Volume 6 — WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS 1814
Reading edition
The Excursion—to which the fifth volume of this edition is devoted—has been assigned to the year 1814; since it was finished, and first published, in that year,—although commenced in 1795. During the earlier stages of its composition, this poem was known, in the Wordsworth household, as "The Pedlar"; and Dorothy Wordsworth tells us in one of her letters to the Beaumonts, preserved amongst the Coleorton MSS., that "The Pedlar" was finished at Christmas 1804. See also the Memoirs of Wordsworth, by his nephew (vol. i. p. 304, etc.), and Dorothy's Grasmere Journal, passim. But The Excursion, as we have it now, was finished for press in 1814. The poems more immediately belonging to that year are Laodamia, the Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, Dion, and two Sonnets.—Ed.
LAODAMIA
Composed 1814.—Published 1815.
[Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts, and I wrote with the hope of giving it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been given to it by any of the Ancients who have treated of it. It cost me more trouble than almost anything of equal length I have ever written.—I.F.]
In 1815 and 1820 this poem was one of those "founded on the Affections"; afterwards it was classed among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
"With sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:[1] 5 Celestial pity I again implore;— Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!" So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the Suppliant heaven-ward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 10 Her countenance brightens—and her eye expands; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; And she expects the issue in repose. O terror! what hath she perceived?—O joy! What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold? 15 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? His vital presence? his corporeal mould? It is—if sense deceive her not—'tis He! And a God leads him, wingèd Mercury! Mild Hermes spake—and touched her with his wand 20 That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, Laodamía! that at Jove's command Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air: He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space; Accept the gift, behold him face to face!" Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp; 26 Again that consummation she essayed; But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made. The Phantom parts—but parts to re-unite, 30 And re-assume his place before her sight. "Protesiláus, lo! thy guide is gone! Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: This is our palace,—yonder is thy throne; Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 35 Not to appal me have the gods bestowed This precious boon; and blest a sad abode." "Great Jove, Laodamía! doth not leave His gifts imperfect:—Spectre though I be, I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 40 But in reward of thy fidelity. And something also did my worth obtain; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. "Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand Should die; but me the threat could[2] not withhold: 46 A generous cause a victim did demand; And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; A self-devoted chief—by Hector slain." "Supreme of Heroes—bravest, noblest, best! 50 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, Which[3] then, when tens of thousands were deprest By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore; Thou found'st—and I forgive thee—here thou art— A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 55 "But thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed Thou should'st elude[4] the malice of the grave: Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 60 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. "No Spectre greets me,—no vain Shadow this; Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side! Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this day, a second time thy bride!" Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcæ threw 66 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. "This visage tells thee that my doom is past: Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys[5] Of sense were able to return as fast 70 And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys Those raptures duly—Erebus disdains: Calm pleasures there abide—majestic pains. "Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve 75 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; A fervent, not ungovernable, love.[6] Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn When I depart, for brief is my sojourn—" "Ah, wherefore?—Did not Hercules by force 80 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated corse, Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?[7] Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And Æson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 85 "The Gods to us are merciful—and they Yet further may relent: for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, 89 Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. "But if thou goest, I follow—" "Peace!" he said,— She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 95 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place. He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away—no strife to heal— 100 The past unsighed for, and the future sure; Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with finer harmony pursued;[8] Of all that is most beauteous—imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, 105 An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams; Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 110 That privilege by virtue.—"Ill," said he, "The end of man's existence I discerned, Who from ignoble games and revelry Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 115 "And while my youthful peers before my eyes (Each hero following his peculiar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports,—or, seated in the tent, Chieftains and kings in council were detained; 120 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.[A] "The wished-for wind was given:—I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea;[9] And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 125 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,— Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. "Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, belovèd Wife! On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 130 And on the joys we shared in mortal life,— The paths which we had trod—these fountains, flowers; My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. "But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 'Behold they tremble!—haughty their array, 135 Yet of their number no one dares to die?' In soul I swept the indignity away: Old frailties then recurred:—but lofty thought, In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. "And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 140 In reason, in self-government, too slow; I counsel thee by fortitude to seek Our blest re-union in the shades below. The invisible world with thee hath sympathised; Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 145 "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend Seeking[10] a higher object. Love was given, Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that[11] end; For this the passion to excess was driven— That self might be annulled; her bondage prove 150 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love."— Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes re-appears! Round the dear Shade she would have clung—'tis vain: The hours are past—too brief had they been years; And him no mortal effort can detain: 155 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, He through the portal takes his silent way, And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, She perished; and, as for a wilful crime, 160 By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers[12] Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. —Yet tears to human suffering are due; 165 And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, As fondly he believes.—Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 170 From out the tomb of him for whom she died; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; A constant interchange of growth and blight![C]
After meeting the Wordsworths at Charles Lamb's, on the 9th May 1815, Henry Crabb Robinson wrote in his Diary: "It is the mere power which he is conscious of exerting in which he delights, not the production of a work in which men rejoice on account of the sympathies and sensibilities it excites in them. Hence, he does not much esteem his Laodamia, as it belongs to the inferior class of poems founded on the affections." (See Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence, vol. i. p. 482.)
