Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain
Reading edition
Composed 1791-4.—Published as The Female Vagrant in "Lyrical Ballads" in 1798, and as Guilt and Sorrow in the "Poems of Early and Late Years," and in "Poems written in Youth," in 1845, and onward.
The Poem
Advertisement, Prefixed To The First Edition Of This Poem, Published In 1842.
Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of The Female Vagrant. The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here; but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced. During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent twoA days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains. The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated. In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England.
Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have assigned this poem to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole. It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the mind, or in unity, which is effected by the identity of moral interest that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this day. From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the verses,—'Five years have passed,' etc.—I. F.
The foregoing is the Fenwick note to Guilt and Sorrow. The note to The Female Vagrant,—which was the title under which one-third of the longer poem appeared in all the complete editions prior to 1845—is as follows.—Ed.
I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by mistake, to what I have asserted in Guilt and Sorrow. The correct date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life.—I. F.
In 1798 there were thirty stanzas in this poem; in 1802, twenty-six; in 1815, fourteen; in 1820, twenty-five. Stanzas I. to XXII., XXXV. to XXXVII., and LI. to LXXIV. occur only in the collected edition of 1842, vol. vii. (also published as "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years"), and in subsequent editions. Wordsworth placed The Female Vagrant among his "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 to 1832. In 1836, he included it along with Descriptive Sketches in his Table of ContentsB; but as he numbered it IV. in the text—the other poems belonging to the "Juvenile Pieces" being numbered I. II. and III.—it is clear that he meant it to remain in that class. The "Poems written in Youth," of the edition of 1845, include many others in addition to the "Juvenile Pieces" of editions 1815 to 1836.—Ed.
cross-reference: return to Footnote D of Descriptive Sketches
The Poem
stanza text variant footnote line
I A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. 5
II While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" The pendent grapes glittered above the door;— On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. 10 15
III The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. 20 25
IV No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout—in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. 30 35
V Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. 40 45
VI And be it so—for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long endured in hope of just reward, He to an armèd fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. 1 50
VII For years the work of carnage did not cease. And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. 55 60
VIII Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run, He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. 65 70
IX From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. C 75 80
X It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way. 2 85 90
XI As one whose brain habitual frensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. 3 95
XII Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight. 100 105
XIII All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye—which, wheresoe'er it strays, Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms—at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. 110 115
XIV Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? 4 120 125
XV Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. 5 130 135
XVI No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom; No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night. 140
XVII At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; The downs were visible—and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain. 145 150
XVIII Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,—his eyes begin to close; 155 160
XIX When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her—spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; 165 170
XX Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 175 180
XXI Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned, And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. 185
XXII But soon his voice and words of kind intent Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its rage was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. 6 190 195
XXIII "By Derwent's side my father dwelt—a man Of virtuous life, by pious 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. 7 200 205
XXIV "A little croft we owned—a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! 8 9 210 215
XXV "The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 10 11 12 220 225
XXVI "The suns of twenty summers danced along,— Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune might put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came;—our final leave we took. 13 14 / 15 / 16 230
XXVII "It was indeed a 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: Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;— I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! 17 18 235 240
XXVIII "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song We two had sung, like gladsome 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; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. 19 20 245 250
XXIX "Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned:—we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. 21 255 260
XXX "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. 22 23 24 25 26 / 27 265 270
XXXI "'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 clear 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. 28 29 275
XXXII "There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished—nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed—at last the land withdrew. 30 31 280 285
XXXIII "But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. 32 33 34 290 295
XXXIV "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 unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished—all in one remorseless year, 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." 35 300 305
XXXV Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. He too was mute: and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. 310 315
XXXVI "O come," he cried, "come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near. 320
XXXVII They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed. 325 330
XXXVIII "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 36 37 38 335 340
XXXIX "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in 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 Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! 39 40 345 350
XL "Some mighty gulf of separation passed, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me—farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. 355 360
XLI "And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful 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. 41 42 365
XLII "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised 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: Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. 43 44 45 46 370 375
XLIII "So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. —In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. 47 48 49 50 380 385
XLIV "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; 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 cold formality, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. 51 52 53 390 395
XLV "These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 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 travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food—and rest, more welcome, more desired. 54 55 56 57 400 405
XLVI "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure— The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. 58 59 410
XLVII "But ill they suited me—those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match. The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 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. 60 415 420
XLVIII "What could I do, unaided and unblest? My 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. Nor was I then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. 61 62 63 64 425 430
XLIX "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Forgone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. 65 66 435 440
L "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course 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. 67 68 445 450
LI True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks—for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 'Twas not for him to speak—a man so tried. Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. 455
