 
 (as he seemed to be) claimed to have been experi- 
 menting, feeling his way to new poetic effects. The 
 public were asked to judge whether the poems justified 
 the novel principles that underlay them. It cannot be 
 said that the principles were at first fully set forth as 
 conceived by the poet. By comparing Wordsworth's 
 various prefaces and critical essays we shall see how he 
 stated and amplified from time to time the general 
 grounds of his poetical convictions. 1 
 
 1 In the present edition the first three prefaces all that count, 
 so far as the Lyrical Ballads proper are concerned are given in 
 full. The necessity for doing this is due to the fact that in most 
 of the collected editions of Wordsworth's poems since the first 
 one of 1815 Wordsworth himself printed what he headed : 
 ' Preface To the Second Edition of Several of the foregoing 
 Poems, published, with an additional volume, under the title of 
 LYRICAL BALLADS.' Any one reading this would be justified in 
 assuming that the preface thus entitled was the original preface 
 of 1800, and would estimate Wordsworth's critical attitude 
 accordingly. But it is nothing of the kind. This 181j reprint 
 was made, with the omission of the second paragraph, which 
 refers to Coleridge, and with slight verbal changes, from the 
 Preface to the edition of Lyrical Ballad* of 180.5. This 180,5 
 edition was a mere reprint of the really definitive edition of 
 1802, in which Wordsworth had enlarged the Preface as it stood 
 in 1800 from forty-one pages to sixty-four. Hence it is necessary 
 to study the Advertisement of J7!)8, the Preface of 1800, and the
 
 INTRODUCTION XI 
 
 His theoretic statements never quite explained either 
 his real position or indeed his practice, for his aim was 
 controversial rather than expositor}'. In the Biograpliia 
 (1817) Coleridge has not any difficulty in demonstrating 
 this ; nor in showing that it was the prefaces rather 
 than the poems themselves that formed the main rock 
 of critical offence. 
 
 Wordsworth's attack upon poetic diction has rather 
 overshadowed his no less important reform in regard to 
 the subject-matter of poetry. This latter innovation has 
 to be considered in connexion with the general humani- 
 tarian and realistic movement of the time. For his 
 poetry was in the closest relation to his own life, in fact 
 it was his own life; and his life before 1798 had been 
 active no less than contemplative. Rousseau and 
 Godwin had been his earliest teachers in regard to social 
 theory, and Rousseau had further deepened his feeling 
 for nature, animate and inanimate. He was in 1798 
 still in partial sympathy with the more advanced philo- 
 sophic thought of his day upon the question of man's 
 relation to his fellow men. But, making full allowances 
 for external influences from books and from current 
 thought, it was his own meditative bent, his sense that 
 he was, ' else sinning greatly, a consecrated spirit,' that 
 had the greatest share in building up his poetic ideals 
 
 Preface of 1802 (with its appendix on Poetic Diction}, to arrive 
 at some clear notion of the development of the poet's opinions, 
 as modified under the stress of criticism and of fuller thought. 
 It will be seen thaf Wordsworth himself, by this inaccurate 
 heading to the Appendix of 181,), is responsible for the error 
 that has been perpetuated in editions since 1H1J.
 
 XII INTRODUCTION 
 
 and determining his aims in life. He was convinced 
 that the poet should strive to bring his work at all times 
 into relation with life as it actually was lived ; that 
 Verse should ' build a princely throne on humble truth ' ; 
 and that by the 'shaping power of imagination ' it should 
 afford solace in sorrow and add a deeper joy in gladness. 
 His themes were to be found accordingly in the incidents 
 of ordinary existence. The extravagance or unreality of 
 romance was unnecessary : the ' moving accident ' was 
 not his trade ; he only sought to pipe a simple song for 
 simple hearts, by giving ' a natural delineation of human 
 passions, human characters, and human incidents '. 
 Hence it was that he wrote for the Lyrical Ballads- - 
 though he did not publish it until 1819 his most 
 typical poem of Peter Bell, in which he carefullv 
 counterpoised by a series of perfectly natural and every- 
 day incidents the supernatural happenings of the 
 Ancient Mariner, and called attention to his aim by the 
 challenging motto : ' Brutus can start a spirit as soon as 
 Caesar ! ' Even his most childish ballads are a part of 
 his poetic attitude to life. To himself, the childishness 
 or triviality of some among his themes mattered 
 nothing perhaps rather the possession of these ap- 
 parent defects added significance if a moral emotion 
 underlay the situations when rightly regarded. His 
 contemporaries were able to grant that ' suspension of 
 unbelief that the most extravagant fictions of romantic 
 supernaturalism required : they found it less easy to 
 accord the emotional belief that these transcripts from 
 simple human experience demanded. 
 
 Wonderful poem though the Ancient Mariner is, it was
 
 INTRODUCTION Ml 
 
 ' professedly written in imitation of the style, s well 
 as the spirit, of the elder poets ', and made no claim to 
 offer a new model such as Wordsworth considered his 
 own work to present. Yet to Coleridge as to Wordsworth 
 the great aim of poetry was to bring the mind of man 
 into closer relation with God ' who is our home '. In 
 the Prelude Wordsworth lays this down : 
 
 Our destiny, our being's heart and aim, 
 
 Is with Infinitude, and only there. (VI. 6(H). 
 
 They sought to achieve this end by different means : 
 Coleridge by stirring our sense of the mystery that 
 wraps life round, and by handling the supernatural 
 with imaginative vividness ; Wordsworth by touching 
 the human heart by which we live ', through a faith- 
 ful though impassioned realism. The two poets, with 
 whom indeed Dorothy Wordsworth should be included 
 as the ' handmaid and interpreter of nature ' for her 
 less alert though more deeply reflective brother and his 
 friend, were so interfused with each other's thought 
 that it is not possible to separate every thought and 
 ascribe every phrase in this little volume to its real 
 originator, any more than it is possible to assign the 
 spark to the flint or to the steel that when struck to- 
 gether produce it. Had Wordsworth never known 
 Coleridge, had Coleridge never known Wordsworth, we 
 should never have had the essential Wordsworth, the 
 essential Coleridge, that we have ; the history of 
 English literature would have been far different, and 
 far poorer. 1 
 
 1 Their contemporary admirers realized this. Sir George 
 Beaumont, before ever he met Wordsworth, presented the
 
 xiv iXTRonurriox 
 
 If there is one quality that more than all others 
 interpenetrates Wordsworth's poetry it is ' natural 
 piety '. This, and not mere power and truth of natural 
 description, differentiates him. Rousseau felt the 
 sensuous charm of nature as deeply as Wordsworth did ; 
 Burns felt it and described it as intensely ; so in a 
 milder way did Cowper ; but neither Rousseau nor 
 Burns nor Cowper quite felt in nature what Wordsworth 
 found in it the healing balm and the spiritual stimulus. 
 A poet who saw life stripped of its externals ; who 
 beheld in nature a type of universal truth and divine 
 justice ; who disregarded the artificial, the merely 
 ornate, the conventional adjuncts of delineation and 
 expression ; above all, who lived by ' Admiration, Hope, 
 and Love ' ; this poet had found a new principle which 
 moved him to utter poetic truth ; and from this princi- 
 ple, once clearly apprehended, he never consciously 
 swerved. The function of the poet, he felt, was to 
 interpret truth ; yet not in the crude manner of so- 
 called didactic poetry, which versifies unimpeachable 
 precepts bearing on the conduct of life ; on the con- 
 trary, imagination was to transfigure universal nature, 
 even in its meanest forms ; for in everything, rightly 
 looked at, there is a moral lesson to be learnt. Poetry 
 thus handled becomes the revelation of nature and the 
 teaching of life. In other words, he sought to encourage 
 
 Applethwaite property to him to bring him near Greta Hall, 
 where Coleridge was living in 1803. See Memorials ofColeorton, 
 I. xii ; Dykes Campbell's Life of S. T. C., p. 150; Pater's two 
 essays in ^Ippreciatuiiiit ; and Dowdrn's 'Coleridge as a Poet' 
 in .Yfiti Studies.
 
 INTRODUCTION XV 
 
 the meditative attitude of mind, that tends to look 
 below the shows of things to the larger forces and 
 truths latent there. He did not always succeed; but 
 of his failures we need not speak ; they are as nothing 
 in the account of his gifts to men. 
 
 Let us now turn to consider the present volume. 
 The text is a literal reprint (with only line-numberings 
 added), page for page and line for line, of the original 
 octavo edition, as it came in September, 1 798, from the 
 press at Bristol of Joseph Cottle, whose name originally 
 stood on the title-page as publisher and is found in a 
 few copies. For some obscure reason ostensibly be- 
 cause the sale was slow Cottle transferred the greater 
 part of the .500 copies that formed the edition to 
 Messrs. Arch, of London. Cottle's copyright passed to 
 the London publisher, Ixmgmaii, from whom Cottle 
 subsequently begged it back, and gave it to Words- 
 worth. The history of the inception of the. collection 
 was told in after years by Wordsworth in the note on 
 ' We are Seven ' that he dictated to Miss Fenwick 
 (printed in his Works) ; and Coleridge in the Biographia 
 Liternnu (Vol. I, Chap, iv ; Vol. II, Chap, xiv) dis- 
 cusses the occasion <> c the Lyrical Kalladx, and the 
 objects originally proposed. Only a portion can be 
 quoted here, but the whole should be studied, with the 
 Fenwick note, and Wordsworth's prefaces, by any one 
 wishing to understand the matter. Coleridge (Chap, 
 xiv) says : ' During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth 
 and I were neighbours, our conversations turned fre- 
 quently on the two cardinal jx)ints of poetry, the 
 power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION 
 
 faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the 
 power of giving the interest of novelty by the modi- 
 fying colours of the imagination. The sudden charm, 
 which accidents of light and shade, which moon-light 
 or sun-set diffused over a known and familiar landscape, 
 appeared to represent the practicability of combining 
 both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought 
 suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that 
 a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In 
 the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part 
 at least, supernatural ; and the excellence aimed at was 
 to consist in the interesting of the affections by the 
 dramatic truth of such emotions, as would naturally 
 accompany such situations, supposing them real. And 
 real in this sense they have been to every human being 
 who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any time 
 believed himself under supernatural agency. For the 
 second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary 
 life ; the characters and incidents were to be such, as 
 will be found in every village and its vicinity, where 
 there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after 
 them, or to notice them, when they present themselves. 
 ' In this idea originated the plan of the " Lyrical 
 Ballads;" in which it was agreed, that my endeavours 
 should be directed to persons and characters super- 
 natural, or at least romantic ; yet so as to transfer from 
 our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of 
 truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagi- 
 nation that willing suspension of disbelief for the 
 moment, which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Words- 
 worth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as
 
 INTRODUCTION XV11 
 
 his object, to give the charm of novelty to things of 
 every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to the 
 supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention from 
 the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveli- 
 ness and the wonders of the world before us ; an inex- 
 haustible treasure, but for which in consequence of the 
 film of familiarity and selfish solicitude we have eyes, 
 yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither 
 feel nor understand ' ... * In this form the " Lyrical 
 Ballads " were published ; and were presented by him, 
 as an experiment, whether subjects, which from their 
 nature rejected the usual ornaments and extra-collo- 
 quial style of poems in general, might not be so 
 managed in the language of ordinary life as to produce 
 the pleasurable interest, which it is the peculiar busi- 
 ness of poetry to impart.' 
 
 Coleridge thus restates the position, which Words- 
 worth had somewhat confused at first by the unhappy 
 expression in his Advertisement about * the language 
 of conversation in the middle and lower classes of 
 society '. It must be confessed that this definition did 
 give the scoffer an opening, but Wordsworth seems to 
 have meant really no more than he says in the Excur- 
 sion (Bk. I) : 
 
 much did he see of men, 
 
 Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, 
 Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 
 Essential and eternal in the heart, 
 That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life. 
 Exist more simple in their elements, 
 And speak a plainer language.
 
 XVlll INTRODUCTION 
 
 Coleridge also discusses another of Wordsworth's ques- 
 tionable dicta, concerning which may be quoted Coven- 
 try Patmore's saying, that ' Wordsworth's erroneous 
 critical views of the necessity of approximating the 
 language of poetry, as much as possible, to that of 
 prose, especially by the avoidance of grammatical in- 
 versions, arose from his having overlooked the neces- 
 sity of manifesting, as well as moving in, the bonds of 
 verse '. (Prefatory Study on English Metrical Law, in 
 Amelia, &c., p. 12.) Whether all Coleridge's very 
 consistent narration is not an afterthought, and due to 
 the impression left on his mind by the works produced, 
 has been questioned, but not very profitably. It gives 
 us the earliest and fullest and most intelligible account 
 of the matter. At the same time we may feel certain 
 that the poetry of Wordsworth is in no sense the cal- 
 culated product of any critical theory ; for (as has been 
 said above) it is obviously the spontaneous outcome of 
 his own heart, his whole bent of mind, and his general 
 outlook upon life. 
 
 In 1800 a second edition of the first volume, with a 
 new volume of equal size and of even greater merit, 
 came forth. The following Table shows the changes 
 in order of the contents of Vol. I :
 
 1815 & IHvJO 
 Classification 
 
 . 
 
 OH 5 
 
 
 oo 
 c 
 
 - . 
 e. ^ 
 
 o< ~ 
 
 5* 
 
 o- 
 
 Hi 
 
 o- 
 
 siqj ,40 uiiiaBiu yai u; -3 
 H ',..l B ^ lI 
 aq \'SSW " 
 
 do o 
 
 O 
 
 o- 
 
 r; f~ w t~ co x > '-5 ' e -o s~. ^ * ^> 
 
 y 
 
 
 
 X^ 
 
 illSl 8 c 1 1 Ti.8 8 ^-2 Ma 1 1 = 
 
 MHOfeUH
 
 XX INTRODUCTION 
 
 A glance at this table will show how carefully Words- 
 worth ordered his music. When lie came to classify 
 the poems for the two-volume collection of 1815 he 
 grouped these under the various headings that cause 
 such working of the spirit for the earnest Words - 
 worthian. Thus, the Yew-tree-seat lines were among 
 the Poems Proceeding from (shortened in 1820 to 'of') 
 Sentiment and Reflection. As noted in the table, the 
 definitive order was really reached in 1802, and it may 
 come as a surprise to some readers to be told that the 
 edition of 1805 bears few of the marks of editorial 
 attention such as was given by Wordsworth and his 
 sister (who seems to have looked specially after 
 Coleridge's portion also) to the edition of 1802. In 
 fact this edition of 1802, and not (as usually assumed) 
 the edition of 1805, is the definitive edition of the 
 Lyrical Ballads. 
 
 We have also to note that the contents of the second 
 volume following fast upon the first edition, and em- 
 bodying the work of the Goslar sojourn as well as the 
 firstfruits of the Grasmere migration should be re- 
 garded as a portion of this great poetical ' experiment ', 
 now past the experimental stage. The text of 1798 
 should be studied first, then one of the three following 
 editions, if not all three. They all differ but 1800 
 and 1 802 importantly in countless minute particulars. 
 For one thing, the title-page of 1802 was made more 
 explicit : ' Lyrical Ballads, with Pastoral and other 
 Poems.' Wordsworth's name was given as the author 
 on the title-page of 1 800, and Coleridge's share was 
 acknowledged not only in the Preface, but also in a
 
 INTRODUCTION XXI 
 
 singularly outspoken note on the A. M. that was can- 
 celled in 180a. 
 
 A list of the contents of Vol. II, 1800, with the 
 paging in brackets, follows : Hart-leap Well (l) ; 
 There was a Boy, &c. (14); The Brothers, a Pastoral 
 Poem (19); Ellen Irwin, or the Braes of Kirtle (46); 
 Strange fits of passion I have known, c. (50) ; Song 
 (52 : She dwelt among) ; A Slumber did my spirit seal, 
 &c. (53) ; The Waterfall and the Eglantine (54) ; The 
 Oak and the Broom, a Pastoral (58) ; Lucy Gray (64) ; 
 The Idle Shepherd-Boys, or Dungeon-Gill Force, a 
 Pastoral (69) ; 'Tis said that some have died for love, 
 e. (76) ; Poor Susan (80) ; Inscription for the spot 
 where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's Island, 
 Derwent- Water (82); Inscription for (in 1802 this be- 
 came : Lines written with a pencil upon a stone in the 
 wall of) the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at 
 Grasmere (84) ; To a Sexton (86) ; Andrew Jones (89) : 
 The two Theives, or the last stage of Avarice (92) ; A 
 whirlblast from behind the Hill, &c. (96) ; Song for the 
 wandering Jew (98); Ruth (103); Lines written with 
 a Slate-Pencil upon a Stone, c. (117) ; Lines written 
 on a Tablet in a School (120) ; The two April Mornings 
 (123); The Fountain, a Conversation (127); Nutting 
 (132); Three years she grew in sun and shower, &c. 
 (136); The Pet Lamb, a Pastoral (139); Written in 
 Germany on one of the coldest days of the Century 
 (144); The Childless Father (147); The Old Cumber- 
 land Beggar, a Description (151); Rural Architecture 
 (163); A Poet's Epitaph (165); A Character (169); A 
 Fragment (171) ; Poeias [five] on the Naming of Places
 
 XX11 INTRODUCTION 
 
 (177-196); Michael, a Pastoral (199; simply named 
 'Michael' in 1802); notes to The Brothers and to 
 Michael, completed the volumes. 
 
 What strikes one on reading this list is the very 
 marked increase in lyrical work of the highest quality. 
 The first volume furnished two lyrics (I heard a thou- 
 sand blended notes ; and Simon Lee) to the ' Golden 
 Treasury ' ; this second volume gave six more (A 
 slumber did my spirit seal ; At the corner of Wood 
 Street ; She dwelt among the untrodden ways ; Three 
 years she grew ; We talked with open heart ; and 
 When Ruth was left half desolate) : a garland of poesy 
 that the world would not willingly let die ! 
 
 It will be noticed that in the 1798 volume the paging 
 goes wrong after page 69- This is because Coleridge's 
 poem of Letrii was only suppressed (for fear of recog- 
 nition) at the last moment, after it had been printed 
 off, and the Nightingale, a longer piece, substituted. We 
 do not regret the change, but nevertheless the right of 
 Leirti to be esteemed an original Lyrical Ballad may be 
 readily admitted. Peter Bell, though not published till 
 1819, is even more important in this connexion. 
 
 Lastly, the Prefaces of 1800 and 1802 are given 
 synoptic-ally in the Appendix. To save space, I have 
 worked much as Wordsworth himself may have done 
 when enlarging his preface, for I have taken the text 
 of 1800 as a basis, and have marked every variation, 
 even the most trifling and mechanical, as it occurs. 
 
 Wordsworth's original copy, with many of the addi- 
 tions pasted in. is among the Longman MSS. (edited 
 by Mr. W. Hale White), and I possess a copy of 1802,
 
 INTRODUCTION XX111 
 
 in which the late Mr. Dykes Campbell transcribed or 
 indicated most carefully all Wordsworth's additions 
 from the Longman copy of 1800. This has been of 
 service to me in the troublesome endeavour to achieve 
 accuracy. So far as the skilful printers and readers of 
 the Clarendon Press can make it, this reprint is ac- 
 curate. The proofs have been minutely collated with 
 the originals several times. 
 
 For a discussion of the critical questions raised in 
 these Prefaces the student should examine the Bio- 
 graphia Litcraria. Among later writings there are 
 Pater's two essays, in Appreciations ; Mr. Symons's 
 Romantic School ; M. Legouis's Early Life of Wordstvorth ; 
 Professor Sir W. Raleigh's Wordsworth ; Professor 
 Dowden's Xen* Studies, and editions of Wordsworth ; 
 also Mr. T. Hutchinson's valuable edition of the Lyrical 
 Ballads, 1 798, and of the two \Vordsworth volumes of 
 Poems of 1807; Mr. Dykes Campbell's edition of the 
 Poems of Coleridge ; Mr. Nowell Smith's collection of 
 Wordsworth's Literary Criticism (in the Oxford Library 
 of Prose and Poetry) ; and Prof. G. Sampson's annotated 
 reprint of the Lyrical Ballads of 1805. Other useful 
 helps might be named, but this list may serve. The 
 important thing is to read the poems and prefaces 
 themselves ! 
 
 H. L.
 
 LYRICAL BALLADS, 
 
 A FEW OTHER POEMS. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PHIXTED FOR J. & A, ARCH, GRACECHURCH-STREET. 
 
 1798.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 It is the honourable charafteriftic of Poetry that 
 its materials are to be found in every subjeft 
 which can intereft the human mind. The evi- 
 dence of this faft is to be sought, not in the 
 writings of Critics, but in those of Poets them- 
 selves. 
 
 The majority of the following poems are to be 
 considered as experiments. They were written 
 chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the lan- 
 guage of conversation in the middle and lower 
 clafles of society is adapted to the purposes of 
 poetic pleasure. Readers accuftomed to the 
 
 1
 
 11. 
 
 gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern 
 writers, if they persist in reading this book to its 
 conclusion, will pei'haps frequently have to 
 ftruggle with feelings of ftrangeness and auk- 
 wardness : they will look round for poetry, and 
 will be induced to enquire by what species of 
 courtesy these attempts can be permitted to 
 assume that title. It is desirable that such 
 readers, for their own sakes, should not suffer 
 the solitary word Poetry, a word of very disputed 
 meaning, to stand in the way of their gratifica- 
 tion ; but that, while they are perusing this 
 book, they should afk themselves if it contains a 
 (natural delineation of human paflions, human 
 eharafters, and human incidents y and if the 
 answer be favourable to the author's wishes, that 
 they should consent to be pleased in spite of that 
 mo ft dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our own 
 pre-established codes of decision.
 
 111. 
 
 Readers of superior judgment may disapprove of 
 the stvle in which many of these pieces are execu- 
 ted it must be expected that many lines and phra- 
 ses will not exaftly suit their taste. It will perhaps 
 appear to them, that wishing to avoid the pre- 
 valent fault of the day, the author has sometimes 
 descended too low, and that many of his expres- 
 sions are too familiar, and not of sufficient dig- 
 nity. It is apprehended, that the more con- 
 versant the reader is with our elder writers, and 
 with those in modern times who have been the 
 moft successful in painting manners and passions, 
 the fewer complaints of this kind will he have 
 to make. 
 