Wordsworth wrote thus to Walter Savage Landor, from Rydal Mount, on the 21st of January 1824:—
"You have condescended to minute criticism upon the Laodamia.[D] I concur with you in the first stanza, and had several times attempted to alter it upon your grounds. I cannot, however, accede to your objection to the 'second birth,' merely because the expression has been degraded by Conventiclers.[E] I certainly meant nothing more by it than the eadem cura, and the largior æther, etc., of Virgil's Sixth Æneid. All religions owe their origin or acceptation to the wish of the human heart to supply in another state of existence the deficiencies of this, and to carry still nearer to perfection what we admire in our present condition, so that there must be many modes of expression arising out of this coincidence, or rather identity of feeling common to all Mythologies; and under this observation I should shelter the phrase from your censure—but I may be wrong in the particular case, though certainly not in the general principle. This leads to a remark in your last—'that you are disgusted with all books that treat of religion.' I am afraid it is a bad sign in me, that I have little relish for any other. Even in poetry it is the imaginative only, viz., that which is conversant with or turns upon Infinity, that powerfully affects me. Perhaps I ought to explain: I mean to say that except in those passages, where things are lost in each other, and limits vanish, and aspirations are raised, I read with something too like indifference; but all great Poets are in this view powerful Religionists."
In 1815 Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, "Laodamia is a very original poem; I mean original with reference to your own manner. You have nothing like it. I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, but not suspected its derivation." (The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 284.)
Mr. Hazlitt wrote of Laodamia: "It breathes the pure spirit of the finest fragments of antiquity—the sweetness, the gravity, the strength, the beauty, and the languor of Death. Its glossy brilliancy arises from the perfection of the finishing, like that of careful sculpture, not from gaudy colouring—the texture of the thoughts has the smoothness and solidity of marble. It is a poem that might be read aloud in Elysium, and the spirits of departed heroes and sages would gather round to listen to it."
I am indebted to the Headmaster of Fettes College, Edinburgh, the Rev. W. A. Heard, for the following illustrative notes on Laodamia:—
"This poem illustrates more completely than any other the sympathy of the poet with the spirit of antiquity in its purest and most exalted forms. The idea that underlies the poem is the same conception of 'pietas' which Virgil has embodied in the Æneid, and with which he has associated, especially in the sixth book, which Wordsworth in many passages recalls, great ethical and religious conceptions, derived in the main from the philosophy of Plato. 'Pietas' embraces all the duties of life that are based upon the affections—love of home and parents and children, love of the Gods of our Fathers, and a reverence for that great order of things in which man finds himself a part. The pious man believes in a destiny, or order transcending his own will: to exalt any passion, however innocent, above this, is a rebellion; to intensify any passion, so as to disturb the appropriate calm of resignation, is to act irreverently against the gods. Lesser duties must give way to greater: love of wife must give way to love of country, and the sorrow of bereavement must not obscure the larger issues of life. Thus, not only did Laodamia's yearning for the restoration of her husband to life show a failure to recognise the fixity of eternal laws, but her death was 'ὑπὲρ μόρον' and in reason's spite; it was, after all, self-will, and could not win the favour of heaven.
Blending with this notion of 'pietas,' we find the Platonic repudiation of sensuous and material life. This life is only a discipline under imperfect conditions, and to be set free from the passion and fretfulness of existence is the choice and longing of the wise.
The poem is thus notable, not so much for the assimilation of details, as for natural affinity to the spirituality of antiquity, of which Virgil is the purest exponent. Virgil's seriousness, his tenderness, his conception of the inevitable, and yet moral, order of the world, his desire for purification, his sadness, and yet complete freedom from unmanliness, his love of nature and belief in the sympathy of nature with man—all these are points of contact between the ancient and modern poet.
With sacrifice before the rising morn.
Offerings were made to the infernal deities in the interval between midnight and sunrise. See Virgil's Æneid, vi. 242-258. Sil. Ital., xiii. 405.
mactare repostis Mos umbris, inquit, consueta piacula nigras Sub lucem pecudes.
It is men's wont to offer to the buried shades the proper expiations of black sheep on the verge of dawn.
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows. Non voltus, non color unus, Non comptae mansere comae; sed pectus anhelum, Et rabie fera corda tument; majorque videri, Nec mortale sonans.Æneid vi. 47.
Neither face nor hue remained unchanged, nor braided the locks of her hair: but the bosom heaves and the heart swells wild with frenzy, and she is more majestic to behold, and her voice has no mortal sound.
. . . . wingèd Mercury. Ἑρμῆς ψυχαγωγός or ψυχοπομπός, the conductor of souls. . . . . with his wand. Tum virgam capit: hac animas ille evocat Orco, Pallentes, alias sub Tartara tristia mittit, Dat somnos adimitque.Æneid iv. 242.
Then he takes the wand: with this he summons pale ghosts from Orcus, others he sends to gloomy Tartarus below: with this he gives and takes away sleep.
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp. Ter conatus ibi collo dare bracchia circum, Ter frustra comprensa manus effugit imago, Par levibus ventis volucrique simillima somno. Æneid vi. 700.
Thrice thereon he tried to cast his arms around his neck: thrice was the phantom grasped in vain and escaped the embrace, unsubstantial as the fleeting winds and shadowy like as winged sleep.
But in reward of thy fidelity. And something also did my worth obtain.