LII Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle,—but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement. 460 465
LIII A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. 470 475
LIV His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;— Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. 480 485
LV Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw—there and upon that ground— Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. D 490 495
LVI Within himself he said—What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill—fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son—so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. 500
LVII "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"— While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. 505 510
LVIII Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. 515 520
LIX They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;—the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. 525 530
LX Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 535 540
LXI A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,—wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. 545
LXII The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. 550 555
LXIII While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage—gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife—"God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!" 560 565
LXIV So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said—"I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. 570 575
LXV "Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me—there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain: For I shall never see my father's door again. 580 585
LXVI "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.— Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. 590
LXVII "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; 595 600
LXVIII "For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And he had done the deed in the dark wood— Near his own home!—but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband's loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." 605 610
LXIX Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried—"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish—forgive me, but forgive!" 615 620
LXX To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." 625 630
LXXI She slept in peace,—his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!" 635
LXXII The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. 640 645
LXXIII Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" 650 655
LXXIV His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:—no one on his form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. 660 665
Variant 1:
1845
Three years ... 1842
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Variant 2:
1845
... rose and pursued ... 1842
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Variant 3:
1845
... demoniac ... 1842
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Variant 4:
1845
Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain! 1842
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Variant 5:
1845
And, from its perilous shelter driven, ... 1842
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Variant 6:
The following stanza was only in the editions of 1798 and 1800:
By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, (The Woman thus her artless story told) One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. ... or from the mountain fold Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more. 1798 1800
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Variant 7:
1842
My father was a good and pious man, An honest man by honest parents bred, 1798
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Variant 8:
Stanzas XXIV. and XXV. were omitted from the editions of 1802 and 1805. They were restored in 1820.
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Variant 9:
1842
Can I forget what charms did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn? The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime; The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime; The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. Can I forget our croft and plot of corn; Our garden, stored ... The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans, that with white chests upheaved in pride, Rushing and racing came to meet me at the waterside. 1798 1836 1820 1836
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Variant 10:
1842
... yet ... 1798
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Variant 11:
1802
When ... 1798
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Variant 12:
1836
My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; 1798
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Variant 13:
1845
... would ... 1842
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Variant 14:
1845
... summer ... 1842
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Variant 15:
1845
The suns of twenty summers danced along,— Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away: Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, And cottage after cottage owned its sway, No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray Through pastures not his own, the master took; My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay; He loved his old hereditary nook, And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. Then rose a stately hall our woods among, ... how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay; We toiled, and struggled—hoping for a day When Fortune should put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes—efforts vain as they: He from his old hereditary nook Must part,—the summons came,—our final leave we took. 1798 1800 1820
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Variant 16:
The following stanza occurs only in the editions 1798 to 1805:
But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold: His troubles grew upon him day by day, Till all his substance fell into decay. His little range of water was deniedi; 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. And all his substance fell into decay. They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried To move their hearts—but it was vain—for they Seized all he had; and, weeping ... 1798 1802-5
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Variant 17:
1820
Can I forget that miserable hour, It was in truth a lamentable hour 1798 1802
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Variant 18:
1798
I saw our own dear home, that was ... 1802
The edition of 1820 returns to the text of 1798.
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Variant 19:
1827
... many and many a song 1798
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Variant 20:
1800
... little birds ... 1798
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Variant 21:
1836
His father said, that to a distant town He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. Two years were pass'd, since to a distant Town He had repair'd to ply the artist's trade. 1798 1802
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Variant 22:
1802
Four years each day with daily bread was blest, By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 1798
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Variant 23:
1836
Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; 1798
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Variant 24:
1842
When sad distress... 1798
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Variant 25:
1836
... from him the grave did hide . ... for him ... 1798 1820
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Variant 26:
1798
... which ... Only in 1820.
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Variant 27:
1836
... could ... 1798
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Variant 28:
1798
But soon, day after day, ... 1802
The edition of 1820 reverts to the reading of 1798.
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Variant 29:
1836
... to sweep ... 1798
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Variant 30:
1836
There foul neglect for months and months we bore, Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. There, long were we neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh'd; 1798 1802
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Variant 31:
1802
Green fields before us and our native shore, By fever, from polluted air incurred, Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, 1798
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Variant 32:
1802
But from delay the summer calms were past. 1798
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Variant 33:
1802
We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, 1798
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Variant 34:
Oh! dreadful price of being to resign All that is dear in being! better far In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine, Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star; Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, Better our dying bodies to obtrude, Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, Protract a curst existence, with the brood That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood. Only in the editions of 1798 and 1800.