 An accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other 
 arts, Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an 
 acquired talent, which can only be produced by 
 severe thought, and a long continued intercourse 
 with the best models of composition. This is
 
 mentioned not with so ridiculous a purpose 
 as to prevent the most inexperienced reader 
 from judging for himself; but merely to temper 
 the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if 
 poetry be a subjeft on which much time has not 
 been bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous, 
 and that in many cases it necessarily will be so. 
 
 The tale of Goody Blake and Harry (nil is 
 founded on a well-authenticated faft which hap- 
 pened in Warwickfhire. Of the other poems in 
 the collection, it may be proper to say that they 
 are either absolute inventions of the author, or 
 fafts which took place within his personal obser- 
 vation or that of his friends. The poem of the 
 Thorn, as the reader will soon discover, is not 
 supposed to be spoken in the author's own per- 
 son : the character of the loquacious narrator will 
 sufficiently shew itself in the course of the (lory. 
 The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere was profes-
 
 V. 
 
 sedly written in imitation of the style, as well as 
 of the spirit of the elder poets ; but with a few 
 exceptions, the Author believes that the lan- 
 guage adopted in it has been equally intelligible 
 for these three last centuries. The lines entitled 
 Expostulation and Reply, and those which 
 follow, arose out of conversation with a friend 
 who was somewhat unreasonably attached to 
 modern books of moral philosophy.
 
 CONTEXTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere 1 
 
 The Foster-Mother's Tale - 53 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands 
 
 near the Lake of Esthwaite - 59 
 
 The Nightingale, a Conversational Poem 63 
 
 The Female Vagrant - 69 
 
 Goody Blake and Harry Gill 85 
 Lines written at a small distance from my House, 
 
 and sent by my little Boy to the Person to 
 
 whom they are addressed - 95 
 
 Simon Lee, the old Huntsman 98 
 
 Anecdote for Fathers 105 
 
 We are seven - 110 
 
 Lines written in early spring - 115 
 
 The Thorn - - 117 
 
 The last of the Flock 133 
 
 The Dungeon - - . - 139 
 
 The Mad Mother - - 141 
 
 The Idiot Boy - - 149 
 Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, 
 
 at Evening - 180 
 
 Expostulation and Reply - 183 
 The Tables turned ; an Evening Scene, on the 
 
 same subject - 186 
 
 Old Man travelling - IS!) 
 
 The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman 193 
 
 The Convict 197 
 
 Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey -01
 
 T H E H 1 M E 
 
 A N C V K N T M A R I N K K E, 
 
 SEVEN PARTS.
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by 
 Storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole ; 
 and how from thence she made her course to the 
 tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and 
 of the strange things that befell ; and in what 
 manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his 
 own Country.
 
 T 11 E H I M E ' 
 
 OF T H K 
 
 ANCYEN 7 T MARINERE, 
 
 IN S K V F K PARTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 It is an ancyent Marinere, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three : 
 '' By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye 
 
 '' Now wherefore stoppest me ? 
 
 " The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide 
 
 " And I am next of kin ; 
 " The Chiests are met, the Feast is fet, 
 
 " Mav'st hear the merrv din.
 
 But still he holds the wedding-guest 
 
 There was a Ship, quoth he 10 
 
 " Nay, if thou'st got a laugh some tale, 
 " Marinere ! come with me." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 
 Quoth he, there was a Ship 
 " Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon ! 
 
 " Or my Staff shall make thee skip. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye 
 
 The wedding guest stood still 
 And listens like a three year's child : 
 
 The Marinere hath his will. 20 
 
 The wedding-guefl sate on a stone, 
 
 He cannot chuse but hear : 
 And thus spake on that anoyent man. 
 
 The bright-eyed Marinere.
 
 The Ship was cheer'd, the Harbour clear' d 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 Below the Kirk, below the Hill, 
 
 Below the Light-house top. 
 
 The Sun came up upon the left, 
 
 Out of the Sea came he : 30 
 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 
 Went down into the Sea. 
 
 Higher and higher every day, 
 
 Till over the mast at noon 
 The wedding-guest here beat his breast, 
 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The Bride hath pae'd into the Hall, 
 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 
 The merry Minstralsv. 10
 
 The wedding-guest he beat his breast, 
 
 Yet he cannot chuse but hear : 
 And thus spake on that ancyent Man, 
 
 The bright-eyed Marinere. 
 
 Listen, Stranger ! Storm and Wind, 
 
 A Wind and Tempest strong ! 
 For days and weeks it play'd us freaks 
 
 Like Chaff' we drove along. 
 
 Listen, Stranger ! Mist and Snow, 
 
 And it grew wond'rous cauld : 50 
 
 And Ice mast-high came floating by 
 
 As green as Emerauld. 
 
 And thro' the drifts the fnowy clifts 
 
 Did send a dismal sheen ; 
 Xe shapes of men ne beasts we ken 
 
 The Ice was all between.
 
 " 
 
 The Ice was here, the Ice was there, 
 
 The Ice was all around : 
 It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd 
 
 Like noises of a swuund. 60 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross, 
 
 Thorough the Fog it came ; 
 And an it were a Christian Soul, 
 
 We hail'd it in God's name. 
 
 The Marineres gave it biscuit-worms, 
 
 And round and round it Hew : 
 The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit ; 
 
 The Helmsman steer'd us thro'. 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind, 
 The Albatross did follow ; 70 
 
 And every day for food or play 
 Came to the Marinere's hollo !
 
 JO 
 
 In mist or cloud on mast or shroud 
 
 It perch'd for vespers nine, 
 Whiles all the night thro' fog-smoke white 
 
 Glimmer'd the white moon-shine. 
 
 " God save thee, ancyent Marinere ! 
 
 '' From the fiends that plague thee thus 
 " Why look'st thou so ? " with my cross bow 
 
 I shot the Albatross. 80
 
 1 1 
 
 II. 
 
 The Sun came up upon the right, 
 
 Out of the Sea came he ; 
 And broad as a weft upon the left 
 
 Went down into the Sea. 
 
 And the good soutli wind still blew behind. 
 
 But no sweet Bird did follow 
 Ne any day for food or play 
 
 Came to the Marinere's hollo ! 
 
 And I had done an hellish thing 
 
 And it would work 'em woe : 90 
 
 For all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird 
 
 That made the Breeze to blow.
 
 12 
 
 Xe dim ne red, like God's own head, 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The breezes blew, the white foam flew, 
 
 The furrow follow' d free : 100 
 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 Into that silent Sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down, 
 
 'Twas sad a.s sad could be 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the Sea.
 
 All in a hot and copper sky 
 
 The bloody sun at noon, 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 
 Xo bigger than the moon. 110 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 
 
 We stuck, ne breath ne motion, 
 As idle as a painted Ship 
 
 Upon a painted Ocean. 
 
 Water, water, every where 
 
 And all the boards did shrink ; 
 Water, water, every where, 
 
 Xe any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deeps did rot : O Chrift ! 
 
 That ever this should be ! 120 
 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 
 Upon the slimy Sea.
 
 14 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The Death-fires danc'd at night ; 
 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 
 Burnt green and blue and white. 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the Spirit that plagued us so : 
 
 Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us 
 From the Land of Mist and Snow. 
 
 And every tongue thro' utter drouth 
 Was wither'd at the root : 
 
 We could not speak no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah wel-a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ; 
 
 Instead of the Cross the Albatross 
 About mv neck was hung.
 
 1 > 
 
 III. 
 
 1 saw a something in tin- Sky 
 
 No bigger than my fist ; l-Hi 
 
 At first it seem'd a little speck 
 
 And then it seem'd a mist : 
 It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last 
 
 A certain shape, 1 wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist,, a shape, I \visl ! 
 
 And still it ner'd and ner'd : 
 And, an it dodjj'd a water-sprite, 
 
 It plunjr'd and taek'd and veer'd.
 
 16 
 
 With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd 
 
 Xe could we laugh, ne wail : 150 
 
 Then while thi-o' drouth all dumb they stood 
 
 I bit my arm and suck'd the blood 
 And cry'd, A sail ! a sail ! 
 
 With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd 
 
 Agape they hear'd me call : 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin 
 And all at once their breath drew in 
 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 She doth not tack from side to side 
 
 Hither to work us weal 1GO 
 
 VVithouten wind, withouten lidr 
 
 She steddies with upright keel.
 
 17 
 
 The western wave was all a flame, 
 
 The day was well nigh done ! 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars 
 
 (Heaven's mother send us grace) 170 
 
 As if thro' a dungeon grate he peer'd 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 Alas ! (thought I. and my heart beat loud) 
 
 How fast she neres and neres ! 
 Are those her Sails that glance in the Sun 
 
 Like restless gossameres ?
 
 IS 
 
 Are these her naked ribs, which fleek'd 
 The sun that did behind them peer ? 
 
 And are these two all, all the crew, 
 
 That woman and her fleshless Pheere ? 180 
 
 His bones were black with many a crack, 
 
 All black and bare, I ween ; 
 Jet-black and bare, save where witli rust 
 Of mouldy damps and charnel crust 
 
 They're pateh'd with purple and green. 
 
 Her lips are red, her looks are free, 
 
 Her locks are yellow as gold : 
 Her skin is as white as leprosy, 
 And she is far liker Death than he ; 
 
 Her flesh makes the still air cold. 190
 
 The naked Hulk alongside came 
 
 And the Twain were playing dice ; 
 " The Game is done ! I've won, I've won ! " 
 
 Quoth she, and whistled thrice. 
 
 A gust of wind sterte up behind 
 
 And whistled thro' his bones ; 
 Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth 
 
 Half-whistles and half-groans. 
 
 With never a whisper in the Sea 
 
 Off darts the Speftre-fhip ; L'OO 
 
 While clombe above the Eastern bar 
 The horned Moon, with one bright Star 
 
 Almost atween the tips.
 
 20 
 
 One after one by the horned Moon 
 
 (Listen, O Stranger ! to me) 
 Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang 
 
 And curs'd me with his ee. 
 
 Four times fifty living men, 
 
 With never a sigh or groan. 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump 210 
 
 They dropp'd down one by one. 
 
 Their fouls did from their bodies fly, 
 
 They fled to bliss or woe ; 
 And every soul it pass'd me by, 
 
 Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.
 
 21 
 
 IV. 
 
 " I fear thee, ancyent Marinere ! 
 
 " I fear thy skinny hand ; 
 " And thou art long and lank and brown 
 
 " As is the ribb'd Sea-sand. 
 
 " I fear thee and thy glittering eye 220 
 
 " And thy skinny hand so brown 
 
 Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest ! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all all alone 
 
 Alone on the wide wide Sea ; 
 And Christ would take no pity on 
 
 My soul in agony.
 
 The many men so beautiful, 
 
 And they all dead did lie ! 
 And a million million (limy things 230 
 
 Liv'd on and so did I. 
 
 I look'd upon the rotting Sea, 
 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 I look'd upon the eldritch deck, 
 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I look'd to Heaven, and try'd to pray ; 
 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked whisper came and made 
 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I clos'd my lids and kept them close, 210 
 
 Till the balls like pulses beat ; 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
 
 And the dead were at mv feet.
 
 The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 
 Xe rot, ne reek did they ; 
 The look with which they look'd on me, 
 
 Had never pass'd away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 
 
 A spirit from on high : 250 
 
 But O ! more horrible than that 
 Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights I saw that curse 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 The moving Moon went up the sky 
 
 And no where did abide : 
 Softly she was going up 
 
 And a star or two belide
 
 Her beams bemock'd the sultry main 
 
 Like morning frosts yspread ; 260 
 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch'd the water-snakes : 
 They mov'd in tracks of shining white ; 
 And when they rear'd, the elfish light 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch'd their rich attire : -270 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black 
 They coil'd and swam : and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire.
 
 () happy living things ! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 A spring of love gusht from my heart, 
 
 And I bless'd them unaware ! 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 
 And I bless'd them unaware. 
 
 The self-same moment I eould pray ; 280 
 
 And from my neck so free 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 
 Like lead into the sea.
 
 26 
 
 V. 
 
 y. 
 
 sleep, it is a gentle thing 
 Belov'd from pole to pole ! 
 
 To Mary-queen the praise be yeven 
 She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck 
 
 That had so long remain'd, 290 
 
 1 dreamt that they were fill'd with dew 
 
 And when I awoke it rain'd. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams 
 
 And still my body drank.
 
 I mov'd and could not feel my limbs, 
 
 I was so light, almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 
 And was a blessed Ghost. 300 
 
 The roaring wind ! it roar'd far off', 
 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails 
 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air bursts into life, 
 
 And a hundred fire-Hags sheen 
 To and fro they are hurried about : 
 And to and fro, and in and out 
 
 The stars dance on between. 
 
 The coining wind doth roar more loud ; 310 
 
 The sails do sigh, like sedge : 
 The rain pours down from one black cloud 
 
 And the Moon is at its edge.
 
 Hark ! hark ! the thick black cloud is cleft, 
 
 And the Moon is at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning falls with never a jag 
 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The strong wind reach'd the ship : it roar'd 
 And dropp d down, like a stone ! 320 
 
 Beneath the lightning and the moon 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 They groan'd. they stirr'd. they all uprose. 
 
 Ne spake, ne mov'd their eves : 
 It had been strange, even in a dream 
 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steerd, the ship mov'd on ; 
 
 Yet never a bree/.e up-blew ; 
 The Marineres all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 Where tliev were wont to do : 330
 
 They rais'd their linil)s like lifeless tools 
 We were a ghastly erew. 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 
 Stood by me knee to knee : 
 The body and I pull'd at one rope. 
 
 Hut he said nought to me 
 And 1 (juak'd to think of my own voice 
 
 Mow frightful it would be ! 
 
 The day-light dawn'd they dropp'd their arms. 
 
 And cluster (1 round the mast : 310 
 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly thro' their mouths 
 
 And from their bodies pass'd. 
 
 Around, around, flew eaeh sweet sound, 
 
 Then darted to the sun : 
 Slowly the sounds eame baek again 
 
 Now mix'd. now one by one.
 
 Sometimes a dropping from the sky 
 
 I heard the Lavrock sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are 
 How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 
 
 With their sweet jargoning, 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song 
 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceas'd : yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon. 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 That to the lleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune.
 
 Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest ! 
 
 " Marinere ! thou hast thy will : 
 " For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make 
 
 " My body and soul to be still." 
 
 Never sadder tale was told 
 
 To a man of woman born : 
 Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest ! 
 
 Thou'lt rise to morrow morn. 
 
 Never sadder tale was heard 370 
 
 By a man of woman born : 
 The Marineres all return 'd to work 
 
 As silent as beforne. 
 
 The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes, 
 
 But look at me they n'old : 
 Thought I, I am as thin as air 
 
 They cannot me behold.
 
 32 
 
 Till noon we .silently sail'd on 
 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship 380 
 
 Mov'd onward from beneath. 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep 
 
 From the land of mist and snow 
 The spirit slid : and it was He 
 
 That made the Ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left off their tune 
 
 And the Shi]) stood still also. 
 
 The sun right up above the masl 
 
 Had fix'd her to the oeean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir 390 
 
 With a short uneasy motion 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 
 With a short uneasv motion.
 
 38 
 
 Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the blood into my head, 
 
 And I fell into a swound. 
 
 How long in that same fit 1 lay, 
 
 I have not to deelare ; 
 
 But ere my living life return d. 400 
 
 I heard and in inv soul discern d 
 
 Two voiees in the air. 
 
 Is it lie? quoth one. " Is this the man ? 
 
 By him who died on cross. 
 ' With his cruel bow he lay'd full low 
 
 " The harmless Albatross. 
 
 "The spirit who 'bideth by himself 
 
 " In the land of mist and snow, 
 " He lov'd the bird that lov'd the man 
 
 " Who shot him with his bow. 110
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 Quoth he the man hath penance done, 
 
 And penance more will do.
 
 VI. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 " But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
 
 " Thy soft response renewing 
 " What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 
 " What is the Ocean doing ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 Still as a Slave before his Lord, 
 
 " The Ocean hath no blaft : 420 
 
 " His great bright eye most silently 
 
 ' Up to the moon is cast
 
 ; If he may know which wav to go. 
 
 '' For fhe guides him smooth or grim. 
 " See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 
 " She looketh down on him. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 ' But why drives on that ship so fast 
 " Withouten wave or wind ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 'The air is cut away before, 
 
 " And closes from behind. 430 
 
 "Fly, brother, Hy ! more high, more high. 
 
 " Or we fhall be belated : 
 ' For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 
 'When the Marinere's trance is abated."
 
 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather : 
 "1'was night, calm night, the moon was high ; 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck, 
 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 440 
 
 All fix'd on me their stony eyes 
 
 That in the moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 
 Had never pass'd away : 
 I could not draw my een from theirs 
 
 Ne turn them up to prav. 
 
 And in its time the spell was snapt. 
 
 And I could move mv een : 
 I look'd tar-forth, but little saw 
 
 Of what might else be seen. 450
 
 38 
 
 Like one, that on a lonely voad 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 And having once turn'd round, walks on 
 
 And turns no more his head : 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breath' d a wind on me, 
 
 Ne sound ne motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea 
 
 In ripple or in shade. 460 
 
 It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek, 
 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring 
 It mingled ftrangely with my fears, 
 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming.
 
 39 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
 
 Yet she sail'd softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze 
 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 O dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 
 The light-house top I see ? 470 
 
 Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk? 
 
 Is this mine own countree ? 
 
 We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar. 
 
 And I with sobs did pray 
 " C) let me be awake, my God ! 
 
 " Or let me fleep alway ! " 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moon light lay, 
 
 And the shadow of the moon. 480
 
 10 
 
 The moonlight bay was white all o'er, 
 
 Till rising from the same, 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were. 
 
 Like as of torches came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 Those dark-red shadows were ; 
 
 But soon I saw that mv own flesh 
 Was red as in a glare. 
 
 I turn'd my head in fear and dread, 
 
 And by the holy rood, 
 The bodies had advanc'd, and now 
 
 Before the ma ft they ftood. 
 
 They lifted up their ftift' right arms, 
 They held them ftrait and tight ; 
 
 And each right-arm burnt like a torch, 
 A torch that's borne upright. 
 
 Their stony eve-balls glitter'd on 
 In the red and smokv liyht.
 
 1 1 
 
 I pray'd and turn'd my head away 
 
 Forth looking as before. 500 
 
 There was no breeze upon the bay. 
 
 No wave against the shore. 
 
 The voek fhone bright, the kirk no less 
 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steep'd in silentness 
 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light, 
 
 Till rising from the same 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 In crimson colours came. 510 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 I turn'd my eyes upon the deck 
 
 () Thrift ! what saw I there?
 
 l-'J 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifelefs and flat ; 
 
 .And by the Holy rood 
 A man all light, a seraph-man. 
 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand : 
 
 It was a heavenly sight : 520 
 
 They stood as signals to the land. 
 Each one a lovely light : 
 
 This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand, 
 
 Xo voice did they impart 
 No voice ; but O ! the silence sank, 
 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 Eftsones I heard the dash of oars, 
 
 I heard the pilot's cheer : 
 My head was turn'd perforce away 
 
 And 1 saw a boat appear. T>30
 
 Then Viinish'd all the lovely lights : 
 
 'I'he bodies rose anew : 
 With silent pace, each to his place. 
 
 Came back the ghastly crew. 
 The wind, that shade nor motion made, 
 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 The pilot, and the pilot's boy 
 
 1 heard them coming fast : 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a jov. 
 
 'I'he dead men could not blast. 540 
 
 1 saw a third I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 He lingeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood.
 
 VII. 
 
 This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 
 Which slopes down to the Sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 He loves to talk with Marineres 550 
 
 That come from a far Contree. 
 
 He kneels at morn and noon and eve- 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 
 It is the moss, that wholly hides 
 The rotted old Oak-stump.
 
 The Skiff-boat ne'rd : I heard them talk, 
 
 " Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 ' Where are those lights so many and fair 
 
 " That signal made but now ? 
 
 " Strange, by my faith ! the Hermit said 560 
 " And they answer' d not our cheer. 
 
 " The planks look warp'd, and see those sails 
 " How thin they are and sere ! 
 
 " I never saw aught like to them 
 ' Unless perchance it were 
 
 ' The skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 " My forest brook along : 
 " When the Ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
 " And the Owlet whoops to the wolf below 
 
 " That eats the she-wolfs young. 570
 
 -"' Dear Lord ! it has a fiendish look 
 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 " I am a-fear'd. " Push on, push on ! 
 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The Boat came closer to the Shi}), 
 
 But I ne spake ne stirr'd ! 
 The Boat came close beneath the Ship, 
 
 And strait a sound was heard ! 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 
 Still louder and more dread : 5SO 
 
 It reach'd the Ship, it split the bay : 
 
 The Shi]) went down like lead. 
 
 Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound. 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote : 
 Like one that hath been seven days drown'd 
 
 Mv body lav afloat :
 
 But, swift as dreams, myself I found 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the Ship. 
 
 The boat spun round and round : fiiu 
 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I mov'd my lips : the Pilot shriek'd 
 
 And fell down in a fit. 
 The Holy Hermit rais'd his eyes 
 
 And pray'd where he did sit. 
 
 1 took the oars: the Pilot's bov. 
 
 Who now doth era/v go. 
 I*iugh'd loud and lony, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro, COO 
 
 Ha ! ha ! " quoth he ' full plain I see, 
 
 "The devil knows how to row."
 
 And now all in mine own Countree 
 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 " O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man ! 
 
 The Hermit cross'd his brow 
 "Say quick/' quoth he, " I bid thee say 
 
 " What manner man art thou ? 610 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd 
 
 With a woeful agony. 
 Which forc'd me to begin my tale 
 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 Since then at an uncertain hour, 
 
 Now oftimes and now fewer, 
 That anguish comes and makes me tell 
 
 My ghastly aventure.
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 
 I have strange power of speech ; 620 
 
 The moment that his face I see 
 I know the man that must hear me ; 
 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
 
 The Wedding-guests are there ; 
 But in the Garden-bower the Bride 
 
 And Bride-maids singing are : 
 And hark the little Vesper-bell 
 
 Which biddeth me to prayer. 
 
 O Wedding-guest ! this soul hath been C30 
 
 Alone on a wide wide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 
 Scarce seemed there to be.
 
 () sweeter than the Marriage-feast, 
 
 'Tis sweeter far to me 
 To walk together to the Kirk 
 
 With a goodly company. 
 
 To walk together to the Kirk 
 
 And all together pray, 
 
 While each to his great father bends, t>40 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 And Youths, and Maidens gay. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
 
 To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
 Me praveth well who loveth well 
 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 Me prayeth best who loveth best. 
 
