Volume 3 — Repentance

A Pastoral Ballad

Composed 1804.—Published 1820

The Poem [Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested by the conversation of our next neighbour, Margaret Ashburner.—I. F.] This "next neighbour" is constantly referred to in Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal. Included in 1820 among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection"; in 1827, and afterwards, it was classed with those "founded on the Affections."—Ed.

The Poem

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The fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold, Could we but have been as contented as they. When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,—we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!" There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers; Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours; And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. But now we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one overburthened with sin, With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate, I look at the fields, but I cannot go in! When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, "What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!" With our pastures about us, we could not be sad; Our comfort was near if we ever were crost; But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had, We slighted them all,—and our birth-right was lost. Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that strain! Think of evening's repose when our labour was done, The sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft chain! And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field; 'twas like youth in my blood! Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh, That follows the thought—We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie! Contents 1804 Main Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 5 10 15 20 25 30 35

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1820

the delight of our day, MS.

O fools that we were—we had land which we sold MS.

O fools that we were without virtue to hold MS.

The fields that together contentedly lay Would have done us more good than another man's gold MS.

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1820

When the bribe of the Tempter beset us, said I, Let him come with his bags proudly grasped in his hand. But, Thomas, be true to me, Thomas, we'll die MS.

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1836

... chose ... 1820 and MS.

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1820

When my hand has half-lifted the latch of the gate, MS.

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1820

... and ... MS.

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1827

But the blessings, and comfort, and wealth that we had, We slighted them all,—and our birth-right was lost. 1820 and MS.

But we traitorously gave the best friend that we had For spiritless pelf—as we felt to our cost! MS.

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1820

When my sick crazy body had lain without sleep, How cheering the sunshiny vale where I stood, MS.

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Contents 1804 Main Contents