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Variant 35:
1842
It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 1798
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Variant 36:
1842
Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, 1798
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Variant 37:
1827
... has its hour of rest, That comes not to the human mourner's breast. I too was calm, though heavily distress'd! 1798 1802
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Variant 38:
1842
Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, A heavenly silence did the waves invest; I looked and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were! My heart was healed within me, I was bless'd. And looked, and looked ... My heart was hushed within me, ... As quiet all within me, ... 1798 1802 1815 1827
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Variant 39:
1800
Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 1798
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Variant 40:
The following stanza appeared only in the editions 1798-1805:
Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape, While like a sea the storming army came, And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape, And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child! But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape! —For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild, And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. At midnight once the storming Army came, Yet do I see the miserable sight, The Bayonet, the Soldier, and the Flame That followed us and faced us in our flight: When Rape and Murder by the ghastly light Seized their joint prey, the Mother and the Child! But I must leave these thoughts.—From night to night, From day to day, the air breathed soft and mild; And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1798 1802-5
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Variant 41:
1802
And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought At last my feet a resting-place had found: Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) 1798
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Variant 42:
1842
Here watch, of every human friend disowned, All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood— Here will I live:—of every friend disown'd, Here will I roam about the ocean flood.— And end my days upon the ocean flood."— 1798 1802 1815
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Variant 43:
1842
By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; Helpless as sailor cast on some bare rock; 1798 1836
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Variant 44:
1842
Nor dared ... 1798
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Variant 45:
1802
How dismal ... 1798
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Variant 46:
1832
... frame ... 1798
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Variant 47:
1836
So passed another day, and so the third: Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, 1798
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Variant 48:
1827
Dizzy my brain, with interruption short And I had many interruptions short 1798 1802
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Variant 49:
1802
... sunk ... 1798
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Variant 50:
1827
And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital. 1798 1802
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Variant 51:
1827
Recovery came with food: but still, my brain Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 1798
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Variant 52:
1842
... with careless cruelty, 1798
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Variant 53:
1815
... would ... 1798
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Variant 54:
1836
... torpid ... 1798
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Variant 55:
1827
Memory, though slow, returned with strength; ... My memory and my strength returned; ... 1798 1802
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Variant 56:
1802
The wild brood ... 1798
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Variant 57:
The following stanza occurs only in the editions of 1798 to 1805:
My heart is touched to think that men like these, The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief: How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease! And their long holiday that feared not grief, For all belonged to all, and each was chief. No plough their sinews strained; on grating road No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf In every vale for their delight was stowed: For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. My heart is touched to think that men like these, Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief: In every field, with milk their dairy overflow'd. 1798 1802 1802
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Variant 58:
1836
Semblance, with straw and pannier'd ass, they made Of potters wandering on from door to door: But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made Of Potters ... 1798 1802
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Variant 59:
1836
In depth of forest glade, when ... Among the forest glades when ... 1798 1802
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Variant 60:
1802
But ill it suited me, in journey dark 1798
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Variant 61:
1802
Poor father! ... 1798
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Variant 62:
1842
Ill was I ... 1798
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Variant 63:
1842
With tears whose course no effort could confine, By high-way side forgetful would I sit By the road-side forgetful would I sit In the open air forgetful ... 1798 1802 1836
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Variant 64:
1836
... my ... 1798
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Variant 65:
1836
I lived upon the mercy of the fields, And oft of cruelty the sky accused; On hazard, or what general bounty yields, I led a wandering life among the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, I liv'd upon what casual bounty yields, 1798 1802
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Variant 66:
1802
The fields ... 1798
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Variant 67:
1836
Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Three years thus wandering, ... 1798 1802
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Variant 68:
1836
And now across this moor my steps I bend— 1798
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Footnote A:
In the
Prelude
, he says it was "three summer days." See book xiii. l. 337.—Ed.
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Footnote B:
By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this edition (1840).
See
p. 37.—Ed.
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Footnote C:
From a short MS. poem read to me when an under-graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young.—W. W. 1842.
Charles Farish was the author of
The Minstrels of Winandermere
.—Ed.
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Footnote D:
Compare Milton's "grinding sword,"
Paradise Lost
, vi. l. 329.—Ed.
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Sub-Footnote i:
Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.—W. W. 1798.
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Contents