 All tilings both great and small : 
 For the dear (!od. who loveth us. 
 
 He made and loveth all. 650
 
 The Marinere. whose eye is bright. 
 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 Is gone ; and now the wedding-guest 
 
 Ttirn'd from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went, lilA.' one that hath been stunn'd 
 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man 
 
 He rose the morrow morn.
 
 THE 
 
 F O .V T E R - M O T 11 E R ' \ T A L E , 
 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 FOSTER-MOTHER. 
 I never saw the man whom you describe. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 'Tis strange ! he spake of you familiarly 
 As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother. 
 
 FOSTER-MOTHER. 
 
 Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, 
 
 That joined your names with mine ! O my sweet lady, 
 
 As often as I think of those dear times 
 
 When you two little ones would stand at eve 
 
 On each side of my chair, and make me learn 
 
 All you had learnt in the day ; and how to talk
 
 In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you Jo 
 
 'Tis more like heaven to come than what lias been. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 O my dear Mother ! this strange man has left me 
 Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon 
 Breeds in the love-sick maid who ga/es at it, 
 Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye 
 She gazes idly !- But that entrance, Mother ! 
 
 FOSTER-MOTHER. 
 
 Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale ! 
 
 MARIA. 
 No one. 
 
 FOSTER-MOTHER. 
 
 My husband's father told it me, 
 Poor old Leoni ! Angels rest his soul ! 
 He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 20 
 
 With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 
 Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel ? 
 Beneath that tree, while vet it was a tree
 
 55 
 
 He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 
 
 With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 
 
 As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, 
 
 And reared him at the then Lord Velez' cost. 
 
 And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, 
 
 A pretty boy, but most unteachable 
 
 And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, 30 
 
 But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, 
 
 And whistled, as he were a bird himself: 
 
 And all the autumn 'twas his only play 
 
 To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them 
 
 With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. 
 
 A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, 
 
 A grey-haired man he loved this little boy, 
 
 The boy loved him and, when the Friar taught him, 
 
 He soon could write with the pen : and from that time, 
 
 Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. 40 
 
 So he became a very learned youth. 
 
 But Oh ! poor wretch ! he read, and read, and read, 
 
 Till his brain turned and ere his twentieth year,
 
 He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 
 
 And though he prayed, he never loved to pray 
 
 With holy men, nor in a holy place 
 
 But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 
 
 The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him. 
 
 And once, as by the north side of the Chapel 
 
 They stood together, chained in deep discourse, f>0 
 
 The earth heaved under them with such a groan. 
 
 That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen 
 
 Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened ; 
 
 A fever seized him, and he made confession 
 
 Of all the heretical and lawless talk 
 
 Which brought this judgment : so the youth was seized 
 
 And cast into that hole. My husband's father 
 
 Sobbed like a child it almost broke his heart : 
 
 And once as he was working in the cellar, 
 
 He heard a voice distinctly ; 'twas the youth's, 60 
 
 Who sung a doleful song about green fields, 
 
 How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah, 
 
 To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
 
 And wander up and down at liberty. 
 He always doted on the youth, and now 
 His love grew desperate ; and defying death, 
 He made that cunning entrance I described : 
 And the young man escaped. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 'Tis a sweet tale : 
 
 Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, 
 His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears. 
 And what became of him ? 
 
 FOSTER-MOTHER. 
 
 He went on ship-board 
 
 With those bold voyagers, who made discovery 
 Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother 
 Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 
 He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 
 Soon after they arrived in that new world, 
 In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, 
 And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight
 
 Up a great river, great as any sea, 
 
 And ne'er was heard of more : but 'tis supposed, 
 
 He lived and died among the savage men.
 
 LINES 
 
 LEFT UPON A SEAT IN 
 
 A YEW-TREK 
 
 WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, 
 
 ox A DESOLATE I'ARI' OK THE SHORE, 
 
 VET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT. 
 
 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 these barren boughs the bee not loves ; 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 
 That break against the shoi-e, shall lull thy mind 
 Hv one sort impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 Who he was 
 
 That piled J;hese stones, and with the mossy sod
 
 First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, 10 
 Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 
 I well remember. He was one who own'd 
 No common soul. 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 negleft : and so, his spirit damped 
 At once, with rash disdain he turned away, 
 And with the food of pride sustained his soul -20 
 In solitude. Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper ; 
 And on these barren rocks, with juniper, 
 And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, 
 Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour 
 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life :
 
 And lifting up his head, he then would ga/e ;w 
 
 On the more distant scene ; how lovely 'tis 
 
 Thou seest, and he would ga/e till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time, 
 
 Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, 
 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence, 
 
 The world, and man himself, appeared a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh 
 
 With mournful joy, to think that others felt 
 
 What he must never feel : and so, lost man ! 40 
 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 
 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 
 
 Ot young imagination have kept pure, 
 
 Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride, 
 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
 
 Is littleness ; that he, who feels contempt
 
 For any living tiling, hath faculties 
 
 Which he has never used ; that thought with him 50 
 
 Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Instrufted that true knowledge leads to love, 
 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
 
 Can still suspeft, and still revere himself, 
 
 In lowliness of heart. 60
 
 t 
 
 T HE NIG II T I N G A L E ; 
 
 A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 
 
 No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
 
 Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
 
 Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 
 Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge ! 
 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 
 
 But hear no murmuring : it flows silently 
 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
 
 A balmy night ! and tho' the stars be dim, 
 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find lu
 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 
 And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
 
 " Most musical, most melancholy "* Bird ! 
 
 A melancholy Bird ? O idle thought ! 
 
 In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night-wandering Man/vvhose heart was pierc'd 
 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
 
 Or slow distemper or neglected love, 
 
 (And so, poor Wretch ! fill'd all things with himself 
 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 20 
 
 Of his own sorrows) he and such as he 
 
 First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain ; 
 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit, 
 
 * '"'Most mnxiail, most melancholy." This passage in Milton 
 possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description : 
 it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has 
 therefore a tlrnmnfic propriety. The Author makes this remark, 
 to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity 
 to a line in Milton : a charge than which none could be more 
 painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his 
 Bible.
 
 Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme 
 
 When he had better far have streteh'd his limbs 
 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell 
 
 By sun or moonlight, to the influxes 
 
 Of shapes and sounds and shirting elements 
 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame ::o 
 
 Should share in nature's immortality, 
 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 
 Should make all nature lovelier, and itself 
 
 Be lov'd, like nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
 
 And youths and maidens most poetical 
 
 Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring 
 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 
 Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. ;',9 
 
 My Friend, and my Friend's Sister ! we have learnt 
 
 A different lore : we may not thus profane 
 
 Nature's sweet voiees always full of love
 
 66 
 
 And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
 
 As he were fearful, that an April night 
 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 
 Of all its music ! And I know a grove 
 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge 50 
 
 Which the great lord inhabits not : and so 
 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 
 So many Nightingales : and far and near 
 
 In wood and thicket over the wide grove 
 
 They answer and provoke eacli other's songs 
 
 Witli skirmish and capricious passagings, 
 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug jug (50 
 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than all
 
 67 
 
 Stirring the air with such an harmonv, 
 
 That should you close your eyes, you might almost 
 
 Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes, 
 
 Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd, 
 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, 
 
 Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle maid 
 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70 
 
 Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve, 
 (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate 
 To something more than nature in the grove) 
 Glides thro' the pathways ; she knows all their notes, 
 That gentle Maid ! and oft, a moment's space, 
 What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
 Hath heard a pause of silence : till the Moon 
 Emerging, hath awaken' d earth and sky
 
 68 
 
 With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds 
 
 Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 80 
 
 As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept 
 
 An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd 
 
 Many a Nightingale perch giddily 
 
 On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song, 
 
 Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 
 
 Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve, 
 
 And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
 
 We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
 
 And now for our dear homes. That strain again ! 90 
 
 Full fain it would delay me ! My dear Babe, 
 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound, 
 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
 
 His little hand, the small forefinger up, 
 
 And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise
 
 To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well 
 
 The evening star : and onee when he awoke 
 
 In most distressful mood (some inward pain !!) 
 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) 
 
 I harried with him to our orchard plot, 
 
 And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at onee 
 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
 
 While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears 
 
 Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well - 
 
 It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven 
 
 Should give me life, his ehildhood shall grow up 
 
 Familiar with these songs, that witli the night 
 
 He may associate Joy ! Once more farewell, 109 
 
 Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends ! farewell.
 
 FEMALE 
 
 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 dix/y depth below ! his boat and twinkling oar.
 
 70 
 
 My father was a good and pious man, 10 
 
 An honest man by honest parents bred, 
 
 And I believe that, soon as I began 
 
 To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 
 
 And in his hearing there my prayers I said : 
 
 And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
 
 I read, and loved the books in which I read ; 
 
 For books in every neighbouring house I sought, 
 
 And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. 
 
 Can I forget what charms did once adorn 
 
 My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, ^0 
 
 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.
 
 71 
 
 The staff' I yet remember which upbore 
 The beading body of my active sire ; 
 His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore 30 
 
 When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire ; 
 When market-morning came, the neat attire 
 With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd ; 
 My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, 
 When stranger passed, so often I have check'd ; 
 The red-breast known for years, which at my casement 
 peck'd. 
 
 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, 40 
 
 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. 
 
 ()*
 
 72 
 
 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. 50 
 
 His little range of water was denied ;* 
 
 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. 
 
 Can I forget that miserable hour, 
 
 When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, 
 
 Peering above the trees, the steeple tower, 
 
 That on his marriage-day sweet music made ? 
 
 Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid, 
 
 Close by my mother in their native bowers : 60 
 
 Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, 
 
 I could not pray: through tears that fell in showers, 
 
 Glimmer' d our dear-loved home, alas ! no longer ours ! 
 
 * Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fiflier- 
 inen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.
 
 There was a youth whom I had loved so long, 
 
 That when 1 loved him not I cannot say. 
 
 'Mid the green mountains many and many a song 
 
 We two had sung, like little birds in May. 
 
 When we began to tire of childish play 
 
 We seemed still more and more to prize each other : 
 
 We talked of marriage and our marriage day ; 70 
 
 And I in truth did love him like a brother, 
 
 For never could I hope to meet with such another. 
 
 His father said, that to a distant town 
 
 He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. 
 
 What tears of bitter grief till then unknown ! 
 
 What tender vows our last sad kiss delaved ! 
 
 To him we turned : we had no other aid. 
 
 Like one revived, upon his neck I wept, 
 
 And her whom lie had loved in joy, he said 
 
 He well could love in grief: his faith he kept ; 80 
 
 And in a quiet home once more my father slept.
 
 71- 
 
 Four years each day with daily bread was blest, 
 By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 
 Three lovely infants lay upon my breast ; 
 And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 
 And knew not why. My happy father died 
 When sad distress reduced the children's meal : 
 Thrice happy ! that from him the grave did hide 
 The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, 
 And tears that flowed for ills which patience could 
 
 not heal. 90 
 
 'Twas a hard change, an evil time was come ; 
 
 We had no hope, and no relief could gain. 
 
 But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum 
 
 Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain. 
 
 My husband's arms now only served to strain 
 
 Me and his children hungering in his view : 
 
 In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain : 
 
 To join those miserable men he flew ; 
 
 And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.
 
 There foul negleft for mouths and mouths we l>ore, 
 
 Nor yet the crowded Heet its anchor stirred. lul 
 
 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, 
 
 That happier days we never more must view : 
 
 The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew, 
 
 But from delay the summer calms were past. 
 
 On as we drove, the equinoftial deep 110 
 
 Han mountains-high before the howling blaft. 
 
 We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep 
 
 Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, 
 
 Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, 
 
 Our hopes such harvest of affliftion reap, 
 
 That we the mercy of the waves should rue. 
 
 We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew.
 
 76 
 
 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, 120 
 
 Unseen, unheard, umvatched 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, 
 
 Protraft a curst existence, with the brood 
 
 That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood. 
 
 The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, 
 
 Disease and famine, agony and fear, 
 
 In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 
 
 It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 130 
 
 All perished all, in one remorseless vear, 
 
 Husband and children ! one by one, by sword 
 
 And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear 
 
 Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 
 
 A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.
 
 Peaceful as some immeasurable plain 
 
 By the first beams of dawning light impress'tl, 
 
 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. 
 
 The very ocean has its hour of rest, 
 
 That comes not to the human mourner's breast. 140 
 
 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. 
 
 Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps ! 
 And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke, 
 Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps ! 
 The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke ! 
 The shriek that from the distant battle broke ! 
 The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host 150 
 Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke 
 To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd, 
 Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost !
 
 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 ! 160 
 For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild, 
 And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 
 
 Some mighty gulph of separation past, 
 I seemed transported to another world : 
 A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast 
 The impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd, 
 And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled 
 The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home, 
 And from all hope I was forever hurled. 
 For me farthest from earthly port to roam 170 
 
 Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might 
 come.
 
 And oft, robb'd of my perfeft mind, I thought 
 
 At last my feet a resting-place had found : 
 
 Here will I weep in peaee, (so fancy wrought,) 
 
 Roaming the illimitable waters round ; 
 
 Here watch, of every human friend disowned, 
 
 All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood 
 
 To break my dream the vessel reached its bound : 
 
 And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, 
 
 And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food. 
 
 By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, 181 
 
 Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock ; 
 
 Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, 
 
 Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. 
 
 I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cock 
 
 From the cross timber of an out-house hung ; 
 
 How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock ! 
 
 At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, 
 
 Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue.
 
 80 
 
 So passed another day, and so I he third : 1'JO 
 
 Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, 
 
 In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd, 
 
 Near the sea-side I readied a ruined fort : 
 
 There, pains which nature could no more support, 
 
 With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall ; 
 
 Dizzy my brain, with interruption short 
 
 Of hideous sense ; I sunk, nor step could crawl, 
 
 And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. 
 
 Recovery came with food : but still, my brain 
 Was weak, nor of the past had memory. -00 
 
 I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain 
 Of many things which never troubled me ; 
 Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, 
 Of looks where common kindness had no part, 
 Of service done with careless cruelty, 
 Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 
 And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead 
 man start.
 
 These things just served to stir the torpid sense, 
 
 Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 
 
 Memory, though slow, returned with strength ; and thenee 
 
 Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 211 
 
 At houses, men, and common light, amazed. 
 
 The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, 
 
 Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed ; 
 
 The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired, 
 
 And gave me food, and rest, more weleome, more desired. 
 
 My heart is touehed 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, 220 
 
 For all belonged to all, and each was chief. 
 
 No plough their fmews 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.
 
 82 
 
 Semblance, with straw and panmered ass, they made 
 
 Of potters wandering on from door to door : 
 
 But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 
 
 And other joys my fancy to allure ; 
 
 The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 23( 
 
 In barn u plighted, and companions boon 
 
 Well met from far with revelry secure, 
 
 In depth of forest glade, when jocund June 
 
 Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. 
 
 But ill it suited me, in journey dark 
 
 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch ; 
 
 To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, 
 
 Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch ; 
 
 The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, 
 
 The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 24( 
 
 And ear still busy on its nightly watch, 
 
 Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill ; 
 
 Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.
 
 What could I do, unaided and unblest ? 
 
 Poor Father ! gone was every friend of thine : 
 
 And kindred of dead husband are at best 
 
 Small help, and, after marriage such as mine, 
 
 With little kindness would to me incline. 
 
 Ill was I then for toil or service fit : 
 
 With tears whose course no effort could confine, 250 
 
 By high-way side forgetful would I sit 
 
 Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. 
 
 I lived upon the mercy of the fields, 
 
 And oft of cruelty the sky accused ; 
 
 On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 
 
 Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 
 
 The fields I for my bed have often used : 
 
 But, what afflifts my peace with keenest ruth 
 
 Is, that I have my inner self abused, 
 
 Foregone the home delight of constant truth, 260 
 
 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.
 
 Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, 
 In tears, the sun towards that country tend 
 Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 
 And now across this moor my steps I bend- 
 
 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. 270
 
 GOODY BLAKK, 
 
 AND 
 
 HARRY GIL 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Oh ! what's tin- matter? what's the matter 
 What is't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
 That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
 Chatter, chatter, chatter still. 
 Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
 Good duffle grey, and flannel fine ; 
 He has a blanket on his back, 
 And coats enough to smother nine.
 
 86 
 
 In March, December, and in July, 
 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 10 
 
 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 
 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 
 Young Harry was a lusty drover, 
 
 And who so stout of limb as lie ? 
 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, 
 
 His voice was like the voice of three. 20 
 
 Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, 
 
 111 fed she was, and thinly clad : 
 
 And any man who pass'd her door, 
 
 Might see how poor a hut she had.
 
 87 
 
 All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 
 
 And then her three hours' work at night ! 
 
 Alas ! 'twas hardly worth the telling, 
 
 It would not pay for candle-light. 
 
 This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, 
 
 Her hut was on a cold hill-side, 30 
 
 And in that country coals are dear, 
 
 For they come far by wind and tide. 
 
 By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
 
 Two poor old dames, as I have known, 
 
 Will often live in one small cottage, 
 
 But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. 
 
 'Twas well enough when summer came, 
 
 The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 
 
 Then at her door the canty dame 
 
 Would sit, as any linnet gay. 40
 
 88 
 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
 Oh ! then how her old bones would shake ! 
 You would have said, if you had met her, 
 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
 Her evenings then were dull and dead ; 
 Sad case it was, as you may think, 
 For very cold to go to bed, 
 And then for cold not sleep a wink. 
 
 Oil joy for her ! when e'er in winter 
 
 The winds at night had made a rout, 5o 
 
 And scatter' (1 many a lusty splinter, 
 
 And many a rotten bough about. 
 
 Yet never had she, well or sick, 
 
 As every man who knew her says, 
 
 A pile before-hand, wood or stick, 
 
 Enough to warm her for three days.
 
 Now, when the frost was past enduring, 
 
 And made her poor old bones to ache, 
 
 Could any thing be more alluring, 
 
 Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60 
 
 And now and then, it must be said, 
 
 When her old bones were cold and chill, 
 
 She left her fire, or left her bed, 
 
 To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 
 
 Now Harry he had long suspefted 
 
 This trespass of old Goody Blake, 
 
 And vow'd that she should be detected, 
 
 And he on her would vengeance take. 
 
 And oft from his warm fire he'd go, 
 
 And to the fields his road would take, 70 
 
 And there, at night, in frost and snow, 
 
 He watch'd to sei/e old Goody Blake.
 
 And once, behind a rick of barley, 
 
 Thus looking out did Harry stand ; 
 
 The moon was full and shining clearly, 
 
 And crisp with frost the stubble-land. 
 
 He hears a noise he's all awake 
 
 Again ? -on tip-toe down the hill 
 
 He softly creeps 'Tis Goody Blake, 
 
 She's at the hedge of Harry Gill. 80 
 
 Right glad was he when he beheld her : 
 Stick after stick did Goody pull, 
 He stood behind a bush of elder, 
 Till she had filled her apron full. 
 When with her load she turned about, 
 The bye-road back again to take, 
 He started forward with a shout, 
 And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
 
 And fiercely by the arm he took her, 
 
 And by the arm he held her fast, 90 
 
 And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 
 
 And cried, " I've caught you then at last ! " 
 
 Then Goody, who had nothing said, 
 
 Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
 
 And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd 
 
 To God that is the judge of all. 
 
 She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing, 
 
 While Harry held her by the arm 
 
 " God ! who art never out of hearing, 
 
 " O may he never more be warm ! " 100 
 
 The cold, cold moon above her head, 
 
 Thus on her knees did Goody pray, 
 
 Young Harry heard what she had said, 
 
 And icy-cold he turned away.
 
 He went complaining all the morrow 
 
 That he was cold and very chill : 
 
 His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
 
 Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
 
 That day he wore a riding-coat, 
 
 But not a whit the warmer he : 110 
 
 Another was on Thursday brought, 
 
 And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
 
 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 
 
 And blankets were about him pinn'd ; 
 
 Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 
 
 And all who see him say 'tis plain, 
 
 That, live as long as live he may, 
 
 He never will be warm again. 120
 
 No word to any man he utters, 
 A -bed or up, to young or old ; 
 But ever to himself he mutters, 
 " Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
 A-bed or up, by night or day ; 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 
 Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, 
 
 AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE 
 
 PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE 
 
 ADDRESSED. 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter than before, 
 The red-breast sings from the tall larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air, 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grass in the green field.
 
 96 
 
 My Sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done, 10 
 
 Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you, and pray, 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress, 
 And bring no book, for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 
 Our living Calendar : 
 
 We from to-day, my friend, will date 
 
 The opening of the year. 20 
 
 Love, now an universal birth. 
 From heart to heart is stealing, 
 From earth to man, from man to earth, 
 It is the hour of feeling.
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than fifty years of reason ; 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts may make, 
 Which they shall long obey ; 30 
 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above ; 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls, 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 Then come, my sister ! come, I pray, 
 
 With speed put on your woodland dress, 
 
 And bring no book ; for this one day 
 
 We'll give to idleness. 40 
 
 G
 
 SIMON LEE, 
 
 THE OLD HUNTSMAN, 
 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS 
 CONCERNED. 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 An old man dwells, a little man, 
 I've heard he once was tall. 
 Of years he has upon his back, 
 No doubt, a burthen weighty ; 
 He says he is three score and ten, 
 But others say he's eighty.
 
 A long blue livery-coat has he, 
 
 That's fair behind, and fair before ; 10 
 
 Yet, meet him where you will, you see 
 
 At once that he is poor. 
 
 Full five and twenty years he lived 
 
 A running huntsman merry ; 
 
 And, though he has but one eye left, 
 
 His cheek is like a cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound. 
 
 And no man was so full of glee ; 
 
 To say the least, four counties round 
 
 Had heard of Simon Lee ; '20 
 
 His master's dead, and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the hall of Ivor ; 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 
 
 He is the sole survivor.
 
 100 
 
 His hunting feats have him bereft 
 
 Of his right eye, as you may see : 
 
 And then, what limbs those feats have left 
 
 To poor old Simon Lee ! 
 
 He has no son, he has no child, 
 
 His wife, an aged woman, 30 
 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village common. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick, 
 
 His little body's half awry 
 
 His ancles they are swoln and thick 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 
 When he was young he little knew 
 
 Of husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 And now he's forced to work, though weak. 
 