'Vicit iter durum pietas,' is realised by these lines. 'Fidelity has prevailed to traverse the awful path.'
Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold. Sors quoque nescio quem fato designat iniquo, Qui primus Danaum Troada tangat humum. Ovid, Heroides, xiii. 93.
An oracle, moreover, destines some one or other for a cruel doom, who first of the Greeks sets foot on Trojan soil.
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. See Laodamia's words, Ovid, Heroides, xiii. 95. Infelix quae prima virum lugebit ademptum; Di faciant ne tu strenuus esse velis. Hoc quoque praemoneo: de nave novissimus exi, Non est quo properes terra paterna tibi.
Unhappy wife who shall be the first to lament a husband slain: God grant you may not choose the forward part: this warning too I give, be last to disembark: 'tis no fatherland to hasten to, no fatherland for you.
Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss. This is probably an adaptation of Ovid, Heroides, xiii. 117. Quando erit ut lecto mecum bene junctus in uno Militiae referas splendida facta tuae.
When will the time be that you will share the couch, and lovingly at my side recount the glorious deeds of your warfare?
Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul, etc.
Cf. Euripides, Iphigeneia in Aulide, 547:
γαλανείᾳ χρησάμενοι μαινομένων οἴστρων. Stilling to calmness the frenzied passions of love.
And again:
εἴη δέ μοι μετρία μὲν χάρις πόθοι δ' ὅσιοι. Mine be 'moderate transports' and holy yearnings. . . . Did not Hercules by force.
This refers to the struggle between Hercules and Θάνατος.
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years.
The story is found in Ovid, Metamorphoses, vii. 159-293.
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
This is a perfect rendering of the tone of the Sixth Æneid.
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with finer harmony pursued. Quae gratia currum Armorumque fuit vivis, quae cura nitentes Pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos. Æneid vi. 653.
The charm of chariot and armour that they had in life, and the same care to pasture their glossy steeds, follow them deep buried under earth.
An ampler ether, a diviner air. Largior hic campos aether et lumine vestit Purpureo, solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.
Here an 'ampler ether' spreads around the plains, and clothes them in purple light, and they recognise a sun of their own, their own constellations.—Æneid vi. 640.
Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang. Cf. Agamemnon's words, Iphigeneia in Aulide, 451-468. My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. Cf. Homer, Iliad, ii. 700. τοῦ δὲ καὶ ἀμφιδρυφὴς ἄλοχος Φυλάκῃ ἐλέλειπτο καὶ δόμος ἡμιτελής.
But his wife too had been left at Phylace, her cheeks all marred with grief, and his palace half-finished.
In soul I swept the indignity away. καὶ γὰρ οὐδέ τοί τι λίαν ἐμὲ φιλοψυχεῖν χρεών.
For neither of a surety ought I to cling to life too fondly.—Iphigeneia in Aulide, 1385.
It is from the character of Iphigeneia that Wordsworth derives these traits.
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved.
We think of Virgil's tender line in the similar passage about Orpheus and Eurydice. Georg. iv. 488.
Quum subita incautum dementia cepit amantem, Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere Manes.
Pardonable indeed, were pardon known in the world of death.
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time.
Virg. Æn. vi. 445—
His Phaedram Procrimque locis maestamque Eriphylen Crudelis nati monstrantem volnera cernit, Evadnenque et Pasiphaën: His Laodamia It comes.
Those who died of love dwelt in the 'Lugentes Campi,' in the outer regions of Orcus.
A knot of spiry trees ...
The passage in Pliny is—
Sunt hodie ex adverso Iliensium urbis juxta Hellespontum in Protesilai sepulcro arbores, quae omnibus aevis cum in tantum accrevere ut Ilium aspiciant, inarescunt rursusque adolescunt.—Hist. Nat. 16, 44 (88).
Opposite to Ilium and close to the Hellespont there are to this day trees growing on Protesilaus' tomb, which, in every generation, as soon as they have grown high enough to see Ilium, wither away and again shoot up.
Cf. Anthologia Graeca Pal. vii. 141.
σᾶμα δέ τοι πτελέῃσι συηρεφὲς ἀμφικομεῦσι Νύμφαι ἀπεχθομένης Ἰλίου ἀντιπέρας, δένδρεα δυσμήνιτα, καὶ ἤν ποτε τεῖχος ἴδωσι Τρώϊον αὐαλέην φυλλοχοεῦντι κόμην.
But right opposite hated Ilium the nymphs shroud thy tomb with a roof of elms; trees blighting with a lasting wrath, and if ever they see the walls of Troy, they shed their withering leaves.
And again, vii. 385—
καρφοῦται πετάλων κόσμον ἀναινόμενα. They wither, disowning the glory of leaves.
For a legend showing a similar sympathy between nature and man, see Æneid, iii. 22."
As Wordsworth tells us in the Fenwick note to Laodamia, that "it cost him more trouble than almost anything of equal length he had ever written," and as there are many incomplete passages and suppressed readings among his MSS., the two following stanzas—intended at first to follow the second stanza in the poem as it now stands—may be given in a supplementary note.—Ed.