 The weakest in the village. 40
 
 101 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind ; 
 
 And often, ere the race was done, 
 
 He reeled and was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
 Old Ruth works out of doors with him, 
 
 And does what Simon cannot do ; 5u 
 
 For she, not over stout of limb, 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 And though you with your utmost skill 
 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 
 Alas ! 'tis very little, all 
 
 Which they can do between them.
 
 102 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 
 Are poorest of the poor. 60 
 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 
 Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
 
 But what avails the land to them, 
 
 Which they can till no longer? 
 
 Few months of life has he in store, 
 
 As he to you will tell, 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 His poor old ancles swell. 
 
 My gentle reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you've waited, 70 
 
 And I'm afraid that you expeft 
 
 Some tale will be related.
 
 108 
 
 reader ! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 () gentle reader ! you would find 
 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 
 1 hope you'll kindly take it ; 
 
 It is no tale ; but should you think, 
 
 Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 80 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This old man doing all he could 
 About the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock totter'd in his hand ; 
 So vain was his endeavour 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have worked for ever. 
 
 8*
 
 104 
 
 " You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
 
 Give me your tool " to him I said ; 90 
 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 
 Received my proffer'd aid. 
 
 I struck, and with a single blow 
 
 The tangled root I sever'd, 
 
 At which the poor old man so long 
 
 And vainly had endeavour'd. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought, 
 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 
 They never would have done. 100 
 
 I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 
 With coldness still returning. 
 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 
 Has oftner left me mourning.
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, 
 
 SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY UK 
 TAUGHT. 
 
 I have a boy of five years old, 
 His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
 His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
 And dearly he loves me. 
 
 One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, 
 Our quiet house all full in view, 
 And held such intermitted talk 
 As we are wont to do.
 
 106 
 
 My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
 
 I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 10 
 
 My pleasant home, when spring began, 
 
 A long, long year before. 
 
 A day it was when I could bear 
 To think, and think, and think again ; 
 With so much happiness to spare, 
 I could not feel a pain. 
 
 My boy was by my side, so slim 
 And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
 And oftentimes I talked to him. 
 In very idleness. 2o 
 
 The young lambs ran a pretty race ; 
 The morning sun shone bright and warm ; 
 " Kilve," said I, " was a pleasant place, 
 :c And so is Liswyn farm.
 
 107 
 
 " My little boy, which like you more," 
 I said and took him by the arm 
 " Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, 
 " Or here at Lisvvyn farm ? " 
 
 " And tell me, had you rather be," 
 I said and held him by the arm, 30 
 
 " At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, 
 " Or here at Liswvn farm ? 
 
 In careless mood he looked at me, 
 While still I held him by the arm, 
 And said, " At Kilve I'd rather be 
 " Than here at Liswyn farm.'' 
 
 " Now, little Edward, say why so ; 
 
 My little Edward, tell me why ; " 
 
 " I cannot tell, I do not know." 
 
 "Why this is strange/' said I. 4u
 
 108 
 
 " For, here are woods and green-hills warm ; 
 " There surely muft some reason be 
 " Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
 " For Kilve by the green sea." 
 
 At this, my boy, so fair and slim, 
 Hung down his head, nor made reply : 
 And five times did I say to him, 
 " Why ? Edward, tell me why ? " 
 
 His head he raised there was in sight, 
 It caught his eye, he saw it plain 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright. 
 A broad and gilded vane. 
 
 Then did the boy his tongue unlock, 
 And thus to me he made reply ; 
 "At Kilve there was no weather-cock. 
 "And that's the reason why."
 
 109 
 
 Oh deareft, dearest boy ! my heart 
 
 For better lore would seldom yearn, 
 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 
 Of what from thee I learn. 60
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 A simple child, dear brother Jim, 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl, 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That cluster'd round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair. 
 Her beauty made me glad.
 
 Ill 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
 " How many may you be ? " 
 " How many ? seven in all," she said, 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they, I pray you tell ? " 
 
 She answered, " Seven are we, 
 
 " And two of us at Conway dwell. 
 
 " And two are gone to sea. 20 
 
 " Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 " My sister and my brother, 
 ' And in the church-yard cottage, I 
 ' Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 " And two are gone to sea, 
 " Yet you are seven ; I pray you tell 
 '* Sweet Maid, how this may be ? "
 
 112 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 30 
 
 " Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 "Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 <( You run about, my little maid, 
 " Your limbs they are alive ; 
 " If two are in the church-yard laid, 
 "Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
 The little Maid replied, 
 
 "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
 " And they are side by side. 40 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit, 
 " My 'kerchief there I hem ; 
 "And there upon the ground I sit 
 " I sit and sing to them.
 
 113 
 
 " And often after sunset, Sir, 
 " When it is light and fair, 
 " I take my little porringer, 
 " And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was little Jane ; 
 
 " In bed she moaning lay, 50 
 
 " Till God released her of her pain, 
 
 " And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the church-yard she was laid, 
 " And all the summer dry, 
 " Together round her grave we played, 
 " My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 " And I could run and slide, 
 
 " My brother John was forced to go, 
 
 "And he lies by her side." 60
 
 114 
 
 " How many are you then," said I, 
 "If they two are in Heaven ? " 
 The little Maiden did reply, 
 " O Master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 "Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
 'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven ! "
 
 LIN?: s 
 
 WRITTEN IN EAHLY SPRING. 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes, 
 While in a grove I sate reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it griev'd my heart to think 
 What man has made of man.
 
 116 
 
 Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes ; 10 
 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopp'd and play'd : 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure, 
 But the least motion which they made, 
 It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 
 That there, was pleasure there. 20 
 
 If I these thoughts may not prevent, 
 If such be of my creed the plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man ?
 
 THE 
 
 T II O H N. 
 
 I. 
 
 There is a thorn ; it looks so old, 
 
 In truth you'd find it hard to say, 
 
 How it could ever have been young, 
 
 It looks so old and grey. 
 
 Not higher than a two-years' child, 
 
 It stands ereft this aged thorn ; 
 
 No leaves it has, no thorny points ; 
 
 It is a mass of knotted joints, 
 
 A wretched thing forlorn. 
 
 It stands ereft, and like a stone 10 
 
 With lichens it is overgrown.
 
 118 
 
 II. 
 
 Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown 
 
 With lichens to the very top, 
 
 And hung with heavy tufts of moss, 
 
 A melancholy crop : 
 
 Up from the earth these mosses creep, 
 
 And this poor thorn they clasp it round 
 
 So close, you'd say that they were bent 
 
 With plain and manifest intent, 
 
 To drag it to the ground ; 20 
 
 And all had joined in one endeavour 
 
 To bury this poor thorn for ever. 
 
 III. 
 
 High on a mountain's highest ridge, 
 
 Where oft the stormy winter gale 
 
 Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 
 
 It sweeps from vale to vale ; 
 
 Not five yards from the mountain-path,
 
 119 
 
 This thorn you on your left espy ; 
 
 And to the left, three yards beyond, 
 
 You see a little muddy pond 30 
 
 Of water, never dry ; 
 
 I've measured it from side to side : 
 
 Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And close beside this aged thorn, 
 
 There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
 
 A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, 
 
 Just half a foot in height. 
 
 All lovely colours there you see, 
 
 All colours that were ever seen, 
 
 And mossy network too is there, 40 
 
 As if by hand of lady fair 
 
 The work had woven been, 
 
 And cups, the darlings of the eye, 
 
 So deep is their vermilion dye.
 
 120 
 
 V. 
 
 Ah me ! what lovely tints are there ! 
 
 Of olive-green and scarlet bright, 
 
 In spikes, in branches, and in stars, 
 
 Green, red, and pearly white. 
 
 This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss 
 
 Which close beside the thorn you see, 50 
 
 So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, 
 
 Is like an infant's grave in size 
 
 As like as like can be : 
 
 But never, never any where, 
 
 An infant's grave was half so fair. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now would you see this aged thorn, 
 
 This pond and beauteous hill of moss, 
 
 You must take care and chuse your time 
 
 The mountain when to cross. 
 
 For oft there sits, between the heap 60
 
 121 
 
 That's like an infant's grave in si/e, 
 
 And that same pond of which I spoke, 
 
 A woman in a scarlet cloak, 
 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 " Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 " Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! " 
 
 VII. 
 
 At all times of the day and night 
 This wretched woman thither goes, 
 And she is known to every star, 
 And every wind that blows ; 70 
 
 And there beside the thorn she sits 
 When the blue day-light's in the skies, 
 And when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
 Or frosty air is keen and still, 
 And to herself she cries, 
 " Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 " Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! "
 
 122 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Now wherefore thus, by day and night, 
 
 " In rain, in tempest, and in snow, 
 
 " Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80 
 
 " Does this poor woman go ? 
 
 " And why sits she beside the thorn 
 
 " When the blue day-light's in the sky, 
 
 " Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
 
 " Or frosty air is keen and still, 
 
 " And wherefore does she cry ? 
 
 " Oh wherefore ? wherefore ? tell me why 
 
 " Does she repeat that doleful cry ? " 
 
 IX. 
 
 I cannot tell ; I wish I could ; 
 
 For the true reason no one knows, HO 
 
 But if you'd gladly view the spot, 
 
 The spot to which she goes ; 
 
 The heap that's like an infant's grave,
 
 123 
 
 The pond and thorn, so old and grey, 
 Pass by her door 'tis seldom shut 
 And if you see her in her hut, 
 Then to the spot away ! 
 I never heard of such as dare 
 Approach the spot when she is there. 
 
 X. 
 
 " But wherefore to the mountain-top 100 
 
 " Can this unhappy woman go, 
 
 " Whatever star is in the skies, 
 
 ' Whatever wind may blow? " 
 
 Nay rack your brain 'tis all in vain, 
 
 I'll tell you every thing I know; 
 
 But to the thorn, and to the pond 
 
 Which is a little step beyond, 
 
 I wish that you would go : 
 
 Perhaps when you are at the place 
 
 You something of her tale may trace. 110
 
 124 
 
 XI. 
 
 I'll give you the best help I can : 
 
 Before you up the mountain go, 
 
 Up to the dreary mountain-top, 
 
 I'll tell you all I know. 
 
 Tis now some two and twenty years, 
 
 Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 
 
 Gave with a maiden's true good will 
 
 Her company to Stephen Hill ; 
 
 And she was blithe and gay, 
 
 And she was happy, happy still 120 
 
 Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And they had fix'd the wedding-day, 
 The morning that must wed them both ; 
 But Stephen to another maid 
 Had sworn another oath : 
 And with this other maid to church
 
 Unthinking Stephen went 
 
 Poor Martha ! on that woful day 
 
 A cruel, cruel fire, they say, 
 
 Into her bones was sent : 1?,0 
 
 It dried her body like a cinder, 
 
 And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They say, full six months after this, 
 
 While yet the summer-leaves were green, 
 
 She to the mountain-top would go, 
 
 And there was often seen. 
 
 'Tis said, a child was in her womb, 
 
 As now to any eye was plain ; 
 
 She was with child, and she was mad, 
 
 Yet often she was sober sad HO 
 
 From her exceeding pain. 
 
 Oh me ! ten thousand times I'd rather 
 
 That he had died, that cruel father !
 
 126 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Sad case for such a brain to hold 
 
 Communion with a stirring child ! 
 
 Sad case, as you may think, for one 
 
 Who had a brain so wild ! 
 
 Last Christmas when we talked of this. 
 
 Old Farmer Simpson did maintain, 
 
 That in her womb the infant wrought 150 
 
 About its mother's heart, and brought 
 
 Her senses back again : 
 
 And when at last her time drew near, 
 
 Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 
 
 XV. 
 
 No more I know, I wish I did, 
 And I would tell it all to you ; 
 For what became of this poor child 
 There's none that ever knew : 
 And if a child was born or no,
 
 There's no one that could ever tell ; 160 
 
 And if 'twas born alive or dead, 
 
 There's no one knows, as I have said, 
 
 But some remember well, 
 
 That Martha Ray about this time 
 
 Would up the mountain often climb. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And all that winter, when at night 
 
 The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 
 
 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, 
 
 The church-yard path to seek : 
 
 For many a time and oft were heard 170 
 
 Cries coming from the mountain-head. 
 
 Some plainly living voices were, 
 
 And others, I've heard many swear, 
 
 Were voices of the dead : 
 
 I cannot think, whate'er they say, 
 
 They had to do with Martha Hay.
 
 128 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But that she goes to this old thorn, 
 The thorn which I've described to you, 
 And there sits in a scarlet cloak, 
 I will be sworn is true. ISO 
 
 For one day with my telescope, 
 To view the ocean wide and bright, 
 When to this country first I came, 
 Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 
 I climbed the mountain's height : 
 A storm came on, and I could see 
 No objeft higher than my knee. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain, 
 
 No screen, no fence could I discover, 
 
 And then the wind ! in faith, it was 190 
 
 A wind full ten times over. 
 
 I looked around, I thought I saw
 
 129 
 
 A jutting crag, and off I ran, 
 
 Head-foremost, through the driving rain, 
 
 The shelter of the erag to gain, 
 
 And, as I am a man, 
 
 Instead of jutting crag, I found 
 
 A woman seated on the ground. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I did not speak I saw her face, 
 
 Her face it was enough for me ; 200 
 
 I turned about and heard her cry, 
 
 "O misery ! O misery !" 
 
 And there she sits, until the moon 
 
 Through half the clear blue sky will go, 
 
 And when the little breezes make 
 
 The waters of the pond to shake, 
 
 As all the country know, 
 
 She fhudders and you hear her cry, 
 
 " Oh misery ! oh misery !
 
 130 
 
 XX. 
 
 " But what's the thorn ? and what's the pond ? 210 
 
 " And what's the hill of moss to her ? 
 
 " And what's the creeping breeze that comes 
 
 "The little pond to stir?" 
 
 I cannot tell ; but some will say 
 
 She hanged her baby on the tree, 
 
 Some say she drowned it in the pond, 
 
 Which is a little step beyond, 
 
 But all and each agree, 
 
 The little babe was buried there, 
 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 2-20 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I've heard the scarlet moss is red 
 
 With drops of that poor infant's blood ; 
 
 But kill a new-born infant thus ! 
 
 I do not think she could. 
 
 Some say, if to the pond you go,
 
 LSI 
 
 And fix on it a steady view, 
 
 The shadow of a babe you trace, 
 
 A baby and a baby's face, 
 
 And that it looks at you ; 
 
 Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 230 
 
 The baby looks at you again. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And some had sworn an oath that she 
 
 Should be to public justice brought ; 
 
 And for the little infant's bones 
 
 With spades they would have sought. 
 
 But then the beauteous hill of moss 
 
 Before their eyes began to stir ; 
 
 And for full fifty yards around, 
 
 The grass it shook upon the ground ; 
 
 But all do still aver 240 
 
 The little babe is buried there, 
 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
 
 132 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I cannot tell how this may be, 
 
 But plain it is, the thorn is bound 
 
 With heavy tufts of moss, that strive 
 
 To drag it to the ground. 
 
 And this I know, full many a time, 
 
 When she was on the mountain high, 
 
 By day, and in the silent night, 
 
 When all the stars shone clear and bright, 250 
 
 That I have heard her cry, 
 
 " Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 " O woe is me ! oh misery ! "
 
 THE 
 
 LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 In distant countries I have been. 
 
 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, 
 
 And in the broad high -way, I met ; 
 
 Along the broad high-way he came, 
 
 His cheeks with tears were wet. 
 
 Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; 
 
 And in his arms a lamb he had. 10 
 
 1U
 
 He saw me, and he turned aside, 
 
 As if he wished himself to hide : 
 
 Then with his coat he made essay 
 
 To wipe those briny tears away. 
 
 I follow'd him, and said, " My friend 
 
 "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 
 
 When I was young, a single man, 
 
 And after youthful follies ran, 
 
 Though little given to care and thought. 
 
 Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought ; 
 
 And other sheep from her I raised, 
 
 As healthy sheep as you might see, 
 
 And then I married, and was 1'ich 
 
 As I could wish to be ; 
 
 Of sheep I number' d a full score, 
 
 And every year encreas'd my store. :3u
 
 Year after year my stock it grew, 
 And from this one, this single ewe, 
 Full fifty comely sheep I raised, 
 As sweet a flock as ever grazed ! 
 Upon the mountain did they feed ; 
 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 
 
 Ten 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 ask'd relief. 
 They said I was a wealthy man ; 
 My sheep upon the mountain 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 ? " SO 
 
 10*
 
 l.Sti 
 
 1 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, 
 
 To see the end of all my gains, 
 
 The pretty flock which I had reared 
 
 With all my care and pains, 
 
 To see it rnelt like snow away ! 
 
 For me it was a woeful day. GO 
 
 Another still ! and still another ! 
 
 A little lamb, and then its mother ! 
 
 It was a vein that never stopp'd, 
 
 Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd. 
 
 Till thirty were not left alive 
 
 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, 
 
 And I may say that many a time 
 
 I wished they all were gone : 
 
 They dwindled one by one away ; 
 
 For me it was a woeful day. 70
 
 1.-J7 
 
 To wicked deeds I was inclined, 
 
 And wicked fancies cross'd my mind. 
 
 And every man I chanc'd to see, 
 
 I thought he knew some ill of me 
 
 No peace, no comfort could I find, 
 
 No ease, within doors or without, 
 
 And crazily, and wearily, 
 
 I went my work about. 
 
 Oft-times I thought to run away ; 
 
 For me it was a woeful day. 80 
 
 Sir ! 'twas a precious Hock 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 ; 
 
 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 Hock, it seemed to melt away. ( .K)
 
 They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see ! 
 
 From ten to five, from five to three, 
 
 A lamb, a weather, and a ewe ; 
 
 And then at last, from three to two ; 
 
 And of my fifty, yesterday 
 
 J 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 mv flock." 100
 
 13!) 
 
 THE DUNGEON. 
 
 And this place our forefathers made for man ! 
 
 This is the process of our love and wisdom, 
 
 To each poor brother who offends against us 
 
 Most innocent, perhaps aud what if guilty ? 
 
 Is this the only cure ? Merciful God ? 
 
 Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up 
 
 By ignorance and parching poverty, 
 
 His energies roll back upon his heart, 
 
 And stagnate and corrupt ; till changed to poison, 
 
 They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot ; 
 
 Then we call in our pamper' d mountebanks 
 
 And this is their best cure ! uncomforted
 
 140 
 
 And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, 
 
 And savage faces, at the clanking hour, 
 
 Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, 
 
 By the lamp's dismal twilight ! So he lies 
 
 Circled with evil, till his very soul 
 
 Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed 
 
 By sights of ever more deformity ! 
 
 With other ministrations thou, O nature ! 20 
 
 Healest thy wandering and distempered child : 
 
 Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, 
 
 Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, 
 
 Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, 
 
 Till he relent, and can no more endure 
 
 To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, 
 
 Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 
 
 But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 
 
 His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
 
 By the benignant touch of love and beauty. 30
 
 MAD MOTHER 
 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 
 
 The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, 
 
 Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, 
 
 And she came far from over the main. 
 
 She has a baby on her arm. 
 
 Or else she were alone ; 
 
 And underneath the hay-stack warm, 
 
 And on the green-wood stone, 
 
 She talked and sung the woods among ; 
 
 And it was in the English tongue. 10
 
 1-1-2 
 
 " Sweet babe ! they say that- 1 am mad, 
 
 But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 
 
 And I am happy when I sing 
 
 Full many a sad and doleful thing : 
 
 Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 
 
 I pray thee have no fear of me, 
 
 But, safe as in a cradle, here 
 
 My lovely baby ! thou shalt be, 
 
 To thee I know too much I owe ; 
 
 I cannot work thee any woe. 20 
 
 A fire was once within my brain ; 
 
 And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
 
 And fiendish faces one, two, three, 
 
 Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. 
 
 But then there came a sight of joy ; 
 
 It came at once to do me good ; 
 
 1 waked, and saw my little boy, 
 
 My little boy of flesh and blood ; 
 
 Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 
 
 For he was here, and only he. 30
 
 1 1-:; 
 
 Suck, little babe, oh suck again ! 
 
 It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
 
 Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they 
 
 Draw from my heart the pain away. 
 
 Oh ! press me with thy little hand ; 
 
 It loosens something at my chest ; 
 
 About that tight and deadly band 
 
 I feel thy little fingers press'd. 
 
 The breeze I see is in the tree ; 
 
 It comes to cool my babe and me. 40 
 
 Oh ! love me, love me, little boy ! 
 
 Thou art thy mother's only joy ; 
 
 And do not dread the waves below, 
 
 When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ; 
 
 The high crag cannot work me harm, 
 
 Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; 
 
 The babe I carry on my arm, 
 
 He saves for me my precious soul ; 
 
 Then happy lie, for blest am I ; 
 
 Without me my sweet babe would die. 50
 
 144 
 
 Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 
 
 Bold as a lion I will be ; 
 
 And I will always be thy guide, 
 
 Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
 
 I'll build an Indian bower ; I know 
 
 The leaves that make the softest bed : 
 
 And if from me thou wilt not go, 
 
 But still be true 'till I am dead, 
 
 My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing, 
 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 60 
 
 Thy father cares not for my breast, 
 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest : 
 'Tis all thine own ! and if its hue- 
 Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
 My beauty, little child, is flown ; 
 But thou wilt live with me in love, 
 And what if my poor cheek be brown ? 
 'Tis well for me ; thou canst not see 
 How pale and wan it else would be. 70
 
 1 i.-> 
 
 Dread not their taunts, my little life ! 
 
 1 am thy father's wedded wife ; 
 
 And underneath the spreading tree 
 
 We two will live in honesty. 
 
 If his sweet boy he could forsake, 
 
 With me he never would have stay'd : 
 
 From him no harm my babe can take, 
 
 But he, poor man ! is wretched made, 
 
 And every day we two will pray 
 
 For him that's gone and far away. 80 
 
 I'll teach my boy the sweetest things ; 
 I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 
 My little babe ! thy lips are still, 
 And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. 
 Where art thou gone my own dear child ? 
 What wicked looks are those I see ? 
 Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, 
 It never, never came from me : 
 If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 
 Then I must be for ever sad. yo 
 
 K
 
 lib' 
 
 Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb ! 
 
 For I thy own dear mother am. 
 
 My love for thee has well been tried : 
 
 I've sought thy father far and wide. 
 
 I know the poisons of the shade, 
 
 I know the earth-nuts fit for food ; 
 
 Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ; 
 
 We'll find thy father in the wood. 
 
 Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! 
 
 And there, my babe ; we'll live for aye. 100
 
 T II E 
 
 IDIOT BOY.
 
 149 
 
 THE 
 
 IDIOT BOY. 
 