That rapture failing, the distracted Queen Knelt, and embraced the Statue of the God: "Mighty the boon I ask, but Earth has seen Effects as awful from thy gracious nod; All-ruling Jove, unbind the mortal chain, Nor let the force of prayer be spent in vain!" Round the high-seated Temple a soft breeze Along the columns sighed—all else was still— Mute, vacant as the face of summer seas, No sign accorded of a favouring will. Dejected she withdraws—her palace-gate Enters—and, traversing a room of state, O terror! etc. etc.
VARIANTS:
FOOTNOTES:
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND
1814
On the 18th July 1814, Wordsworth left Rydal, on a second visit to Scotland, accompanied by his wife, and her sister, Sarah Hutchinson.—Ed.
[In this tour, my wife and her sister Sara were my companions. The account of the "Brownie's Cell" and the Brownies was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbert, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which, we were told, preachings were often held in the open air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery very striking. How much is it to be regretted that, instead of writing such Poems as the Holy Fair and others, in which the religious observances of his country are treated with so much levity and too often with indecency, Burns had not employed his genius in describing religion under the serious and affecting aspects it must so frequently take.[F]—I.F.]
The poems of this series were collected under their common title in the edition of 1827.—Ed.
I
SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL,[13] FROM WHOM THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF
THE BROWNIE'S CELL
Composed 1814.—Published 1820
I
To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen,[14] Or depth of[15] labyrinthine glen; Or into trackless forest set With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; 5 World-wearied Men withdrew of yore; (Penance their trust, and prayer their store;) And in the wilderness were bound To such apartments as they found; Or with a new ambition raised; 10 That God might suitably be praised.
II
High lodged the Warrior,[16] like a bird of prey; Or where broad waters round him lay: But this wild Ruin is no ghost Of his devices—buried, lost! 15 Within this little lonely isle There stood a consecrated Pile; Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, For them whose timid Spirits clung To mortal succour, though the tomb 20 Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!
III
Upon[17] those servants of another world When madding Power[18] her bolts had hurled, Their habitation shook;—it fell, And perished, save one narrow cell; 25 Whither, at length, a Wretch retired Who neither grovelled nor aspired: He, struggling in the net of pride, The future scorned, the past defied; Still tempering, from the unguilty forge 30 Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!
IV
Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race,[19] Who stood and flourished face to face With their perennial hills;—but Crime, Hastening the stern decrees of Time, 35 Brought low a Power, which from its home Burst, when repose grew wearisome; And, taking impulse from the sword, And, mocking its own plighted word, Had found, in ravage widely dealt, 40 Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt![20]
V
All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile Shot lightning through this lonely Isle! No right had he but what he made To this small[21] spot, his leafy shade; 45 But the ground lay within that ring To which he only dared to cling; Renouncing here,[22] as worse than dead, The craven few who bowed the head Beneath the change; who heard a claim 50 How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.
VI
From year to year[23] this shaggy Mortal went (So seemed it) down a strange descent: Till they, who saw his outward frame, Fixed on him an unhallowed name; 55 Him, free from all malicious taint, And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, A pen unwearied—to indite, In his lone Isle,[24] the dreams of night; Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 60 The faded glories of his Clan!
VII
Suns that through blood their western harbour sought, And stars that in their courses fought; Towers rent, winds combating with woods, Lands deluged by unbridled floods; 65 And beast and bird that from the spell Of sleep took import terrible;— These types mysterious (if the show Of battle and the routed foe Had failed) would furnish an array 70 Of matter for the dawning day!
VIII
How disappeared He?—ask the newt and toad, Inheritors of his abode; The otter crouching undisturbed, In her dank cleft;—but be thou curbed, 75 O froward Fancy! 'mid a scene Of aspect winning and serene; For those offensive creatures shun The inquisition of the sun! And in this region flowers delight, 80 And all is lovely to the sight.
IX
Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, When she applies her annual test To dead and living; when her breath Quickens, as now, the withered heath;— 85 Nor flaunting[25] Summer—when he throws His soul into the briar-rose; Or calls the lily from her sleep Prolonged beneath the bordering deep; Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren 90 Is warbling near the Brownie's Den.
X
Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot;[G] Whither, by care of Libyan Jove, (High Servant of paternal Love) 95 Young Bacchus was conveyed—to lie Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye; Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, Close-crowding round the infant-god; All colours,—and the liveliest streak 100 A foil to his celestial cheek!