 Tis eight o'clock, a clear March night, 
 The moon is up the sky is blue, 
 The owlet in the moonlight air, 
 He shouts from nobody knows where ; 
 He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
 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? 
 
 I I
 
 1 .->() 
 
 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 ? 
 
 There's scarce a soul that's out of bed ; 
 Good Betty ! put him down again ; 
 His lips with joy they burr at you. 
 But, Betty ! what has he to do 
 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ? 
 
 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. 
 Oil ! Bettv she'll be in a friffht.
 
 But Betty's bent on her intent, 
 
 For her good neighbour, Susan (iale, 
 
 Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 
 
 Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 30 
 
 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, 
 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 (iale. 4o 
 
 What must be done ? what will betide ? 
 
 I 1
 
 1 M 
 
 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, 
 Or bringing faggots from the wood. 
 
 And he is all in travelling trim, 
 
 And by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
 
 Has up upon the saddle set, 
 
 The like was never heard of yet, 50 
 
 Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. 
 
 And he must post without delay 
 Across the bridge that's in the dale, 
 And by the church, and o'er the down. 
 To bring a doftor from the town, 
 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 M 
 
 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, 
 How turn to left, and how to right. 
 
 And Betty's most especial charge, 
 
 Was, " Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you 
 
 ' f Come home again, nor stop at all, 
 
 " Come home again, whate'er befal, To 
 
 " 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, 
 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, 80 
 
 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, 
 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's motionless and dead ; 
 The moon that shines above his head 90 
 
 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, 
 Oh ! happy, happy, happy John. 
 
 And Betty's standing at the door, 
 
 And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 
 
 Proud of herself, and proud of him, 
 
 She sees him in his travelling trim ; 100 
 
 How quietly her Johnny goes.
 
 156 
 
 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, 
 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. 110 
 
 And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 
 
 Away she hies to Susan dale : 
 
 And Johnny's in a merry tune, 
 
 The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, 
 
 And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 
 
 And 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, 120 
 
 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 
 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 doftor from the town, 13U 
 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
 
 158 
 
 And Betty, now at Susan's side, 
 Is in the middle of her story, 
 What comfort .Johnny soon will bring. 
 With many a most diverting thing. 
 Of Johnny's wit and Johnny's glory. 
 
 And Betty's still at Susan's side : 
 
 By this time she's not quite so flurried ; 
 
 Demure with porringer and plate 
 
 She sits, as if in Susan's fate 140 
 
 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, 
 To any that might need it.
 
 But yet 1 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, 150 
 
 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, 
 "They'll both be here before eleven." 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, 
 
 The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
 
 'Tis on the stroke " If Johnny's near," 
 
 Quoth Betty " he will soon be here, loo 
 
 "As sure as there's a moon in heaven."
 
 1 60 
 
 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 : 
 And Susan has a dreadful night. 
 
 And Betty, half an hour ago, 
 
 On Johnny vile refleftions cast ; 
 
 " A little idle sauntering thing ! " 
 
 With other names, an endless string. 170 
 
 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 doftor he has made him wait, 
 "Susan! they'll both be here anon."
 
 Itil 
 
 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 : 180 
 
 She's in a sad quandary. 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of one ; 
 But neither Doftor nor his guide 
 Appear along the moonlight road, 
 There's neither horse nor man abroad, 
 And Betty's still at Susan's side. 
 
 And Susan she begins to fear 
 
 Of sad mischances not a few, 
 
 That Johnny may perhaps be drown'd. 
 
 Or lost perhaps, and never found ; ivu 
 
 Which they must both for ever rue.
 
 i (te 
 
 She prefaced lialf a hint of this 
 With, "God forbid it should be true ! " 
 At the first word that Susan said 
 Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
 "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 "- 200 
 
 "Oh God forbid !" poor Susan cries. 
 
 "What can 1 dor" savs Bettv, going. 
 " What can I do to case vour pain : 
 " CJood Susan tell me, and I'll stay : 
 ' I fear you're in a dreadful way, 
 But I shall soon be back aain.'
 
 '' Good Betty 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, 210 
 
 Till she conies 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, 
 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. -j-20 
 
 'Twas Johnnv, Johnny, every where.
 
 She's past the bridge that's in the dale, 
 And now the thought torments her sore, 
 Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, 
 To hunt the moon that's in the brook, 
 And never will be heard of more. 
 
 And now she's high upon the down, 
 
 Alone amid a prospeft wide ; 
 
 There's neither Johnny nor his horse, 
 
 Among the fern or in the gorse ; 230 
 
 There's neither doftor 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, 
 " And joined the wandering gypsey-folk.
 
 " Or him that wicked pony's carried 
 
 'I'o the dark cave, the goblins' hall, 
 
 ' Or in the eastle he's pursuing, 
 
 " Among the ghosts, his own undoing ; -240 
 
 " 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, 
 " My Johnny, till my dying day." 
 
 Poor Betty ! in this sad distemper, 
 The doftor's self would hardly spare, 
 Unworthy things she talked and wild. 
 Even he, of cattle the most mild, 25u 
 
 The pony had his share.
 
 166 
 
 And now she's got into the town, 
 And to the doftor's door she hies ; 
 'Tis silence all on every side ; 
 The town so long, the town so wide, 
 Is silent as the skies. 
 
 And now she's at the doftor's door, 
 
 She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap, 
 
 The doftor at the casement shews, 
 
 His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ; 260 
 
 And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 
 
 " Oh Doftor ! Dodor 1 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, 
 " You know him him vou often see ;
 
 167 
 
 " He's not so wise as some folks be," 
 
 "The devil take his wisdom ! " said 
 
 The Doftor, looking somewhat grim, 
 
 " What, woman ! should I know of him ? " 270 
 
 And, grumbling, he went back to bed. 
 
 " O woe is me ! C) woe is me ! 
 
 " Here will I die ; here will I die ; 
 
 " 1 thought to find my Johnny here, 
 
 " But he is neither far nor near, 
 
 " 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 ; 280 
 
 The clock strikes three -a dismal knell ! 
 
 12*
 
 168 
 
 Then up along the town she hies, 
 
 No wonder if her senses fail, 
 
 This piteous news so much it shock'd her. 
 
 She quite forgot to send the Doftor. 
 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 And now she's high upon the down, 
 
 And she can see a mile of road, 
 
 "Oh cruel ! I'm almost three-score : 
 
 " Such night as this was ne'er before, -290 
 
 "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 Mowing. 
 The. grass you almost hear it growing. 
 You hear it now if e'er you can.
 
 Hij) 
 
 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, 300 
 
 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 pass'd, 
 And from the brink she hurries fast, 
 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 ! 310 
 
 " And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."
 
 170 
 
 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, 
 " 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. 320 
 
 To drown herself therein. 
 
 Oh reader ! now that I might tell 
 What Johnny and his horse are doing ! 
 What they've been doing all tin's time. 
 Oh could I put it into rhyme. 
 A most delightful tale pursuing !
 
 171 
 
 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, 330 
 
 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 like a silent horseman-ghost, 
 He travels on along the vale. 
 
 And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep, 
 
 A fierce and dreadful hunter he ! 
 
 Yon valley, that's so trim and green, 
 
 In five months' time, should he be seen, 340 
 
 A desart wilderness will be.
 
 172 
 
 Perhaps, with head and heels on fire. 
 And like the very soul of evil, 
 He's galloping away, away, 
 And so he'll gallop on for aye, 
 The bane of all that dread the devil. 
 
 I to the muses have been bound, 
 
 These fourteen years, by strong indentures ; 
 
 Oh gentle muses ! let me tell 
 
 But half of what to liim betel, :l. r >0 
 
 For sure he met with strange adventures. 
 
 Oh gentle muses ! is this kind ? 
 Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 
 Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
 And can ye thus unfriended leave me ? 
 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, 360 
 
 Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 
 
 L'nto his horse, that's feeding free, 
 He seems, I think, the rein to give : 
 Of moon or stars he takes no heed : 
 Of such we in romances read. 
 "I'is 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 water-fall she hears. 370 
 
 And cannot find her idiot bov.
 
 174 
 
 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 
 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, 380 
 
 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, 
 And fast she holds her idiot boy.
 
 175 
 
 And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud, 
 
 Whether in cunning or in joy, 
 
 I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
 
 Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs, 390 
 
 To hear again her idiot boy. 
 
 And now she's at the pony's tail, 
 And now she's at the pony's head, 
 On that side now, and now on this, 
 And almost stifled with her bliss, 
 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, she's happy there, 
 
 She is uneasy every where ; 400 
 
 Her limbs are all alive with joy.
 
 176 
 
 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, 
 You hardly can perceive his joy. 
 
 " Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doftor ; 
 
 " You've done your best, and that is all." 
 
 She took the reins, when this was said, 
 
 And gently turned the pony's head -no 
 
 From the loud water-fall. 
 
 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. 
 Though vet their tongues were still.
 
 i: 
 
 The pony, Betty, and her boy, 
 
 Wind slowly through the woody dale : 
 
 And who is she, he-times abroad, 
 
 That hobbles up the steep rough road ? 420 
 
 Who is it, but old Susan Gale ? 
 
 Long Susan lay deep lost in thought. 
 And many dreadful fears beset her, 
 Both for her messenger and nurse : 
 And as her mind grew worse and worse, 
 Her body it grew better. 
 
 She turned, she toss'd herself in bed, 
 
 On all sides doubts and terrors met her ; 
 
 Point after point did she discuss ; 
 
 And while her mind was fighting thus, iiiu 
 
 Her body still grew better.
 
 178 
 
 " 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, 
 
 As if by magic cured. 
 
 Away she posts 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, 440 
 
 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, 
 And with the owls must end.
 
 ITU 
 
 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, 460 
 
 " 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 
 From eight o'clock till five. 
 
 And thus to Betty's question, he 
 
 Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
 
 (His very words 1 give to you,) 
 
 " The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 460 
 
 " And the sun did shine so cold." 
 
 Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 
 
 And that was all his travel's story.
 
 180 
 
 LINES 
 
 \\R1TTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES- 
 
 AT KVEX1XG. 
 
 How rich the wave, in front, imprest 
 With evening-twilight's summer hues, 
 While, facing thus the crimson west, 
 The boat her silent path pursues ! 
 And see how dark the backward stream ! 
 A little moment past, so smiling ! 
 And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
 Some other loiterer be<niilin<>;.
 
 181 
 
 Such views the youthful bard allure, 
 
 But, heedless of the following gloom, 10 
 
 He deems their colours shall endure 
 
 'Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
 
 And let him nurse his fond deceit, 
 
 And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
 
 Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 
 
 Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ? 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
 
 O Thames ! that other bards may see, 
 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 
 As now, fair river ! come to me. 20 
 
 Oh glide, fair stream ! for ever so ; 
 
 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
 
 'Till all our minds for ever flow, 
 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 
 13
 
 Vain thought ! yet be as now thou art, 
 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 
 The image of a poet's heart. 
 
 How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
 
 Such heart did once the poet bless. 
 
 Who, pouring here a * later ditty. '.'O 
 
 Could find no refuge from distress, 
 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 
 Remembrance ! as we glide along. 
 For him suspend the dashing oar, 
 And pray that never child of Song- 
 May know his free/Jug sorrows more. 
 How calm ! how still ! the only sound. 
 The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
 The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest powers attended. -in 
 
 * Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the lafl written, 
 I believe, of the poems which were published during his 
 life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.
 
 EXPOSTULATION 
 
 AND 
 
 REPLY. 
 
 " Why William, on that old grey stone, 
 Thus for the length of half a day, 
 ' Why William, sit you thus alone, 
 "' And dream vour time away ? 
 
 Where are your books? that light bequeath'd 
 
 To beings else forlorn and blind ! 
 
 '' Up ! Up ! and drink the spirit breath'd 
 
 ' From dead men to their kind.
 
 184 
 
 " You look round on your mother earth, 
 
 " As if she for no purpose bore you ; 10 
 
 " As if you were her first-born birth, 
 
 "And none had lived before you ! " 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
 When life was sweet I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply. 
 
 ' The eye it cannot chuse but see, 
 
 " We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
 
 ' Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 
 ' Against, or with our will. 20 
 
 " Nor less I deem that there are powers, 
 " Which of themselves our minds impress, 
 " That we can feed this mind of ours, 
 " In a wise passiveness.
 
 185 
 
 " Think you, mid all this mighty sum 
 " Of things for ever speaking, 
 " That nothing of itself will come, 
 " But we must still be seeking ? 
 
 " Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 " Conversing as I may, 30 
 
 " I sit upon this old grey stone, 
 " And dream my time away."
 
 18(5 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED; 
 
 AN EVENING -SCENE, ON THE SAME SU13JECT. 
 
 Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks. 
 Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books, 
 Or surely you'll grow double. 
 
 The sun above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow, 
 
 Through all the long green fields has spread. 
 
 His first sweet evening vellow.
 
 Hooks ! 'tis a dull and endless strife, 
 Come, hear the woodland linnet, in 
 
 How sweet his music ; on my life 
 There's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 And he is no mean preacher; 
 Come forth into the light of things, 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless 
 Sjxmtaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by chearfulness. 2o 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man ; 
 Of moral evil and of good. 
 Thau all the- saire^ can.
 
 188 
 
 Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; 
 Our meddling intellect 
 Misshapes the beauteous forms of things ; 
 We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of science and of art ; 
 Close up these barren leaves ; 30 
 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives.
 
 189 
 OLD MAN TRAVELLING; 
 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY, 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 The little hedge-row 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 
 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 has such mild composure given, 10 
 That patience now doth seem a thing, of which 
 He hath no need. He is by nature led
 
 U)0 
 
 To peace so perfeft, that the young behold 
 With envy, what the old man hardly feels. 
 
 I asked him whither he was bound, and what 
 The objeft of his journey ; he replied 
 " Sir ! 1 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." 20
 
 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 OF \ FORSAKKN 
 
 I N D I A N W O M A N 
 
 [ When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable 
 to continue his Journey n-ith his companions ; he, is 
 left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is 
 supplied nith water, food, and fuel if the situation 
 of the place mil afford it. He is informed of the 
 track which his companions intend to pursue, and 
 if he is unable to folloir, or overtake them, he 
 perishes alone in the Desart ; unless lie should have 
 the good fortune to fall in irilh sonic other Tribes 
 of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that I lie 10 
 females are equally, or still more, exposed to the 
 same fate. See tlutl rcnj inlerexthig irork,
 
 192 
 
 Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the 
 Northern Ocean. When the Northern Lights, 
 as the same writer informs us, vary their position 
 in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling 
 noise. Tim circumstance is alluded to in the 
 first stanza of the following poem .]
 
 THE COMPLAINT, 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 Oil let my body die away ! 
 In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 
 The stars they were among my dreams ; 
 Jn sleep did I behold the skies, 
 I saw the crackling flashes drive ; 
 And yet they are upon my eyes, 
 And yet I am alive. 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 Oh let my body die away ! 10
 
 19-1- 
 
 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, 
 
 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 
 
 Alas ! you might have dragged me on 
 
 Another day, a single one ! 
 
 Too soon despair o'er me prevailed ; 
 
 Too soon my heartless spirit failed ; 
 
 When you were gone my limbs were stronger, 
 
 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, 
 
 My friends, when you were gone away. 30
 
 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, 
 
 A most strange something 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 little child. 40 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh wind that o'er my head art Hying, 
 
 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, you went away ; 
 
 For I had many things to say. 50
 
 196 
 
 I'll follow you across the snow, 
 
 You 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 
 
 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 
 
 My journey will be shortly run, 
 
 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 
 
 For once could have thee close to me, 
 
 With happy heart I then would die, 
 
 And my last thoughts would happy be. 
 
 I feel my body die away, 
 
 I shall not see another day. 70
 
 T HE CO X V I C: T 
 
 The glory of evening was spread through the west ; 
 
 On the slope of a mountain I stood. 
 While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest 
 
 Rang loud through the meadow and wood. 
 
 '"' And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?" 
 
 In the pain of my spirit I said, 
 And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair 
 
 To the cell where the convift is laid. 
 
 The thick-ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate 
 Resound ; and the dungeons unfold : 10 
 
 I pause ; and at length, through the glimmering grate, 
 That outcast of pity behold. 
 
 11
 
 198 
 
 His black matted head on his shoulder is bent, 
 
 And deep is the sigh of his breath, 
 And with stedfast dejeftion his eyes are intent 
 
 On the fetters that link him to death. 
 
 'Tis sorrow enough on that visage to ga/e, 
 
 That body dismiss'd from his care ; 
 Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays 
 
 More terrible images there. 20 
 
 His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried, 
 
 With wishes the past to undo ; 
 
 And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him, 
 descried, 
 
 Still blackens and grows on his view. 
 
 When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field, 
 
 To his chamber the monarch is led, 
 All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield, 
 
 And quietness pillow his head.
 
 199 
 
 But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze, 
 And conscience her tortures appease, 30 
 
 'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose ; 
 In the comfortless vault of disease. 
 
 When his fetters at night have so press'd on his limbs, 
 That the weight can no longer be borne, 
 
 If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims, 
 The wretch on his pallet should turn, 
 
 While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain, 
 From the roots of his hair there shall start 
 
 A thousand sharp punftures of cold-sweating pain, 
 And terror shall leap at his heart. 40 
 
 But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye, 
 
 And the motion unsettles a tear ; 
 The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, 
 
 And asks of me why I am here.
 
 200 
 
 Poor viftim ! no idle intruder has stood 
 
 " With o'erweening complacence our state to compare, 
 " But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good, 
 "Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share. 
 
 " At thy name though compassion her nature resign, 
 " Though in virtue's proud mouth thy report be a 
 stain, 50 
 
 " My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, 
 
 " Would plant thee where vet thou might'st blossom 
 again."
 
 201 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN A KEW MILES ABOVE 
 
 TIXTERN ABBEY, 
 
 ON REVISITING THE BANKS OK THE WYE DURING 
 A TOUR, 
 
 July 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have passed ; five summers, with the length 
 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 
 With a sweet inland murmur.* Once again 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 
 Which on a wild secluded scene impress 
 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and conneft 
 
 * The river is not affeifled by the tides a few miles 
 above Tintern.
 
 202 
 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 
 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
 Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
 Among the woods and copses lose themselves, 
 Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb 
 The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms 
 Green to the very door ; and wreathes of smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem, 20 
 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 The hermit sits alone. 
 
 Though absent long, 
 These forms of beauty have not been to me,
 
 203 
 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din 
 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, 
 
 And passing even into my purer mind 30 
 
 With tranquil restoration : feelings too 
 
 Of unremembered pleasure ; such, perhaps, 
 
 As may have had no trivial influence 
 
 On that best portion of a good man's life ; 
 
 His little, nameless, unremembered afts 
 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 
 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 40 
 
 Of all this unintelligible world 
 
 Is lighten'd : that serene and blessed mood, 
 
 In which the affections gently lead us on,
 
 201 
 
 L'ntil, the breath of this corporeal frame, 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, \ve are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 50 
 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, 
 In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. 
 How oft, in spirit, have 1 turned to thee 
 O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer through the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought,
 
 With many recognitions dim and faint. Go 
 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 
 
 The pifture of the mind revives again : 
 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope 
 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when 
 
 first 
 
 I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 70 
 
 Wherever nature led ; more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing lie loved. For nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by,) 
 To me was all in all. I cannot paint
 
 206 
 
 What then I was. The sounding cataraft 
 Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colours and their fomis, were then to me 80 
 An appetite : a feeling and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. That time is 
 
 past, 
 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur : other gifts 
 Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 
 Abundant recompence. For I have learned 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 90 
 
 Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes 
 The still, sad music of humanity, 
 Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power
 
 207 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man, 100 
 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objefts of all thought, 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
 
 And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
 
 From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
 
 Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,* 
 
 * This line has a close resemblance to an admirable 
 line of Young, the exadl expression of which I cannot 
 recolledl.
 
 208 
 
 And what perceive : well pleased to recognize 
 
 In nature and the language of the sense, 
 
 The anchor of my pureft thoughts, the nurse, 110 
 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor, perchance, 
 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
 Of this fair river ; thou, my deareft Friend, 
 My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch 
 The language of my former heart, and read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 120 
 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 
 My dear, dear Sister ! And this prayer I make, 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray
 
 209 
 
 The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege. 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, IIH.I 
 Xor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 Shall e'er prevail againlt us. or difturb 
 Our chearful faith that all which we behold 
 Is full of blefiings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain winds be free 
 To blow against thee : and in after years, 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind MO 
 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 o
 
 210 
 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; Oh ! then, 
 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, 
 
 If I should be, where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of paft exiftence, wilt thou then forget 150 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
 We stood together ; and that I, so long 
 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came, 
 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 
 With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal 
 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 
 More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake. 160
 
 E R R A T A. 1 
 
 Page 
 
 10 for " fog smoke-white," read " fog-smoke white.' 
 
 18 " those," read " these." 
 
 50 Omit the comma after ' loveth well." 
 14O after "clanking hour," place a comma. 
 203 omit the sixth line from the bottom, 
 
 " And the low copses coming from the trees 
 
 [Corrected in thi* reprint.}
 
 NOTES 
 
 PAGE 1. In 1800 on pp. 1 and 5 the title became : ' The 
 Ancient Mariner. A Poet's Reverie.' In the revised copy 
 of 1800 (from which the printer worked for ed. 1802) 
 ' A Poet's Reverie ' is carefully erased (perhaps in deference 
 to C. Lamb's protest) on p. 5, but on the half-title, p. 1, it 
 was overlooked, and remained there in edd. 1802 and 1805. 
 The ' Argument' and the text underwent considerable altera- 
 tion in 1800, but in 1802 the most significant change was the 
 correction of a misprint, 'agency', into 'agony', in aline 
 ("That agency returns') which replaced 1. GIG. The 
 'Argument' was omitted in 1802 and 180.5. The student 
 should compare the final (and much enriched) text, as given 
 in 1817 in Sibylline Leave* (and in modern editions), with the 
 first version. The chief early changes may he briefly noted 
 from the 1800 text here, under the following five heads : 
 
 i. Diminished archaism : Ancient, Mariner, choose, min- 
 strelsy, cold (1. -50, cauld), emerald, nor (for ne), as if (an, 
 1. 47), without a (11. 161, 428), between (atween, 1. 203), 
 ghastly (eldritch, 1. 234), April hoar-frost spread (1. 2GO), 
 given (yeven, 1. 280), skylark (Lavrock, 1. 348), laid (lay'd, 
 1. 40.5), eyes (een, 1. 445 ; rhyme-word changed, 1. 448). But 
 soon (Eftsones, 1. 527), &c. 
 
 ii. Diminished quaintness or grotesqueness : 1.47 became 
 ' And Southward still for days and weeks' ; 1. GO : 'A wild 
 and ceaseless sound ' ; 1. 83 : ' Still hid in mist ; and on the 
 left'; 1. 320; 'Vet now the Ship mov'd on'. (Line 1(5 
 changed in 1817).
 
 214 NOTES 
 
 iii. Diminished matter-of-factness or realism : 11. 13D-40 
 replaced by a new stanza : 
 
 So past a weary time ; each throat 
 Was parch'd, and glaz'd each eye, 
 When, looking westward, I beheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 (L. 65 was changed in 1817 to ' It ate the food it ne'er 
 had eat'.) 
 
 iv. Diminished horror : 11. 177-8 became : 
 
 Are those her Ribs, through which the Sun 
 Did peer, as thro' a grate ? 
 
 and 1. 180: That Woman, and her Mate? (Lines 181-85 
 went out in 1817, and 11. 189-5)0 were then modified.) 
 11. r!37-8 were replaced by : 
 
 ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 
 Be calm, thou wedding guest ! 
 Twas not those souls, that fled in pain, 
 Which to their corses came again, 
 But a troop of spirits blest : ' 
 
 v. Diminished iteration : 1800 edition omits 11. .302-77 ; 
 481-502 ; and 531-36. 
 
 Wordsworth's contributions: 'Much the greatest part of 
 the story' (Wordsworth told Miss Fenwick) 'was Mr. 
 Coleridge's invention, but certain parts I suggested ; for 
 example, some crime was to be committed which should 
 bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards 
 delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a con- 
 sequence of that crime and his own wanderings'. W. had 
 been reading about albatrosses in Shelvocke's Voyages, and 
 suggested that Coleridge should represent the mariner as 
 killing one ' on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary 
 spirits of those regions take upon them to avenge the crime '. 
 W ' . also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead 
 men. 'Hie lines 218-1) were by Wordsworth, who also claimed
 
 NOTES 215 
 
 to have written lines 17-20. But on the whole, W. ' had 
 very little share in the composition of it, for I soon found ' 
 (he told Dyce) ' that the style of Coleridge and myself would 
 not assimilate'. The note that Wordsworth appended to 
 the A. M. in 1800 will he found in Mr. Dykes Campbell's 
 ed. of Coleridge's Poeins, p. 55)6, with much other matter. 
 
 Coleridge's sources: These cannot be certainly identified, 
 hut some of them may perhaps be noted, at least as having 
 furnished unconscious suggestions. Some of his archaisms, 
 and to some extent his metrical forms, came from Percy's 
 modified ballad of ' Sir Cauline ' ; other archaisms have been 
 traced to Chaucer. There is a spell-driven vessel in Macbeth, 
 and a ' man forbid ', under a fatal ban : ' Though his bark 
 shall not be lost, Vet it shall be tempest-tost'. Another echo 
 of Shakespeare may be in the voices of the element that 
 recall Ariel's spirit music. The voyages of the Elizabethan 
 seamen and early arctic explorers, and the legend of the 
 Flying Dutchman ; the story of the Wandering Jew, like 
 that of Cain, that had so strange an interest for the men of 
 Coleridge's time (see De Quincey's W r ks. , xiii. 195, ed. 
 Masson) ; the descriptions of the calenture and its delirium ; 
 the Antic Deaths of Holbein's grim woodcuts and of the 
 Kmblematists, dicing for the souls of men ; the binding power 
 of the eye of fascination ; the personifications of mediaeval 
 allegory (Mr. Hutchinson refers to the description of Ydelnesse 
 in the Romaunt of the Rose, 11. 539-640, as having possibly 
 suggested the nightmare-woman) ; the symbolism and figures 
 and pious ejaculations of mediaeval religion ; the seraph- 
 bands of mediaeval art ; the eerie atmosphere, the ' hand of 
 glory', and the spectre-lore of romance ; the ballad-tone of 
 the north countree, and the covenanter's kirk ; the Quantock 
 scenery, with the restless gossameres, and the singing of brooks 
 in summer nights ; the pains of sleeplessness and the horror 
 of troubled dreams ; the marvels seen from shipboard, such 
 
 15*
 
 21 6 NOTES 
 
 as that ' beautiful white cloud of foam at momently intervals' 
 coursing by the side of the vessel (see Satyrane's Letters, in 
 Biog. p. 245), and the ' little stars of flame ' that ' danced and 
 sparkled and went out in it ' ; the doctrine of the new 
 humanitarianism, and the mysticism of the Coleridgean faith, 
 summing all in the lesson of Divine love : these may be 
 some of the elements out of which this wondrous poem was 
 wrought. 
 
 PAGE 18. 'those' occurs twice on the page and lias been 
 twice corrected to ' these' (see Errata, p. 211). It should be 
 noted, however, that in 1800 this correction in 1798 Errata 
 was ignored, and ' those ' was left as the reading in lines 
 177, 179. 
 
 PAGE 53. The Foster-Mothers Tale. An excerpt from 
 Coleridge's tragedy of Osorio (1797). In 1800 lines 1-16 (to 
 ' idly ! ') and 11. 69-70 were omitted. 
 
 PAGE 59. The Lines left upon a Sent, &:c. , indicate the growth 
 of Wordsworth's philosophic opinions to the large humanity 
 shown in the Tin tern poem. He worked over these lAnes 
 very carefully from time to time, introducing modifications, 
 in 1800 especially. Thus, ' genius ' (1. 13) became ' Science ' ; 
 11. 18-19 were expanded to six lines by a simile (dropped in 
 1802). In 1815 the 'glancing sandpiper' became 
 
 the sand-lark, restless Bird, 
 Piping along the margin of the lake. 
 
 But in 1820 the ' glancing sandpiper ' was restored. In 1800 
 after 1. 34 a new line 
 
 When Nature had subdued him to herself 
 
 was interposed. 
 
 PAGE 63. The Nightingale. By Coleridge ; replacing Lewti. 
 Ed. 1800 omits 11. 64-9 ('On moonlight' to 'love-torch'.) 
 The ' most gentle maid ' of 1. 69 was Miss Ellen Cruikshank, 
 sister of Coleridge's friend whose ' dream ' was said to have
 
 NOTES 2 1 7 
 
 been one of the predisposing causes of the Ancient Mariner. 
 The castle was Enmore Castle. 
 
 PAGE 69, ft. The Female Vagrant. This poem was begun in 
 1793, and underwent very thorough revision for the edition of 
 1802, but was further cut down in 1815. In 1820 some parts 
 were restored, but the harsh Landlord was handled less severe- 
 ly than in the earlier versions, written before W. had become 
 a ' lost leader '. Indeed the poem of 1798 breathes the spirit 
 of the revolutionary Wordsworth, but with a difference. 
 Beaupuy had said to him (pointing to a starving peasant- 
 girl), ' It is against that we are fighting' : and Ws poem utters 
 a kindred protest against ' what man has made of man ', as 
 seen in the horrors of war and the miseries and ' crime ' of the 
 poorer classes. Tin's poem finally became part of the longer 
 and quite early poem entitled Guilt and Sorrow, which, like 
 the Borderers, W. kept by him for many years, and consider- 
 ably modified before publication in its full extent in 1842. 
 
 PACK 85. Goody Blake, &c. W . gives his view of the aim 
 of this poem in his Preface. In 1820 he changed 11. 29-33 to 
 
 Remote from sheltering village-green 
 Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt, 
 \V here from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 
 And hoary dews are slow to melt. 
 
 PACK 95. Lines, &c. This poem lias been cited as if it 
 embodied in carefully measured language one of the poet's 
 main philosophical, tenets, but is it, after all, much more than 
 an expression of his ecstatic delight that ' sumer is icumen 
 in ' : that the 'first mild day in March ', after a bleak winter, 
 has at last arrived ? External nature and the heart of man 
 alike seem dowered with new gifts of life and new powers of 
 enjoyment, and this new joy is poured forth in terms of 
 ' natural piety '. Is not this abandonment of self to the 
 ecstasy of faith- a faith that ' all's well with the world ' if we 
 surrender our whole selves to the feelings inspired, and not
 
 218 NOTES 
 
 any set philosophic dogma what we mean when we speak of 
 Ws ' gift of rest ' to men ? 
 
 Edward a syllabic equivalent for Basil was Basil 
 Montagu's son, who had been staying with the Wordsworths, 
 first at Racedown and later at Alfoxden : the ' boy of five 
 years old', to whom our sympathies go out when he prefers 
 Kilve without a weather-cock to Liswyn with one ! 
 
 PAGE 98. The text of Simoji Lee underwent certain 
 changes. In 1802 the fourth stanza (11. 25-32) was placed 
 after 1. 59. In 1820 the first two lines of this stanza were 
 replaced as in 1798, but the following lines became : 
 
 And Simon to the world is left 
 
 In liveried poverty. 
 
 AVHien he was young (etc. as 11. 36-40). 
 
 Then came 11. 41-8 without alteration, after which 11. 33-6, 
 were changed to 
 
 But he is lean and he is sick, 
 His dwindled body half awry, 
 Rests upon ancles swoln, <tc. 
 
 and the stanza was completed by 11. 29-32. In 1820 11. 4-12 
 were also omitted. 
 
 PAGE 105. The Anecdote for Fathers was criticized by 
 Coleridge (1817), and W. tried to meet the objections by 
 alterations in later years. Mr. Hutchinson says that W. 
 ' partly masks the truth ' by substituting Kilve (a village near 
 Alfoxden) for Racedown, and Llyswen (John Thelwall's farm 
 on the Wye) for Alfoxden. The final reflection has a re- 
 semblance of manner to that at the close of Simon Lee, and 
 the thought could I but teach, &c. foreshadows the 'best 
 Philosopher ' of the great Ode. 
 
 PAGE. 110. We (ire Seven illustrates Ws definition of poetry 
 as expressing 'emotion recollected in tranquillity', for the 
 incident occurred at doodrich C'astle in 1793 and the poem
 
 NOTES 2 1 9 
 
 WAS written in 1798. The first stanza was by Coleridge, and 
 ' dear Brother Jim ' (who was cut out in 1815) jocularly 
 alluded to James Tobin. In Oxford Lectures on Poetry, p. 140, 
 Prof. Bradley propounds a new view of this poem. 
 
 PAUK 115. These lines are, in a sense, a pendant to the 
 train of thought in the Female Vagrant and Simon Lee, as The 
 Last of the Flock is likewise. In 1820 1. 22 became : ' If such 
 be nature's holy plan '. 
 
 PAGK 117. Tlie Thorn came in for criticism in the early 
 days. The story was devised by W. to fit the landscape, 
 with a view to illustrating the power of imagination. In 
 1800-5 a long note amplifying the statement in the 
 'Advertisement' of ed. 1798 describes the type of man 
 who is supposed to tell the story : a retired captain of a small 
 coaster, unemployed, superstitious and credulous, ready to 
 retail any t yarn ' concerning local scandal. Thus the poem 
 complies with the theoretic ' language of conversation in the 
 middle and lower classes' as an experiment in dramatic 
 diction, and is at the same time implicitly a psychological 
 study of a self-revealed character. Some touches e.g. the 
 telescope suggest the seafaring narrator. Yet we cannot 
 help inquiring whether, without this Advertisement, we 
 should have suspected the existence of this garrulous 
 intermediary between us and the story ; and if not, whether 
 he is to be regarded as relevant and necessary. We do not 
 think of the speaker, but of the story : a true lyrical ballad, 
 realistic and intense. No one can get the ring of that terrible 
 moan out of his ears, or fail to see in thought that form of 
 misery beside the wind-swept thorn. As usual, the text 
 underwent change. 11. 104-14 were struck out in 1820, and 
 'Old Father Simpson' (1. 149) became 'grey-haired Wilfred of 
 the glen' a somewhat un- Wordsworth ian alteration. 
 
 PA<;K 139. The, Dungeon is an excerpt from Coleridge's 
 Osorio. Omitted 1802.
 
 'J20 NOTES 
 
 PAGE 141. The Mad Mother might almost be viewed as a 
 dramatic monologue by the poor woman whose story formed 
 the groundwork of Ruth. It is curious to note the number 
 of ways in which our poets dealt with the theme of mental 
 derangement. 
 
 PAGE 149. The Idiot Boy is an example of the way in which 
 W. went to an extreme in order to enforce his view of a 
 principle. Maternal love is one of the greatest glories of 
 the human race, therefore let us take it as manifested towards 
 the least human object the idiot child. In regard to such 
 children, too, the affections are found in greater simplicity 
 and purity among the lower classes, as W . maintained, for 
 the poor cherish an idiot child when parents of higher rank 
 might put it away from sight in some asylum. Thus the 
 poem has value from the point of view of W's theory. 
 Whether it has equal value as a poem may be questioned, 
 but poetic values must be ' felt in the blood, and felt along 
 the heart ' of each one of us. 
 
 PAGE 180. These Lines were divided at 1. 1(5 in 1800, and 
 the second portion headed : ' Written near Richmond upon 
 the Thames'. In 1802 this became the secondary title, and 
 the heading Remembrance of Collins. The two pieces, with 
 other matter, were also shifted to the second volume, to 
 make room for the extended Preface. The poem was originally 
 composed in 1789. 
 
 PAGE 183. Expostulation) &c. This and the following poem 
 (The Table* Turned) arose, we are told in the Advertisement, 
 from a conversation with a friend (probably William Hazlitt), 
 but W. changes the person in the former poem, connecting 
 it definitely with his old teacher (partly drawn from William 
 Taylor, the ( gray-haired man of glee '), while in the latter 
 the philosophic and over-bookish friend may have been the 
 object of exhortation. As 'philosophic pronouncements', 
 these poems seem to be on a par with the Linen (p. Do) evoked
 
 NOTES 221 
 
 by ' the first mild day of March '. They express a point of 
 view, not a formal opinion. 
 
 PAOK 189. In 1800 the sub-title became the heading, and 
 the words Old Man Travelling: were omitted. In 1815 the 
 poem ended with 1. 14. But in vol. ii of 1800 the poem of 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar had been published, and the final 
 details were then felt to be unnecessary. 
 
 PAOK 193. Another beautiful example of the power of 
 maternal love, and the still sad music of life and death. 
 
 PAOE 197. The Convict. Omitted 1800 and never reprinted 
 by W. In the Athenaeum of 27 Aug. 1904, Mr. R. A. Potts 
 printed the first version of what he justly describes as this 
 ' curiously immature composition ', which he unearthed from 
 the Morning Pot of Dec. 14, 1707, where it is signed 
 ' Mortimer '. This was Coleridge's assumed name sometime*, 
 whence Mr. Potts conjectured that W. had given C. a copy 
 and that ('. had sent it to the paper in his own name to 
 appease the editorial craving for ' copy '. There is a final set 
 of four lines after 1. 52 : - 
 
 Vain wish .' Yet misdeem not that vainly 1 grieve 
 When vengeance has quitted her grasp on thy frame, 
 My pity thy children and wife shall reprieve 
 From the dangers that wait round the dwellings of shame. 
 
 PACK 201. Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey, &c. 
 This poem is a spiritual autobiography that sums up in a few 
 lines much of the essential Wordsworth of the Prelude. 
 Note that line 20 (corrected in this reprint) is an erratum, 
 corrected in the Errata 1798 and struck out 1800. In 1802 
 11. 13-14 were altered into: 
 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
 The wild green landscape. 
 
 In 1820 1. ;3;3 began : As have no slight or trivial, &c.
 
 222 NOTES 
 
 The line from Young is in the Xight Thoughts (vi. 424) : 
 ' And half-create the wondrous world they see'. 
 
 In 1800 Wordsworth added the following 'Note to the 
 Poem on Revisiting the Wye, p. 201. I have not ventured 
 to call this Poem an Ode ; hut it was written with a hope that 
 in the transitions, and the impassioned music of the versifica- 
 tion, would be found the principal requisites of that species 
 of composition.' 
 
 NOTE ON APPENDIX. In 1802 Wordsworth elaborated his 
 views on " what is usually called Poetic Diction " (see page 
 242, line 3), in a note that will be found in any of the 
 collected editions.
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800, WITH A 
 COLLATION OF THE ENLARGED PREFACE 
 OF 1802. 
 
 PREFACE [1800] 
 
 TUB First Volume of these Poems lias already been sub- 
 mitted to general perusal. It was published, as an experiment 1 
 which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, 
 by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real 
 language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that sort of 
 pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which 
 a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart. 
 
 I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable 
 effect of those Poems : I flattered myself that they who should 
 be pleased with them would read them with more than common 
 pleasure : and on the other hand l I was well aware l that by 
 those who should dislike them they would be read with more 
 than common dislike. The result has differed from my 
 expectation in this only, that I have pleased a greater number, 
 than I ventured to hope I should please. 
 
 For the sake of variety 1 and from a consciousness of my own 
 weakness 1 I was induced to request the assistance of a Friend, 
 who furnished me with the Poems of the ANCIKNT MARINER, 
 the FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALK, the NIGHTINGALE, the DUNGKON, 
 and the Poem entitled LOVE. 1 should not, however, have 
 requested this assistance, had I not believed that the poems 2 
 of my Friend would in a great measure have the same 
 
 1 1802 : experiment, . . . hand, . . . aware, . . . variety, . . . 
 weakness, 
 
 2 1H02: Poems
 
 224 APPENDIX 
 
 tendency as my own, and that, though there would be found 
 a difference, there would be found no discordance in the 
 colours of our style ; as our opinions on the subject of poetry 
 do almost entirely coincide. 
 
 Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of these 
 Poems from a belief, that 3 if the views, with which they were 
 composed, were indeed realized, a class of Poetry would be 
 produced, well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and 
 not unimportant in the multiplicity 3 and in the quality of its 
 moral relations : and on this account they have advised me 
 to prefix a systematic defence of the theory, upon which the 
 poems were written. But I was unwilling to undertake the 
 task, because * I knew that on this occasion the Reader would 
 look coldly upon my arguments, since I might be suspected 
 of having been principally influenced by the selfish and foolish 
 hope of reasoning him into an approbation of these particular 
 Poems : and I was still more unwilling to undertake the task , 
 because adequately to display my opinions 4 and fully to 
 enforce my arguments would require a space wholly dis- 
 proportionate to the nature of a preface. For to treat the 
 subject with the clearness and coherence, of which I believe 
 it susceptible, it would be necessary to give a full account 
 of the present state of the public taste in this country, and 
 to determine how far this taste is healthy or depraved ; which 5 
 again could not be determined, without pointing out, in what 
 manner language and the human mind act and react on each 
 other, and without retracing the revolutions not of literature 
 alone 5 but likewise of society itself. I have therefore alto- 
 gether declined to enter regularly upon this defence ; yet 
 I am sensible, that there would be some impropriety in 
 
 ?> 1802 : that, if the views with which they were composed 
 were . . . multiplicity, and 
 4 1802 : because, . . . opinions, 
 "' 1802: which, again, . . . re-act. . . . revolutions, . . . alone,
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 22.5 
 
 abruptly obtruding upon the Public, without a few words of 
 introduction, Poems so materially different from those, upon 
 whicli general approbation is at present bestowed. 
 
 It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an Author 
 makes a formal engagement that lie will gratify certain known 
 habits of association, 6 that he not only thus apprizes the 
 Reader that certain classes of ideas and expressions will be 
 found in his book, but that others will be carefully excluded. 
 This exponent or symbol held forth by metrical language 
 must in different aeras of literature have excited very different 
 expectations : for example, in the age of Catullus Terence 
 and Lucretia, and that of Statius or Claudiau, 7 and in our own 
 country, in the age of Shakespeare and Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, and that of Donne and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. 
 I will not take upon me to determine the exact import of the 
 promise which by the act of writing in verse an Author in 
 the present day 8 makes to his Reader ; but I am certain it 
 will appear to many persons that I have not fulfilled the 
 terms of an engagement thus voluntarily contracted. 9 I hope 
 therefore the Reader will not censure me, if I attempt to 
 state what I have proposed to myself to perform, 9 and also, 
 (as far as the limits of a preface will permit) to explain some 
 of the chief reasons which have determined me in the choice 
 of my purpose : that at least he may be spared any unpleasant 
 
 ' 1802 : association ; 
 
 1802: Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius (a/.vo corrected in 
 Errata of 1800) . . . Claudian ; 
 
 8 1802 : Author, . . . day, 
 
 9 1802 inserts (from 1798) after 'contracted.': They who have 
 been accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology of 
 many modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to its 
 conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently have to struggle with 
 feelings of strangeness and aukwardness : they will look round 
 for poetry, and will be induced to inquire by what species of 
 courtesy these attempts can be permitted to assume that title. 
 . . . perform ;
 
 226 APPENDIX 
 
 feeling of disappointment, and that I myself may be protected 
 from the most dishonorable accusation which can be brought 
 against an Author, namely, that of an indolence which 
 prevents him from endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, 
 or, when his duty is ascertained 10 prevents him from per- 
 forming it. 
 
 The principal object then 10 which I proposed to myself in 
 these Poems was to make the incidents of common life in- 
 teresting 11 by tracing in them, truly though not osten- 
 tatiously, the primary laws of our nature : chiefly as far 
 as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a 
 state of excitement. Low and rustic life was generally 
 chosen because in that situation 12 the essential passions of 
 the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their 
 maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and 
 more emphatic language ; because in that situation ls our 
 elementary feelings exist 13 in a state of greater simplicity 
 and consequently may be more accurately contemplated and 
 more forcibly communicated ; because the manners of rural 
 life germinate from those elementary feelings ; and from the 
 necessary character of rural occupations 13 are more easily 
 comprehended ; and are more durable ; and lastly, because 
 in that situation 14 the passions of men are incorporated with 
 the beautiful and permanent forms of nature. The language 
 
 10 1802 : ascertained, . . . object, then, 
 
 11 180-2 changes 'to make the incidents . . . interesting ' to : to 
 c-huse incidents and situations from common life, and to relate 
 or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible, in a 
 selection of language really used by men ; and, at the same 
 time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, 
 whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an 
 unusual way ; and further, and above all, to make these inci- 
 dents and situations interesting by 
 
 12 1802 : chosen, because in that condition, the 
 
 13 1802 : because in that condition of life . . . co-exist . . . 
 simplicity, . . . contemplated, . . . occupations, 
 
 14 180-2 : condition . . . language, too,
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREPACK op isoo 227 
 
 too M of these men is adopted (purified indeed from what appear 
 to be its real defects, from all lasting and rational causes of 
 dislike or disgust) because such men hourly communicate 
 with the best objects from which the best part of language is 
 originally derived ; and because, from their rank in society 
 and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being 
 less under the action 15 of social vanity they convey their 
 feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions. 
 Accordingly 16 such a language arising out of repeated ex- 
 perience and regular feelings is a more permanent and a far 
 more philosophical language than that which is frequently 
 substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring 
 honour upon themselves and their art in proportion as they 
 separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge 
 in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression in order to 
 furnish food for fickle tastes and fickle appetites 16 of their 
 own creation. * 
 
 I cannot 17 be insensible of the present outcry against the 
 triviality and meanness both of thought and language, which 
 some of my contemporaries have occasionally introduced into 
 their metrical compositions ; and I acknowledge 17 that this 
 defect where it exists, is more dishonorable to the Writer's 
 own character than false refinement or arbitrary innovation, 
 though I should contend at the same time that it is far less 
 pernicious in the sum of its consequences. From such verses 
 the Poems in these volumes will be found distinguished at 
 
 * It is worth while here to observe that the affecting parts of 
 Chaucer are almost always expressed in language pure and 
 universally intelligible even to this day. 
 