The text of this poem was unaltered in the successive editions with a single exception, occurring in the first line. It was suggested by, and was a reminiscence of the tour in Scotland of 1814; but in 1803 Wordsworth visited the same spot alluded to in the Fenwick note, accompanied by his sister, who thus describes it: "The most remarkable object we saw was a huge single stone, I believe three or four times the size of Bowder Stone. The top of it, which on one side was sloping like the roof of a house, was covered with heather.... The ferryman told us that a preaching was held there once in three months by a certain minister—I think of Arrochar—who engages, as a part of his office, to perform the service. The interesting feelings we had connected with the Highland Sabbath and Highland worship returned here with double force. The rock, though on one side a high perpendicular wall, in no place overhung so as to form a shelter, in no place could it be more than a screen from the elements. Why then had it been selected for such a purpose? Was it merely from being a central situation and a conspicuous object? Or did there belong to it some inheritance of superstition from old times? It is impossible to look at the stone without asking, How came it hither? Had then that obscurity and unaccountableness, that mystery of power which is about it, any influence over the first persons who resorted hither for worship? Or have they now on those who continue to frequent it? The lake is in front of the perpendicular wall, and behind, at some distance, and totally detached from it, is the continuation of the ridge of mountain which forms the Vale of Loch Lomond—a magnificent temple, of which this spot is a noble Sanctum Sanctorum." (Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, A.D. 1803, pp. 225-6.) The late Rev. William Macintosh of Buchanan supplied me with the following information in reference to the Brownie's Cell and the Pulpit Rock:—"I have little doubt that the Brownie's Cell is the name given by Wordsworth to a small vault, itself a ruin among the ruins of an old stronghold of the Macfarlanes in Eilan Vhow, an islet about three miles from the head of the Loch. The name of the islet is spelt in different ways; sometimes as I have given it, sometimes Eilan Vow, or Eilan-a Vhu; no one whom I consulted could tell me the right spelling. In the early part of this century, the vault was the headquarters of a pedlar of the name of Macfarlane. He may have been the Hermit; and there is a story of his having been frightened by the sudden apparition of a negro, (probably the first he had ever seen), who had been ordered by his master—an English officer—to swim across for that purpose: and it is said that he never again visited the cell.
The Pulpit Rock, also called by a Gaelic name meaning the Bull Stone, is a very large boulder, or detached rock, which is likely to 'stand' as long as Ben Lomond. In the face of it, there is an artificial doorway and recess, which at one time the Parish Minister used to occupy as a Pulpit for occasional services. The audience sat on turf seats ranged round the foot of the Rock. The pulpit was reached by a few steps cut out, I suppose, in the Rock: but it has never been used for the last twenty years. The 'occasional' services are now held in a neighbouring schoolroom."
Mr. Malcolm M'Farlane, a very intelligent sheep farmer in Buchanan parish, supplies the following additional information about the Cell and the Rock:—"The 'Pulpit Rock' is a cell in the face of a large stone, blasted out with gunpowder. The proper appellation is, in Gaelic, 'Clach-nan-Tairbh,' literally translated the 'Stone of the Bulls.' It was formed about 50 or 60 years ago, the then minister of Arrochar, Mr. Proudfoot, had promised to preach in that part of his parish, on several occasions during the year, provided they would get up a place for his reception.... It was capable of containing three or four persons inside, was done up with wood work, an outer and inner door, with stone steps leading to the recess. They were not formed out of the rock, but other stones got up for the purpose, and turf seats laid out for the hearers, who were all exposed to the weather, except so far as they might be sheltered by the rock. The service has been discontinued at the rock for about twenty-five years, and is now held at a schoolhouse. The doors are gone, and no portion of the wood work remains. The cell is now used only as a nightly retreat for mendicants, tinkers," etc. Wordsworth's reference, in the Fenwick note, to Burns's Holy Fair induces me to quote what follows in Mr. M'Farlane's letter:—"Open air preaching was then very general in the Highlands: the people came long distances, travelled over hills, even in inclement weather, to attend them. An individual who kept a small inn, on the loch side opposite Inversnaid, used regularly to attend the meetings with a supply of whisky; but he remained behind the 'rock' till the services were over, when the people partook of his refreshments. Also, on the north side of Loch Katrine, the minister of Callander used to conduct services in the open air, on several occasions during the year, in that distant part of his parish. An old man, who lived near the Trossachs, whom I remember very well, regularly attended with a supply of whisky. Dr. Robertson, who was then minister, after concluding the sermon, had gone to an adjoining farm house. The people had indulged too freely, so that a fight commenced (the same thing had happened on several occasions before). The Doctor had to leave his dinner in order to get them separated, and to put an end to the battle, but he never allowed any more whisky to be brought to the place afterwards.... These may be irrelevant matters, but they might illustrate a chapter in Lecky's History of Morals, as there is more decorum now observed. Since writing the above, I have thought that if the pulpit-rock is mentioned in Miss Wordsworth's Tour, Mr. M'Nicol, my informant, must have made a mistake in stating the time it was made, as about 50 or 60 years ago; but it cannot have been much more than 80 years, as it is not very long since some of the people who were engaged in the operation died.
"Regarding the island near the head of Loch Lomond which is termed 'Eilan (Island) Vow' in Black's Guide, and somewhat differently spelt in others, in the original Gaelic it is 'Eilan a Bhūth.' Būth is a Gaelic name for a shop, so that it is 'the island of the shop.' The English Vow has no connection whatever with the Gaelic, and is perfectly unintelligible. It is part of undoubted traditional history that the chiefs of the Clan M'Farlane, who owned a considerable portion of the adjoining lands, had their residence here. In these turbulent times islands were considered more secure, as surrounded with water. They kept a 'shop' in the island, from which they supplied the little wants of the surrounding population, so that it is perfectly clear how the Island derived its name. A good portion of the stronghold is still in good preservation. A part of the wall is about thirty feet high. It is a very old building. Mr. M'Nicol states that he had learned from his grandfather, by the tradition in the family, that it was erected between the eleventh and the twelfth century. The late Sir James Colquhoun, about twelve years ago, laid out some money for keeping the walls in preservation. At the bottom of the Fort, and below the level of the floor, is the 'Brownie's Cell,' several steps leading down to it, and it is partly underground. It is about twelve feet wide, and sixteen feet long, with an arched roof, the mason work being still in good repair. There is some glimmering light emitted by two small apertures formed in the walls at each end. I have been unable to obtain any specific information what purpose it served in connection with the other building. Some said that it must have been a prison, and others a store for the shop. It might have been a prison at first, and afterwards, in more pacific times, used as a store.