 14 18<h>: influence 
 
 10 180-2: Accordingly, such a language, . . . feelings, . . . 
 permanent, . . . language, . . . and their art, . . . expression, . . . 
 tastes, and fickle appetites, 
 
 17 1H02: I cannot, however, ... acknowledge, that this defect,
 
 228 APPENDIX 
 
 least by one mark of difference, that each of them has a 
 worthy purpose. Not that I mean to say, that I always began 
 to write with a distinct purpose formally conceived ; but 
 I believe that my habits of meditation have so formed my 
 feelings, as that my descriptions of such objects as strongly 
 excite those feelings, will be found to carry along with them 
 a purpose. If in this opinion I am mistaken 18 I can have little 
 right to the name of a Poet. For all good poetry is the 
 spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings ; but though this 
 be true, Poems to which any value can be attached, were 
 never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who 19 
 being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility had 
 also thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of 
 feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are 
 indeed the representatives of all our past feelings : and as by 
 contemplating the relation of these general representatives 20 
 to each other, we discover what is really important to men, 
 so by the repetition and continuance of this act feelings 
 connected with important subjects 20 will be nourished, till at 
 length, if we be originally possessed of much organic sensi- 
 bility, such habits of mind will be produced that by obeying 
 blindly and mechanically the impulses of those habits we 
 shall describe objects and utter entiments of such a nature 
 and in such connection witli each other, that the under- 
 standing of the being to whom we address ourselves, if he be 
 in a healthful state of association, must necessarily be in 
 some degree enlightened, his taste exalted, and his affections 
 ameliorated. 20 
 
 18 1802: mistaken, 
 
 19 1802 : a man, who . . . sensibility, had 
 
 21 1802 : and, . . . representatives to each other we discover 
 what is really important to men, so, . . . this act, our feelings 
 will be connected . . . subjects, till at length, if we be possessed of 
 much sensibility, . . . produced, that, by ... habits, . . . objects, 
 and utter sentiments, ... in some degree enlightened, and his 
 affections ameliorated.
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 229 
 
 I have said that eacli of these poems lias a purpose. I have 
 also informed my Header what this purpose will be found 
 principally to be : namely, to illustrate 21 the manner in which 
 our feelings and ideas are associated in a state of excitement. 
 But speaking in less general language, 22 it is to follow the 
 fluxes and refluxes of the mind when agitated by the great 
 and simple affections of our nature. This object I have 
 endeavoured in these short essays to attain by various means ; 
 by tracing the maternal passion through many of its more 
 subtle windings, as in the poems of the IDIOT BOY and the 
 MAD MOTHER ; by accompanying the last struggles of a human 
 being 23 at the approach of death, cleaving in solitude to life 
 and society, as in the Poem of the FORSAKEN INDIAN ; by 
 shewing, as in the Stanzas entitled WE ARE SEVEN, the per- 
 plexity and obscurity which in childhood attend our notion 
 of death, or rather our utter inability to admit that notion ; 
 or by displaying the strength of fraternal, or to speak more 
 philosophically, of moral attachment when early associated 
 with the great and beautiful objects of nature, as in THE 
 BROTHERS ; or, as in the incident of SIMON LEE, by placing 
 my Reader in the way of receiving from ordinary moral sensa- 
 tions another and more salutary impression than we are 
 accustomed to receive from them. It has also been part of 
 my general purpose to attempt to sketch characters under 
 the influence of less impassioned feelings, as in 24 the OLD 
 MAN TRAVELLING, THE Two THIEVES, etc. characters of which 
 the elements are simple, belonging rather to nature than to 
 manners, such as exist now 25 and will probably always exist, 
 
 21 1802 : namely to illustrate 
 
 22 1802 : But, speaking in language somewhat more appro- 
 priate, 
 
 13 1802 : human being, at the 
 
 2< 1802 : feelings, as in the TWO AI-IIIL MORNINGS, THE 
 
 FOUNTAIN, THE 
 
 28 1802: exist now, and 
 
 PP.
 
 230 APPENDIX 
 
 and which from their constitution may be distinctly and 
 profitably contemplated. I will not abuse the indulgence of 
 my Reader by dwelling longer upon this subject ; but it is 
 proper that I should mention one other circumstance which 
 distinguishes these Poems from the popular Poetry of the 
 day ; it is this, that the feeling therein developed gives im- 
 portance to the action and situation 2G and not the action and 
 situation to the feeling. My meaning will be rendered per- 
 fectly intelligible by referring my Reader to the Poems 
 entitled POOR SUSAN and the CHILDLESS FATHKK, particularly 
 to the last Stanza of the latter Poem. 
 
 I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent me from 
 asserting, that I point my Reader's attention to this mark of 
 distinction far 26 less for the sake of these particular Poems 
 than from the general importance of the subject. The subject 
 is indeed important ! For the human mind is capable of excite- 
 ment 27 without the application of gross and violent stimu- 
 lants ; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty 
 and dignity who does not know this, and who does not 
 further know that 28 one being is elevated above another in 
 proportion as he possesses this capability. It has therefore 
 appeared to me 29 that to endeavour to produce or enlarge 
 this capability is one of the best services in which, at any 
 period, a Writer can be engaged ; but this service, excellent 
 at all times, is especially so at the present day. For a multi- 
 tude of causes unknown to former times 80 are now acting 
 with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of 
 the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce 
 it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of 
 these causes are the great national events which are daily 
 
 26 1802 : situation, . . . distinction, far 
 
 27 1802 : of being excited 
 
 - 8 1802 : know, that . . . another, in 
 
 M 1802: appeared to me, that 30 180^: causes, ... times, arc
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 231 
 
 taking place, and the encreasiug accumulation of men iu 
 cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces 
 a craving for extraordinary incident 31 which the rapid com- 
 munication of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency 
 of life and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions 
 of the country have conformed themselves. The invaluable 
 works of our elder writers, I had almost said the works of 
 Shakespear and Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic 
 novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of 
 idle and extravagant stories in verse. When I think upon 
 this degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation 32 I am 
 almost ashamed to have spoken of the feeble effort with which 
 I have endeavoured to counteract it ; and 3S reflecting upon 
 the magnitude of the general evil, I should be oppressed witli 
 no dishonorable melancholy, had 1 not a deep impression of 
 certain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human 
 mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great and per- 
 manent objects that act upon it which are equally inherent 
 and indestructible ; and did I not further add to this impression 
 a belief 54 that the time is approaching when the evil will be 
 systematically opposed by men of greater powers and with 
 far more distinguished success.* 5 
 
 Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these 
 Poems, I shall request the Reader's permission to apprize him 
 of a few circumstances relating to their style, iu order, 
 among other reasons, that I may not be censured for not 
 having performed what I never attempted. Except 36 in a very 
 few instances the Reader will find no personifications of 
 abstract ideas in these volumes, not that I mean to censure 
 
 31 1802 : incident, which 3 - 180:2 : stimulation, I 
 a 1802: and, 3 < 1802: belief, that 
 38 1802 : opposed, by men of greater powers, 
 16 1802 replaces Except in a very few interest him like- 
 wise : by : The Reader will find that personifications of abstract 
 
 16*
 
 232 APPENDIX 
 
 such personifications : they may be well fitted for certain 
 sorts of composition, but in these Poems I propose to myself 
 to imitate, and, as far as possible, to adopt the very language 
 of men, and I do not find that such personifications make any 
 regular or natural part of that language. I wish to keep my 
 Reader in the company of flesh and blood, persuaded that by 
 so doing I shall interest him. Not but that I believe that 
 others who pursue a different track may interest him likewise : S6 
 I do not interfere with their claim, I only wisli to prefer 
 a different claim of my own. There will also be found in 
 these volumes little of what is usually called poetic diction ; 
 I have taken as much pains to avoid it as others ordinarily 
 take to produce it ; this I have done for the reason already 
 alleged, to bring my language near to the language of men, 
 and further, because the pleasure which I have proposed to 
 myself to impart is of a kind very different from that which 
 is supposed by many persons to be the proper object of poetry. 
 I do not know how without being culpably particular I can 
 give my Reader a more exact notion of the style in which 
 I wished these poems to be written than by informing 
 him that I have at all times endeavoured to look steadily 
 at my subject, consequently 37 I hope it will be found that 
 
 ideas rarely occur in these volumes ; and, I hope, are utterly 
 rejected as an ordinary device to elevate the style, and raise it 
 above prose. I have proposed to myself to imitate, and, as far as is 
 possible, to adopt the very language of men ; and assuredly such 
 personifications do not make any natural or regular part of that 
 language. They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally 
 prompted by passion, and I have made use of them as such ; 
 but I have endeavoured utterly to reject them as a mechanical 
 device of style, or as a family language which Writers in 
 metre seem to lay claim to by prescription. I have wished to 
 keep my Reader in the company of flesh and blood, persuaded 
 that by so doing I shall interest him. I am, however, well 
 aware that others who pursue a different track may interest 
 him likewise ; 
 37 1802 : consequently,
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 23S 
 
 there is ** in these Poems little falsehood of description, and 
 that my ideas are expressed in language fitted to their 
 respective importance. Something I must have gained by 
 this practice, as it is friendly to one property of all good 
 poetry, namely S9 good sense ; but it lias necessarily cut me off 
 from a large portion of phrases and figures of speech which 
 from father to son have long been regarded as the common 
 inheritance of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to 
 restrict myself still further, having abstained from the use 
 of many expressions, in themselves proper and beautiful, but 
 which have been foolishly repeated by bad Poets 40 till such 
 feelings of disgust are connected with them as it is scarcely 
 possible by any art of association to overpower. 
 
 If in a Poem there should be found a series of lines, or even 
 a single line, in which the language, though naturally arranged 
 and according to the strict laws of metre, does not differ 
 from that of prose, there is a numerous class of critics 41 who, 
 when they stumble upon these prosaisms as they call them, 
 imagine that they have made a notable discovery, and exult 
 over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. 
 Now these men would establish a canon of criticism which 
 the Reader will conclude he must utterly reject 42 if he wishes 
 to be pleased with these volumes. And it would be a most 
 easy task to prove to him t3 that not only the language of a large 
 portion of every good poem, even of the most elevated 
 character, must necessarily, except with reference to the metre, 
 in no respect differ from that of good prose, but likewise that 
 some of the most interesting parts of the best poems will be 
 found to be strictly the language of prose 43 when prose is 
 
 58 180-2 : consequently, I hope that there is 
 
 39 1802 : namely, good 
 
 40 1802 : Poets, till 
 
 *" 1802: critics, 42 1802: reject, if 
 
 48 1802 : prove to him, ... of prose,
 
 234 APPENDIX 
 
 well written. The truth of this assertion might he demon- 
 strated by innumerable passages from almost all the poetical 
 writings, even of Milton himself. I have not space for much 
 quotation ; but, to illustrate the subject in a general manner, 
 I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who was at 
 the head of those who by their reasonings have attempted to 
 widen the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical 
 composition, and was more than any other man curiously 
 elaborate in the structure of his own poetic diction. 
 " In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 
 And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire : 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 
 Or chearful fields resume their green attire : 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine ; 
 A different object do these eyes require ; 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire ; 
 Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ; 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ; 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain. 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear 
 And weep the more because I weep in vain." 
 It will easily be perceived that the only part of this Sonnet 
 which is of any value is the lines printed in Italics : it is 
 equally obvious 44 that 45 except in the rhyme, and in the use 
 of the single word " fruitless " for fruitlessly, which is so far 
 a defect, the language of these lines does in no respect differ 
 from that of prose. 
 
 Is there then, 40 it will be asked, no essential difference 
 between the language of prose and metrical composition ? 
 
 44 1802: obvious, 45 1802: that, 
 
 4B 1802: From 'Is there then' to 'essential difference.' re-
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 235 
 
 I answer that there neither is nor can be any essential 
 difference.* 8 We are fond of tracing the resemblance between 
 Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters : 
 but where shall we find bonds of connection sufficiently strict 
 to typify the affinity betwixt metrical and prose composition ? 
 They both speak by and to the same organs ; the bodies in 
 which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same 
 substance, their affections are kindred and almost identical, 
 not necessarily differing even in degree ; * Poetry sheds no 
 tears " such as Angels weep," but natural and human tears ; 
 she can boast of no celestial Ichor that distinguishes her vital 
 juices from those of prose ; the same human blood circulates 
 through the veins of them both. 
 
 If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrangement of 
 themselves constitute a distinction which overturns what I 
 have been saying on the strict affinity of metrical language 
 
 * I here use the word " Poetry" (though against my own 
 judgment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonomous 
 with metrical composition. But much confusion has been intro- 
 duced into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry and 
 Prose, instead of the more philosophical one of Poetry and 47 
 Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre. 48 
 
 placed by : By the foregoing quotation I have shewn that the 
 language of Prose may yet be well adapted to Poetry ; and I 
 have previously asserted that a large portion of the language 
 of every good poem can in no respect differ from that of good 
 Prose. I will go further. I do not doubt that it may be safely 
 affirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any essential dif- 
 ference between the language of prose and metrical composition . 
 
 47 1802 : of Poetry and Matter of fact, or Science. 
 
 4S 1802: is Metre; nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis; 
 because lines and passages of metre so naturally occur in writing 
 prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid them, even 
 were it desirable.
 
 236 APPENDIX 
 
 with that of prose, and paves the way for other distinc- 
 tions 49 which the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that ce 
 
 49 1802 : for other artificial distinctions 
 
 50 180-2: after 'I answer that 'inserts over 350 lines, dove- 
 tailing the close of the long insertion into the remainder of the 
 sentence (' the distinction of &c.) continued on p. 242. 
 
 I answer that the language of such Poetry as I am recommend- 
 ing is, as far as is possible, a selection of the language really 
 spoken by men ; that this selection, wherever it is made with 
 true taste and feeling, will of itself form a distinction far greater 
 than would at first be imagined, and will entirely separate the 
 composition from the vulgarity and meanness of ordinary life ; 
 and, if metre be superadded thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude 
 will be produced altogether sufficient for the gratification of a 
 rational mind. What other distinction would we have ? Whence 
 is it to come ? And where is it to exist ? Not, surely, where 
 the Poet speaks through the mouths of his characters : it cannot 
 be necessary here, either for elevation of style, or any of its 
 supposed ornaments : for, if the Poet's subject be judiciously 
 chosen, it will naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him to 
 passions the language of which, if selected truly and judiciously, 
 must necessarily be dignified and variegated, and alive with 
 metaphors and figures. I forbear to speak of an incongruity 
 which would shock the intelligent Reader, should the Poet 
 interweave any foreign splendour of his own with that which 
 the passion naturally suggests : it is sufficient to say that such 
 addition is unnecessary. And, surely, it is more probable that 
 those passages, which with propriety abound with metaphors 
 and figures, will have their due effect, if, upon other occasions 
 where the passions are of a milder character, the style also be 
 subdued and temperate. 
 
 But, as the Pleasure which I hope to give by the Poems I 
 now present to the Reader must depend entirely on just notions 
 upon this subject, and, as it is in itself of the highest importance 
 to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot content myself with 
 these detached remarks. And if, in what I am about to say, it 
 shall appear to some that my labour is unnecessary, and that I 
 am like a man fighting a battle without enemies, I would remind 
 such persons, that, whatever may be the language outwardly 
 holden by men, a practical faith in the opinions which I am 
 wishing to establish is almost unknown. If my conclusions are 
 admitted, and carried as far as they must be carried if admitted 
 at all, our judgments concerning the works of the greatest 
 Poets both ancient and modern will be far different from what
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1802 237 
 
 they are at present, both when we praise, and when we censure : 
 ana our moral feelings influencing, and influenced by these 
 judgments will, I believe, be corrected and purified. 
 
 Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, I ask 
 what is meant by the word Poet ? What is a Poet ? To whom 
 does he address himself ? And what language is to be expected 
 from him ? He is a man speaking to men : a man, it is true, 
 endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and 
 tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, 
 and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common 
 among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and 
 volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of 
 life that is in him ; delighting to contemplate similar volitions 
 and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, 
 and nabitually impelled to create them where he does not find 
 them. To these qualities he has added a disposition to be 
 affected more than other men by absent things as if they were 
 present ; an ability of conjuring up in himself passions, which 
 are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real 
 events, yet (especially in those parts of the general sympathy 
 which are pleasing and delightful) do more nearly resemble the 
 passions produced by real events, than anything which, from 
 the motions of their own minds merely, other men are accus- 
 tomed to feel in themselves ; whence, and from practice, he 
 has acquired a greater readiness and power in expressing what 
 he thinks and feels, and especially those thoughts and feelings 
 which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his own 
 mind, arise in him without immediate external excitement. 
 
 But, whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even 
 the greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be a doubt but that 
 the language which it will suggest to him, must, in liveliness and 
 truth, fall far short of that which is uttered by men in real life, 
 under the actual pressure of those passions, certain shadows of 
 which the Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced, in him- 
 self. However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of 
 the character of a Poet, it is obvious, that, while he describes 
 and imitates passions, his situation is altogether slavish and 
 mechanical, compared with the freedom and power of real and 
 substantial action and suffering. So that it will be the wish of 
 the Poet to bring his feelings near to those of the persons whose 
 feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of time perhaps, to 
 let himself slip into an entire delusion, and even confound and 
 identify his own feelings with theirs ; modifying only the lan- 
 guage which is thus suggested to him, by a consideration 
 that he describes for a particular purpose, that of giving plea-
 
 238 APPENDIX 
 
 sure. Here, then, he will apply the principle on which I have 
 so much insisted, namely, that of selection ; on this he will 
 depend for removing what would otherwise be painful or dis- 
 gusting in the passion ; he will feel that there is no necessity to 
 trick out or to elevate nature : and, the more industriously he 
 applies this principle, the deeper will be his faith that no words, 
 which his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be to be com- 
 pared with those which are the emanations of reality and truth. 
 
 But it may be said by those who do not object to the general 
 spirit of these remarks, that, as it is impossible for the Poet to 
 produce upon all occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the 
 passion as that which the real passion itself suggests, it is 
 proper that he should consider himself as in the situation of a 
 translator, who deems himself justified when he substitutes 
 excellences of another kind for those which are unattainable by 
 him ; and endeavours occasionally to surpass his original, in 
 order to make some amends for the general inferiority to which 
 he feels that he must submit. But this would be to encourage 
 idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is the language of 
 men who speak what they do not understand ; who talk of 
 Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle pleasure ; who 
 will converse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as 
 they express it, as if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for 
 Rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been 
 told, hath said, that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing : 
 it is so : its object is truth, not individual and local, but general, 
 and operative ; not standing upon external testimony, but carried 
 alive into the heart by passion ; truth which is its own testimony, 
 which gives strength and divinity to the tribunal to which it 
 appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal. Poetry 
 is the image of man and nature. The obstacles which stand in 
 the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and of 
 their consequent utility, are incalculably greater than those 
 which are to be encountered by the Poet who has an adequate 
 notion of the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one 
 restriction only, namely, that of the necessity of giving imme- 
 diate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information 
 which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, 
 a mariner, an astronomer or a natural philosopher, but as a Man. 
 Except this one restriction, there is no object standing between 
 the Poet and the image of things ; between this, and the Bio- 
 grapher and Historian there are a thousand. 
 
 Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be 
 considered as a degradation of the Poet's art. It is far other- 
 wise. It is an acknowledgment of the beauty of the universe,
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1*02 239 
 
 an acknowledgment the more sincere because it is not formal, 
 but indirect ; it is a task light and easy to him who looks at 
 the world in the spirit of love : further, it is a homage paid to the 
 native and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary 
 principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and lives, 
 and moves. We have no sympathy but what is propagated by 
 pleasure : I would not be misunderstood ; but wherever we 
 sympathize with pain it will be found that the sympathy is 
 produced and carried on by subtle combinations with pleasure. 
 We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles drawn 
 from the contemplation of particular facts, but what has been 
 built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. The 
 Man of Science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever 
 difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with. 
 know and feel this. However painful may be the objects with 
 which the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his 
 knowledge is pleasure ; and where he has no pleasure he has no 
 knowledge. What then does the Poet ? He considers man and 
 the objects that surround him as acting and re-acting upon each 
 other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain and plea- 
 sure ; he considers man in his own nature and in his ordinary life 
 as contemplating this with a certain quantity of immediate 
 knowledge, with certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions 
 which by habit become of the nature of intuitions ; he considers 
 him as looking upon this complex scene of ideas and sensations, 
 and finding everywhere objects that immediately excite in him 
 sympathies which, from the necessities of his nature, are accom- 
 panied by an overbalance of enjoyment. 
 