"About the beginning of this century, the Island was occupied by a very eccentric individual, who led the life of a hermit, and took up his abode in this recess. He made frequent excursions out of it, but always returned to his Island-home before the end of the week. It was not then planted with wood, so that he cultivated a part of the ground, raised some crops, kept some poultry. He trained the poultry to fly on the approach of any stranger, so that they could not be got hold of, or taken away in his absence from the Island. He also kept a curious diary, in which local events, his own doings and opinions, were recorded in great detail, expressed in very quaint language. It was by the age of the moon, and not by the days of the month, that events were entered in the diary. He also cultivated astrology, and believed in the evil influence of some of the stars. He had a firm belief in ghosts; but he never was so frightened as when the Black Man (that is the negro), who he thought belonged to the invisible world, swam to the island. Of that adventure I have not been able to obtain a more detailed account, but his landing there very nearly put him out of his wits. The grandfather of the present Duke of Montrose had, on one occasion, visited the Island; and, when landing, the Hermit addressed him, 'James Graham, the Duke of Montrose, you are welcome to come and see my Island.'..."
There is no evidence that the ruin was once "a consecrated Pile," as stated in the poem. Wordsworth had evidently heard of the Hermit's writings, as mentioned by Mr. M'Farlane. See stanza vi., "guiding a pen unwearied."
In the Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson, there is an entry, dated January 2, 1820:—"Went to Lamb's, where I found Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth.... Not much was said about his (W.'s) new volume of Poems. He himself spoke of The Brownie's Cell as his favourite" (vol. ii. p. 162). In the following year Mr. Crabb Robinson himself visited Scotland, and wrote thus on the 16th September:—"Being on the western side of Loch Lomond, opposite the Mill at Inversnaid, some women kindled a fire, the smoke of which was to be a signal for a ferryboat. No ferryman came; and a feeble old man offering himself as a boatman, I intrusted myself to him. I asked the women who he was. They said, 'That's old Andrew.' According to their account he lived a hermit's life in a lone island on the lake; the poor peasantry giving him meal, and what he wanted, and he picking up pence. On my asking him whether he would take me across the lake, he said, 'I wull, if you'll gi'e me saxpence.' So I consented. But before I was half over I repented of my rashness, for I feared the oars would fall out of his hands. A breath of wind would have rendered half the voyage too much for him. There was some cunning mixed up with the fellow's seeming imbecility, for when his strength was failing he rested, and entered into talk, manifestly to amuse me. He said he could see things before they happened. He saw the Radicals before they came, etc. He had picked up a few words of Spanish and German, which he uttered ridiculously, and laughed. But when I put troublesome questions he affected not to understand me; and was quite astonished, as well as delighted, when I gave him two sixpences instead of the one he had bargained for. The simple-minded women, who affected to look down on him, seemed, however, to stand in awe of him, and no wonder. On my telling Wordsworth this history, he exclaimed, 'That's my "Brownie!"' His Brownie's Cell is by no means one of my favourite poems. My sight of old Andrew showed me the stuff out of which a poetical mind can weave such a web" (vol. ii. pp. 212, 213).
Compare the sequel to this poem, The Brownie, in the "Yarrow Revisited and other Poems," of the Tour made in Scotland in the autumn of 1831.—Ed.
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II COMPOSED AT CORA LINN,
In sight of Wallace's Tower
—How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty. ms.[H]
Composed 1814.—Published 1820
[I had seen this celebrated Waterfall twice before; but the feelings to which it had given birth were not expressed till they recurred in presence of the object on this occasion.—I.F.]
Lord of the vale! astounding Flood; The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes—conscious of thy power; The caves reply with hollow moan; 5 And vibrates, to its central stone, Yon time-cemented Tower![I] And yet how fair the rural scene! For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong; 10 Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among. Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee—delight to rove 15 Where they thy voice can hear; And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear! Along thy banks, at dead of night 20 Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; Or stands, in warlike vest, Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, A Champion worthy of the stream, Yon grey tower's living crest! 25 But clouds and envious darkness hide A Form not doubtfully descried:— Their transient mission o'er, O say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy? 30 To what untrodden shore? Less than divine command they spurn; But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show; That never will they deign to hold 35 Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe. The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian plain; Or thrid the shadowy gloom, 40 That still invests the guardian Pass, Where stood, sublime, Leonidas Devoted to the tomb.[J] And let no Slave his head incline, Or kneel, before the votive shrine 45 By Uri's lake, where Tell Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,[K] Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand That day the Tyrant fell.[26]
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III EFFUSION,
In the Pleasure-Ground on the Banks of the Bran, near Dunkeld
Composed 1814.—Published 1827
[I am not aware that this condemnatory effusion was ever seen by the owner of the place. He might be disposed to pay little attention to it; but were it to prove otherwise I should be glad, for the whole exhibition is distressingly puerile.—I.F.]
"The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect it. We were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the Gardener desired us to look at a picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young Artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middle—flying asunder as by the touch of magic—and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls."—Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.[L]
What He—who, mid the kindred throng Of Heroes that inspired his song, Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, The stars dim-twinkling through their forms! 5 What! Ossian here—a painted Thrall, Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall; To serve—an unsuspected screen For show that must not yet be seen; And, when the moment comes, to part 10 And vanish by mysterious art; Head, harp, and body, split asunder, For ingress to a world of wonder; A gay saloon, with waters dancing Upon the sight wherever glancing; 15 One loud cascade in front, and lo! A thousand like it, white as snow— Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam As active round the hollow dome, Illusive cataracts! of their terrors 20 Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors, That catch the pageant from the flood Thundering adown a rocky wood. What pains to dazzle and confound! What strife of colour, shape and sound 25 In this quaint medley, that might seem Devised out of a sick man's dream![27] Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy As ever made a maniac dizzy, When disenchanted from the mood 30 That loves on sullen thoughts to brood! O Nature—in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions[28] Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime— Ever averse to pantomime, 35 Thee neither do they know nor us Thy servants, who can trifle thus; Else verily[29] the sober powers Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, Exalted by congenial sway 40 Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, And Names that moulder not away, Had wakened[30] some redeeming thought More worthy of this favoured Spot; Recalled some feeling—to set free 45 The Bard from such indignity! [M]The Effigies of a valiant Wight I once beheld, a Templar Knight; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On tombs, with palms together prest, 50 But sculptured out of living stone, And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employed in setting his sword free From its dull sheath—stern sentinel 55 Intent to guard St. Robert's cell;[N] As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say, The Monks of Fountain's[O] thronged to force From its dear home the Hermit's corse, 60 That in their keeping it might lie, To crown their abbey's sanctity. So had they rushed into the grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved retreat, 65 Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Still hint that quiet best is found, Even by the Living, under ground; But a bold Knight, the selfish aim Defeating, put the Monks to shame, 70 There where you see his Image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening bran Which lingering Nid is proud to show Reflected in the pool below. Thus, like the men of earliest days, 75 Our sires set forth their grateful praise: Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring artist dare To seize whate'er, through misty air, 80 A ghost, by glimpses, may present Of imitable lineament, And give the phantom an array That less[31] should scorn the abandoned clay; Then let him hew with patient stroke 85 An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative Man— Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!— Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep; 90 With local sanctities in trust, More precious than a hermit's dust; And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry abused. What though the Granite would deny 95 All fervour to the sightless eye; And touch from rising suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain;[P] Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, The wind might force the deep-grooved harp 100 To utter melancholy moans Not unconnected with the tones Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones; While grove and river notes would lend, Less deeply sad, with these to blend! 105 Vain pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds 110 That heaven-deserted man applauds; When will your hapless patrons learn To watch and ponder—to discern The freshness, the everlasting youth,[32] Of admiration sprung from truth; 115 From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o'erflowing— To sound the depths of every Art That seeks its wisdom through the heart? Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced 120 With baubles of theatric taste, O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers On motley bands of alien flowers In stiff confusion set or sown, Till Nature cannot find her own, 125 Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod) I mused; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness.
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FOOTNOTES:
"FROM THE DARK CHAMBERS OF DEJECTION FREED"
Composed 1814.—Published 1815
[Composed in Edinburgh, during my Scotch tour with Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister, Miss Hutchinson, in the year 1814. Poor Gillies never rose above that course of extravagance in which he was at that time living, and which soon reduced him to poverty and all its degrading shifts, mendicity being far from the worst. I grieve whenever I think of him, for he was far from being without genius, and had a generous heart, not always to be found in men given up to profusion. He was nephew of Lord Gillies, the Scotch judge, and also of the historian of Greece. He was cousin to Miss Margaret Gillies, who painted so many portraits with success in our house.—I.F.]
Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." In 1815 the sonnet was headed To ——.—Ed.
From the dark chambers of dejection freed, Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, Rise, Gillies, rise:[33] the gales of youth shall bear Thy genius forward like a wingèd steed. 5 Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, Yet a rich[34] guerdon waits on minds that dare, If aught be in them of immortal seed, And reason govern that audacious flight Which heaven-ward they direct.—Then droop not thou, 11 Erroneously renewing a sad vow In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove:[35] A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
I am indebted to Miss Margaret Gillies—the artist referred to in the Fenwick note—for information in reference to her cousin, the subject of this sonnet. Robert Pearce Gillies was a man of unquestionable talent, but eccentric and extravagant. He inherited a considerable fortune, some £1500 a year, from his father, which he lost. He was editor of the Foreign Quarterly Review, was very intimate with De Quincey, and knew Sir Walter Scott, Wordsworth, and Quillinan well. He translated several German poems and novels, of which Scott thought highly. He was the author of Memoirs of a Literary Veteran (1851), in which (vol. ii. pp. 137-173) there is a sketch of Wordsworth, and several letters from him. He was also an accomplished musician, playing the violin admirably. He lived near Hawthornden.
The expression "faded" or "fading grove," which Wordsworth applies to Roslin, may refer merely to the season of the year, viz. September.—Ed.