 To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and 
 to these sympathies in which without any other discipline than 
 that of our daily life we are fitted to take delight, the Poet 
 principally directs his attention. He considers man and nature 
 as essentially adapted to each other, and the mind of man as 
 naturally the mirror of the fairest and most interesting qualities 
 of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted by this feeling of 
 pleasure which accompanies him through the whole course 
 of his studies, converses with general nature with affections 
 akin to those, which, through labour and length of time, the 
 Man of Science has raised up in himself, by conversing with 
 those particular parts of nature which are the objects of his 
 studies. The knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of 
 Science is pleasure ; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to 
 us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural and un- 
 alienable inheritance ; the other is a personal and individual 
 acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct
 
 240 APPENDIX 
 
 sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of 
 Science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor ; he 
 cherishes and loves it in his solitude : the Poet, singing a song 
 in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence 
 of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is 
 the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge ; it is the im- 
 passioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science. 
 Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath 
 said of man, " that he looks before and after." He is the rock 
 of defence of human nature ; an upholder and preserver, carry- 
 ing every where with him relationship and love. In spite of 
 difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws 
 and customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind and 
 things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion 
 and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread 
 over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the 
 Poet's thoughts are every where ; though the eyes and senses 
 of man are, it is true, his favorite guides, yet he will follow 
 wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to 
 move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge 
 it is as immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of men of 
 Science should ever create any material revolution, direct or 
 indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we 
 habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at 
 present, but he will be ready to follow the steps of the man of 
 Science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will 
 be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects 
 of the Science itself. The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, 
 the Botanist, or Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the 
 Poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, if the time 
 should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, 
 and the relations under which they are contemplated by the 
 followers of these respective Sciences shall be manifestly and 
 palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If 
 the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus 
 familiarized to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form 
 of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the 
 transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as 
 a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man. It is not, 
 then, to be supposed that any one, who holds that sublime 
 notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey, will break 
 in upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and 
 accidental ornaments, and endeavour to excite admiration of 
 himself by arts, the necessity of which must manifestly depend 
 upon the assumed meanness of his subject.
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1802 241 
 
 What I have thus far said applies to Poetry in general ; but 
 especially to those parts of composition where the Poet speaks 
 through the mouths of his characters ; and upon this point it 
 appears to have such weight that I will conclude, there are few 
 persons, of good sense, who would not allow that the dramatic 
 parts of composition are defective, in proportion as they deviate 
 from the real language of nature, and are coloured by a diction 
 of the Poet's own, either peculiar to him as an individual Poet, 
 or belonging simply to Poets in general, to a body of men who, 
 from the circumstance of their compositions being in metre, it 
 is expected will employ a particular language. 
 
 It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition that we 
 look for this distinction of language ; but still it may be proper 
 and necessary when the Poet speaks to us in his own person 
 and character. To this I answer by referring my Reader to 
 the description which I have before given of a Poet. Among 
 the qualities which I have enumerated as principally conducing 
 to form a Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from other 
 men, but only in degree. The sum of what I have there said is, 
 that the Poet is chiefly distinguished from other men by a 
 greater promptness to think and feel without immediate external 
 excitement, and a greater power in expressing such thoughts 
 and feelings as are produced in him in that manner. But these 
 passions and thoughts and feelings are the general passions 
 and thoughts and feelings of men. And with what are they 
 connected ? Undoubtedly with our moral sentiments and animal 
 sensations, and with the causes which excite these ; with the 
 operations of the elements and the appearances of the visible 
 universe ; with storm and sun-shine, with the revolutions of the 
 seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of friends and kindred, 
 with injuries and resentments, gratitude and hope, with fear 
 and sorrow. These, and the like, are the sensations and objects 
 which the Poet describes, as they are the sensations of other 
 men, and the objects which interest them. The Poet thinks 
 and feels in the spirit of the passions of men. How, then, can 
 his language differ in any material degree from that of all other 
 men who feel vividly and see clearly ? It might be proved that 
 it is impossible. But supposing that this were not the case, the 
 Poet might then be allowed to use a peculiar language, when 
 expressing his feelings for his own gratification, or that of men 
 like himself. But Poets do not write for Poets alone, but for 
 men. Unless therefore we are advocates for that admiration 
 which depends upon ignorance, and that pleasure which arises 
 from hearing what we do not understand, the Poet must 
 descend from this supposed height, and, in order to excite
 
 242 APPENDIX 
 
 the distinction of rhyme and metre 51 is regular and uni- 
 form, and not/ 2 like that which is produced by what is 
 usually called poetic diction, arbitrary 53 and subject to in- 
 finite caprices upon which no calculation whatever can be 
 made. In the one case 54 the Reader is utterly at the mercy of 
 the Poet respecting what imagery or diction he may choose to 
 connect with the passion, whereas in the other the metre M 
 obeys certain laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly 
 submit because they are certain, and because no interference 
 is made by them with the passion but such as the concurring 
 testimony of ages has shown to heighten and improve the 
 pleasure which co-exists with it. 
 
 It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, 
 namely, why, professing these opinions have I written in 
 verse ? To this in the first place I reply, 55 because, however 
 I may have restricted myself, there is still left open to me 
 what confessedly constitutes the most valuable object of all 
 writing whether in prose or verse, the great and universal 
 passions of men, the most general and interesting of their 
 occupations, arid the entire world of nature, from which I am 
 at liberty to supply myself with endless combinations of forms 
 and imagery. Now, granting 5G for a moment that whatever is 
 
 rational sympathy, he must express himself as other men ex- 
 press themselves. To this it may be added, that while he is 
 only selecting from the real language of men, or, which amounts 
 to the same thing, composing accurately in the spirit of such 
 selection, he is treading upon safe ground, and we know what 
 we are to expect from him. Our feelings are the same with 
 respect to metre ; for, as it may be proper to inform the Reader, 
 
 61 ~ 3 1802 : the distinction of metre is regular and uniform, and 
 not like that which is produced by what is usually called poetic- 
 diction, arbitrary, and 
 
 34 1802 : case, the . . . whereas, in the other, the metre 
 
 55 1802 : To this, in addition to such answer as is included in 
 what I have already said, I reply in the first place, because, 
 
 ""' 1802: Now, supposing . . . condemned, if ... charm, 
 which, by ... nations, is
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OK 1800 243 
 
 interesting iu these objects may be as vividly described in 
 prose, why am I to be condemned 56 if to such description 
 I have endeavoured to superadd the charm which by the 
 consent of all nations is acknowledged to exist in metrical 
 language? To this 57 it will be answered, that a very small 
 part of the pleasure given by Poetry depends upon the metre, 
 and that it is injudicious to write in metre 58 unless it be 
 accompanied with the other artificial distinctions of style with 
 which metre is usually accompanied, and that by such 
 deviation more will be lost from the shock which will be 
 thereby given to the Reader's associations 5S than will be 
 counterbalanced by any pleasure which he can derive from 
 the general power of numbers. In answer to those who thus 59 
 contend for the necessity of accompanying metre with certain 
 appropriate colours of style in order to the accomplishment of 
 its appropriate end, and who also, in my opinion, greatly 
 under-rate the power of metre in itself, it might perhaps 60 be 
 almost sufficient to observe that poems are extant, written 
 upon more humble subjects, and in a more naked and simple 
 style than M what I have aimed at, which poems have continued 
 to give pleasure from generation to generation. Now, if 
 nakedness and simplicity be a defect, the fact here mentioned 
 affords a strong presumption that poems somewhat less naked 
 and simple are capable of affording pleasure at the present day ; 
 and 61 all that I am now attempting is 61 to justify myself for 
 having written under the impression of this belief. 
 
 But I might point out various causes why, when the 
 
 57 1802 : To this, by such as are unconvinced by what I have 
 already said, it may be answered, 
 
 58 1802 : metre, unless . . . associations, 
 i3 1802 : those who still contend 
 
 60 1802 : it might perhaps, as far as relates to these Poems, 
 have been almost sufficient to observe, that poems are . . . than 
 I have aimed at, 
 
 61 1802 : and, what I wished chiefly to attempt, at present, 
 was to ustify
 
 244 APPENDIX 
 
 style is manly, and the subject of some importance, words 
 metrically arranged will long continue to impart such a 
 pleasure to mankind as he who is sensible of the extent of 
 that pleasure will be desirous to impart. The end of Poetry 
 is to produce excitement in co-existence witli an overbalance 
 of pleasure. Now, by the supposition, excitement is an 
 unusual and irregular state of the mind ; ideas and feelings 
 do not in that state succeed each other in accustomed order. 
 But 62 if the words by which this excitement is produced are in 
 themselves powerful, or the images and feelings have an 
 undue proportion of pain connected with them, there is some 
 danger that the excitement may be carried beyond its proper 
 bounds. Now the co-presence of something regular, some- 
 thing to which the mind has been accustomed when in an 
 unexcited or 53 a less excited state, cannot but have great 
 efficacy in tempering and restraining the passion by an inter- 
 texture M of ordinary feeling. This 65 may be illustrated by 
 appealing to the Reader's own experience of the reluctance 
 with which he comes to the re-perusal of the distressful parts 
 of Clarissa Harlowe, or the Gamester. While Shakespeare's 
 
 62 1802 : But, if 
 
 63 1802 : accustomed in various moods and in a less excited 
 state, 
 
 64 1802 : intertexture of ordinary feeling, and of feeling not 
 strictly and necessarily connected with the passion. This is 
 unquestionably true, and hence, though the opinion will at first 
 appear paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to divest lan- 
 guage in a certain degree of its reality, and thus to throw a 
 sort of half consciousness of unsubstantial existence over the 
 whole composition, there can be little doubt but that more 
 pathetic situations and sentiments, that is, those which have a 
 
 freater proportion of pain connected with them, may be en- 
 ured in metrical composition, especially in rhyme, than in 
 prose. The metre of the old Ballads is very artless ; yet they 
 contain many passages which would illustrate this opinion, and, 
 I hope, if the following Poems be attentively perused, similar 
 instances will be found in them. 
 
 65 1802 : This opinion may be further illustrated by appealing
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OP- 1800 245 
 
 writings, in the most pathetic scenes, never act upon us a* 
 pathetic beyond the bounds of pleasure an effect which 66 is in 
 a great degree to be ascribed to small, but continual and 
 regular impulses of pleasurable surprise from the metrical 
 arrangement. On the other hand (what it must be allowed 
 will much more frequently happen) if the Poet's words should 
 be incommensurate with the passion, and inadequate to raise 
 the Reader to a height of desirable excitement, then, (unless 
 the Poet's choice of his metre has been grossly injudicious) in 
 the feelings of pleasure which the Reader has been accustomed 
 to connect with metre in general, and in the feeling, whether 
 chearful or melancholy, which he has been accustomed to 
 connect with that particular movement of metre, there will 
 be found something which will greatly contribute to impart 
 passion to the words, and to effect the complex end which the 
 Poet proposes to himself. 
 
 If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the theory upon 
 which these poems are written, it would have been my duty to 
 develope the various causes upon which the pleasure received 
 from metrical language depends. Among the chief of these 
 causes is to be reckoned a principle which must be well known 
 to those who have made any of the Arts the object of accurate 
 reflection ; I mean the pleasure which the mind derives from 
 the perception of similitude in dissimilitude. This principle is 
 the great spring of the activity of our minds 87 and their chief 
 feeder. From this principle the direction of the sexual 
 appetite, and all the passions connected with it, take their 
 origin : It is the life of our ordinary conversation ; and upon 
 the accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, and 
 dissimilitude in similitude, are perceived, depend our taste 
 
 ** 1802 : an effect which, in a much greater degree than might 
 at first be imagined, is to be ascribed 
 67 180:? : minds, 
 P.P. <vu 17
 
 24-6 APPENDIX 
 
 and our moral feelings. It would not have been a useless em- 
 ployment to have applied this principle to the consideration 
 of metre, and to have shown that metre is hence enabled to 
 afford much pleasure, and to have pointed out in what manner 
 that pleasure is produced. But my limits will not permit 
 me to enter upon this subject, and 1 must content myself with 
 a general summary. 
 
 I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of 
 powerful feelings : it takes its origin from emotion recollected 
 in tranquillity : the emotion is contemplated till by a species 
 of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an 
 emotion,' 8 similar to that which was before the subject of 
 contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually 
 exist in the mind. In this mood successful composition 
 generally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on ; 
 but the emotion, of whatever kind and in whatever degree, 
 from various causes is qualified by various pleasures, so that 
 in describing any passions whatsoever, which are voluntarily 
 described, the mind will upon the whole be in a state of 
 enjoyment. Now ' J if Nature be thus cautious in preserving in 
 a state of enjoyment a being thus employed, the Poet ought 
 to profit by the lesson thus held forth to him, and ought 
 especially to take care, that whatever passions he communicates 
 to his Reader, those passions, if his Reader's mind be sound 
 and vigorous, should always be accompanied with an over- 
 balance of pleasure. Now the music of harmonious metrical 
 language, the sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind 
 association of pleasure which has been previously received from 
 works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar construction, 70 
 
 B8 180-.2: an emotion, kindred to that which 
 
 89 1802: Now, if 
 
 ' 18(H : similar construction, an indistinct perception per- 
 petually renewed of language- closely resembling that of real 
 lifr, and yet, in the circumstance of metre, differing from it so 
 widely, all these
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 247 
 
 all these imperceptibly make up a complex feeling of delight, 
 which is of the most important use in tempering the painful 
 feeling which always will be found intermingled with powerful 
 descriptions of the deeper passions. This effect is always 
 produced in pathetic and impassioned poetry ; while in lighter 
 compositions n the ease and gracefulness with which the Poet 
 manages his numbers are themselves confessedly a principal 
 source of the gratification of the Reader. I might perhaps 
 include all which it is necessary to say upon this subject by 
 affirming what few persons will deny, that of two descriptions T - 
 either of passions, manners, or characters, each of them 
 equally well executed, the one in prose and the other in verse, 
 the verse will be read a hundred times where the prose is read 
 once. We see that Pope by the power of verse alone, has 
 contrived to render the plainest common sense interesting, and 
 even frequently to invest it with the appearance of passion. 
 In consequence of these convictions I related in metre the 
 Tale of Goonv BLAKK and HARRY (Jnx, which is one of the 
 rudest of this collection. I wished to draw attention to the 
 truth that the power of the human imagination is sufficient to 
 produce such changes even in our physical nature as might 
 almost appear miraculous. The truth is an important one ; 
 the fact (for it is a. fact) is a valuable illustration of it. And 
 I have the satisfaction of knowing that it has been com- 
 municated to many hundreds of people who would never have 
 heard of it, had it not been narrated as a Ballad, and in a more 
 impressive metre than is usual in Ballads. 
 
 Having thus 73 adverted to a few of the reasons why I have 
 written in verse, and why I have chosen subjects from 
 common life, and endeavoured to bring my language near to 
 the real language of men, if I have been too minute in pleading 
 
 " 1802 : while, in lighter compositions, the ease 
 72 18O2 : that, of two descriptions, either 
 71 180'2: Having thus explained a few
 
 248 APPENDIX 
 
 my own cause, I have at the same time been treating 1 a subject 
 of general interest ; and it is for this reason that I request the 
 Reader's permission to add a few words with reference solely to 
 these particular poems, and to some defects which will probably 
 be found in them. I am sensible that my associations must 
 have sometimes been particular instead of general, and that, 
 consequently, giving to things a false importance, sometimes 
 from diseased impulses I may have written upon unworthy 
 subjects ; but 1 am less apprehensive on this account, than 
 that my language may frequently have suffered from those 
 arbitrary connections of feelings and ideas with particular 74 
 words, from which no man can altogether protect himself. 
 Hence I have no doubt 75 that in some instances feelings even 
 of the ludicrous may be given to my Readers by expressions 
 which appeared to me tender and pathetic. Such faulty 
 expressions, were I convinced they were faulty at present, and 
 that they must necessarily continue to be so, I would willingly 
 take all reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to 
 make these alterations on the simple authority of a few 
 individuals, or even of certain classes of men ; for where the 
 understanding of an Author is not convinced, or his feelings 
 altered, this cannot be done without great injury to himself: 
 for his own feelings are his stay and support, and if he sets 
 them aside in one instance, he may be induced to repeat this 
 act till his mind loses all confidence in itself 76 and becomes 
 utterly debilitated. To this it may be added, that the Reader 
 ought never to forget that lie is himself exposed to the same 
 errors as the Poet, and perhaps in a much greater degree : for 
 there can be no presumption in saying 77 that it is not probable 
 he will be so well acquainted with the various stages of meaning 
 
 74 1802 : particular words and phrases, from which 
 
 75 1802 : Hence I have no doubt, that, 
 
 76 1802: itself, 
 
 11 1802: in saying, that
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OF 1800 249 
 
 through which words have passed, or with the fickleness or 
 stability of the relations of particular ideas to each other ; and 
 above all, since he is so much less interested in the subject, lie 
 may decide lightly and carelessly. 
 
 Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he will permit 
 me to caution him against a mode of false criticism which has 
 Iteen applied to Poetry in which the language closely resembles 
 that of life and nature. Such verses have been triumphed 
 over in parodies of which Dr. Johnson's Stanza is a fair 
 specimen. 
 
 " 1 put my hat upon my head, 
 
 And walk'd into the Strand, 
 
 And there 1 met another man 
 
 Whose hat was in his hand." 
 
 Immediately under these lines I will place one of the most 
 justly admired stanzas of the " Babes in the Wood." 
 
 " These pretty Babes with hand in hand 
 Went wandering up and down ; 
 But never more they saw the Man 
 Approaching from the Town." 
 
 lii both ~* of these stanzas the words, and the order of the 
 words, in no respect differ from the most unimpassioned con- 
 versation. There are words in both, for example, "the 
 Strand," and " the Town," connected with none but the most 
 familiar ideas ; yet the one stanza we admit as admirable, 
 and the other as a fair example of the superlatively con- 
 temptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from the 
 metre, not from the language, not from the order of the 
 words ; but the matter expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is 
 contemptible. The proper method of treating trivial and 
 simple verses to which Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a fair 
 
 1802 : In both these stanzas
 
 2")0 APPENDIX 
 
 parallelism is not to say 7D this is a had kind of poetry, or this 
 is not poetry, 80 but this wants sense ; it is neither interesting 1 
 in itself, nor can lead to anything interesting ; the images 
 neither originate in that sane state of feeling which arises 
 out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the 
 Reader. This is the only sensible manner of dealing with such 
 verses : Why trouble yourself about the species till you have 
 previously decided upon the genus ? Why take pains to prove 
 that an Ape is not a Newton when it is self-evident that he is 
 not a man. 80 
 
 I have one request to make of my Reader, which is, that 
 in judging these Poems lie would decide by his own feelings 
 genuinely, and not by reflection upon what will probably he 
 the judgment of others. How common is it to hear a person 
 say, " I myself do not object to this style of composition or 
 this or that expression, but to such and such classes of people 
 it will appear mean or ludicrous." This mode of criticism S1 
 so destructive of all sound unadulterated judgment 82 is almost 
 universal : I have therefore to request ?s that the Reader would 
 abide independently by his own feelings, and that if he finds 
 himself affected lie would not suffer such conjectures to inter- 
 fere with his pleasure. 
 
 If an Author by any single composition has impressed us 
 with respect for his talents, it is useful to consider this as 
 affording a presumption, that, on other occasions where we 
 have been displeased, he nevertheless may not have written 
 ill or absurdly ; and, further, to give him so much credit for 
 this one composition as may induce us to review what has 
 displeased us with more care than we should otherwise have 
 
 " 1802 : not to say, this is 
 
 '" 1802 : poetry ; but this wants . . . man ' 
 
 sl 1802: criticism, so 
 
 82 1802: judgment, is 
 
 H3 1802: 'request.
 
 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACE OK 1800 251 
 
 bestowed upon it. This is not only an act of justice, but in 
 our decisions upon poetry especially, may conduce in a high 
 degree to the improvement of our own taste : for an accurate 
 taste in Poetry 84 and in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which can only 
 be produced by thought and a long continued intercourse 
 with the best models of composition. This is mentioned 85 not 
 with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most inex- 
 perienced Reader from judging for himself, (I have already 
 said that I wisli him to judge for himself ;) but merely to 
 temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest 85 that if 
 Poetry be a subject on which much time has not been 
 bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous, 85 and that in many 
 cases it necessarily will be so. 
 
 I know nothing would have so effectually contributed to 
 further the end which I have in view as to have shewn of what 
 kind the pleasure is, and how the pleasure is produced 8ti which 
 is confessedly produced by metrical composition essentially 
 different from what I have here endeavoured to recom- 
 mend ; ** for the Reader will say that he has been pleased by 
 such composition 8 * and what can I do more for him ? The 
 power of any art is limited 87 and he will suspect that if 
 I propose to furnish him with new friends it is only upon 
 condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, as 
 1 have said, the Reader is himself conscious of the pleasure 
 which he has received from such composition, composition to 
 which he has peculiarly attached the endearing name of 
 Poetry ; and all men feel an habitual gratitude, and some- 
 thing of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have 
 
 81 1 802 : poetry, and 
 
 88 1802: mentioned, . . . suggest, that, if. . . erroneous; and that 
 
 "' 180-2 : how that pleasure is produced, which is confessedly 
 . . . recommend : for . . . composition ; and what 
 
 " 18<h> : limited ; and he will suspect, that . . . new friends, 
 it is
 
 252 APPENDIX 
 
 long continued to please them : \ve not only wish to be 
 pleased, but to be pleased in that particular way in which we 
 have been accustomed to be pleased. There is a host of 
 arguments in these feelings ; and I should be the less able to 
 combat them successfully, as I am willing to allow, that, iu 
 order entirely to enjoy the Poetry which I am recommending, 
 it would be necessary to give up much of what is ordinarily 
 enjoyed. But 88 would my limits have permitted me to point 
 out how this pleasure is produced, I might have removed 
 many obstacles, and assisted my Reader in perceiving that 
 the powers of language are not so limited as he may suppose ; 
 and that it is possible that poetry may give other enjoyments, 
 of a purer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. But 
 this 89 part of my subject I have been obliged altogether to 
 omit : as it has been less my present aim to prove that the 
 interest excited by some other kinds of poetry is less vivid, 
 and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, than to 
 offer reasons for presuming, that, if the object which I have 
 proposed to myself were adequately attained, a species of 
 poetry would be produced, which is genuine poetry ; in its 
 nature well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and 
 likewise important in the multiplicity and quality of its moral 
 relations. 
 
 From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, 
 the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the object which 
 I have proposed to myself : he will determine how far I have 
 attained this object ; and, what is a much more important 
 question, whether it be worth attaining ; and upon the 
 decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the 
 approbation of the public. 
 
 S8 1802 : But, would 
 
 ?9 1802 : This part of my subject I have not altogether 
 neglected; but it has been less my present aim to prove, that
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which It was borrowed. 
 
 REC : D 
 
 vi 'L
 
 Unh 
 Si 
 
 J