A sonnet written by Gillies, and addressed to Wordsworth, may be quoted in this note. It was transcribed by Mrs. Wordsworth into a copy of the 4to edition of The Excursion (1814), which was presented by the Poet to his grandson.
To the Author of The Excursion
Though feebly in my harassed mind the light Of fancy burn, yet thy inspiring strain Wordsworth! has power to lull the sense of pain, And bring long lost illusions to my sight. Methinks the autumnal fields,—the mist-wreaths white,— The woods,—the distant waters of the main Their wonted hues of wild enchantment gain, And, for a space, my cares are put to flight. Then, how much more shall this immortal Lay For the "free Soul" celestial sweets disclose!— But, thine it is, oh Bard! with magic sway To charm each meaner passion to repose;— To guide the faltering pilgrim on his way, And energise the weak, and soothe the mourner's woes. R. P. Gillies.
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IV YARROW VISITED
September, 1814
Composed 1814.—Published 1815
[As mentioned in my verses on the death of the Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarrow was in his company. We had lodged the night before at Traquair, where Hogg had joined us, and also Dr. Anderson, the Editor of the British Poets, who was on a visit at the Manse. Dr. A. walked with us till we came in view of the Vale of Yarrow, and, being advanced in life, he then turned back. The old man was passionately fond of poetry, though with not much of a discriminating judgment, as the Volumes he edited sufficiently shew. But I was much pleased to meet with him, and to acknowledge my obligation to his collection, which had been my brother John's companion in more than one voyage to India, and which he gave me before his departure from Grasmere, never to return. Through these Volumes I became first familiar with Chaucer, and so little money had I then to spare for books, that, in all probability, but for this same work, I should have known little of Drayton, Daniel, and other distinguished poets of the Elizabethan age, and their immediate successors, till a much later period of my life. I am glad to record this, not from any importance of its own, but, as a tribute of gratitude to this simple-hearted old man, whom I never again had the pleasure of meeting. I seldom read or think of this poem without regretting that my dear Sister was not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time, when, travelling together in Scotland, we declined going in search of this celebrated stream, not altogether, I will frankly confess, for the reasons assigned in the poem on the occasion.—I.F.]
In 1815 and 1820 this was one of the "Poems of the Imagination." In 1827 it became one of the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland" of 1814.
The MS. readings to this poem are taken from a copy in a letter by Dorothy Wordsworth to Mrs. Clarkson, dated November 11, 1814.—Ed.
And is this—Yarrow?—This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream?[36] An image that hath perished! 5 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes[37] of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?—a silvery current flows 10 With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths,[38] Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; 15 For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, 20 A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. 25 Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, 30 Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thrice— And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers, 35 The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; 40 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation: 45 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds 50 Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary! 55 The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story.[Q] Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in; For manhood to enjoy his strength; 60 And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there— The brood of chaste affection.[38a] 65 How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood[39] fruits to gather, And on my True-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own! 70 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see—but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 75 A ray of fancy still survives— Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 80 Accordant to the measure. The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— Sad thought, which I would banish, 85 But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me—to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow.
Compare Yarrow Unvisited, vol. ii. p. 411; also Yarrow Revisited, composed in 1831; and Principal Shairp's Essay entitled "The Three Yarrows," in his Aspects of Poetry. "I meant to mention Yarrow Visited, with that stanza, 'But thou, that didst appear so fair'; than which I think no lovelier stanza can be found in the wide world of poetry;—yet the poem, on the whole, seems condemned to leave behind it a melancholy of imperfect satisfaction, as if you had wronged the feeling with which, in what preceded it, you had resolved never to visit it, and as if the Muse had determined, in the most delicate manner, to make you, and scarce make you, feel it. Else, it is far superior to the other,[R] which has but one exquisite verse in it, the last but one, or the last two: this is all fine, except perhaps that that of 'studious ease, and generous cares,' has a little tinge of the less romantic about it." Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, in 1815. (See The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 286.)—Ed.
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LINES
Written[40] on a blank leaf in a copy of the author's poem "The Excursion," upon hearing of the death of the late Vicar of Kendal.
Composed 1814.—Published 1815
One of the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."—Ed.
To public notice, with reluctance strong, Did I deliver this unfinished Song; Yet for one happy issue;—and I look With self-congratulation on the Book 5 Which pious, learned, Murfitt saw and read;— Upon my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed; He conned the new-born Lay with grateful heart— Foreboding not how soon he must depart; Unweeting that to him the joy was given 10 Which good men take with them from earth to heaven.
The Annals of Kendal—an octavo volume containing information on all subjects of historical or antiquarian interest connected with the town—contains no reference to Mr. Murfitt, except a copy of the inscription on his monument. He was instituted vicar of Kendal in 1806, and died on the 7th November 1814. The following is a copy of the inscription.
To the Memory of The Reverend Matthew Murfitt, A.M. Vicar of Kendal And formerly Fellow of Trinity College Cambridge, Who died Nov. 7, 1814, aged 50 years. He was a pious, learned, and eloquent Divine, A sincere Friend, a kind husband And in every relation of Life A most worthy man.
The monument is erected against the north wall of the Parish Church of Kendal.
The phrase in the second line of the sonnet, "this unfinished Song," refers to The Excursion being only part of a longer unfinished poem, The Recluse. (See the preface to the edition of 1814.)—Ed.
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