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The Poems of William Wordsworth

Collected Reading Texts from

The Cornell Wordsworth

Edited by Jared CurtisIn Three Volumes

A Complimentary Addendum

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An Addendum to

The Poems of William Wordsworth

Collected Reading Texts from

The Cornell Wordsworth Series

In Three Volumes

Edited by Jared Curtis

HEB ☼ Humanities-Ebooks, LLP

© Jared Curtis, 2012

The Author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published by Humanities-Ebooks, LLP, Tirril Hall, Tirril, Penrith CA10 2JE.

Cover image, Sunburst over Martindale © Richard Gravil

The reading texts of Wordsworth’s poems used in this volume are from the Cornell Wordsworth series, published by Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, NY 14850. Copyright © Cornell University. Volumes are available at: http://www.cornellpress.cornell.edu

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Contents of this Addendum

Preface 8An Evening Walk 9The Baker’s Cart 23A Fragment [A Night-Piece] 25Nutting 27The Ruined Cottage, MS.D 33Yew-Trees 49Odes, 1815–1817 51

Ode. The morning of the day appointed for a general thanksgiving. January 18, 1816. 52

Ode. 1815. 60Ode. —1817. 65Vernal Ode 69

Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence (1826) 74

Salisbury Plain and Guilt and Sorrow; Or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain 81

Salisbury Plain 82Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain 101

Index of titles, first lines and series titles, Volumes I, II, III 126Introducing ‘The Cornell Wordsworth’ from HEB 174

6 The Poems of William Wordsworth

Contents of the Three-Volume Edition

Volume 1

Early Poems and Fragments, 1785–1797 11An Evening Walk (1793) 82Descriptive Sketches (1793) 97Adventures on Salisbury Plain (1795–1799) 123The Borderers (1797) 151The Ruined Cottage and The Pedlar (1798, 1803–1804) The Ruined Cottage (1798) 270 The Pedlar (1803–1804) 286Lyrical Ballads, and Other Poems, 1797–1800 Lyrical Ballads and Other Poems (1798) 312 Lyrical Ballads and Other Poems, in Two Volumes (1800) 377 Other Poems, 1798–1800 476Peter Bell, a Tale (1799) 487The Prelude (1798–1799) 530Home at Grasmere (1800–1806) 558Poems, in Two Volumes, and Other Poems, 1800–1807 Poems, in Two Volumes (1807) 587 Other Poems, 1800–1807 718

Volume II

The Prelude (1805–1806) 11Benjamin the Waggoner &c (1806) 250The Tuft of Primroses, with Other Late Poems for The Recluse

(1808–1828) The Tuft of Primroses 274 To the Clouds 291 St. Paul’s 292 Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to

quit Rydal Mount as a Residence 294

An Addendum 7

The Excursion (1808–1814) The Excursion (1814) 298 The Peasant’s Life 568 The Shepherd of Bield Crag 570The White Doe of Rylstone; Or the Fate of the Nortons. A Poem (1808)

572Translations of Chaucer and Virgil (1801–1831) Chaucer: The Prioress’s Tale 635 Chaucer: The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 643 Chaucer: Troilus and Cressida 654 Chaucer: The Manciple (from the Prologue) and his Tale 659 Virgil: Aeneid 667 Virgil: Georgics 751

Volume III

Shorter Poems (1807–1820) 11The Prelude (1824–1829) 144Sonnet Series and Itinerary Poems (1820–1845) The River Duddon. A Series of Sonnets 349 Ecclesiastical Sketches 368 Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820 427 Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems, Composed (two excepted)

during a Tour in Scotland, and on the English Border, in the Autumn of 1831 469

Sonnets Composed or Suggested during a tour in Scotland, in the Summer of 1833 488

Memorials of a Tour in Italy. 1837 524 Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death. In Series 555 Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty and Order 561Last Poems (1821–1850) 568


Preface

This addendum to The Poems of William Wordsworth (3 vols., Penrith, U.K.: Humanities-Ebooks, 2009) is intended to supply some of those poems and versions of poems that were omitted from the original work for lack of space. Readers have suggested some of the selec-tions, while others were thought by the editor to be equally essential to a full view of the poet’s life work.

As a group, though a necessarily accidental one, the poems span Wordsworth’s career from his earliest published work, An Evening Walk, to one of the latest, Guilt and Sorrow, which, not surpris-ingly, draws on some of the poet’s earliest writings, like The Vale of Esthwaite, and is a thorough remake of a poem completed in 1797 but never published, Adventures on Salisbury Plain. In between are blank verse descriptive poems like The Baker’s Cart and two early versions of Nutting; a lyric—two versions of A Night Piece; the 1799 version of the remarkable narrative poem, The Ruined Cottage, published by Wordsworth only as the first book of The Excursion (1814); two odes originally composed between 1815 and 1817 and reworked and expanded in later years to form four distinct poems; and the final version of Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence (1826), which Wordsworth intended as an introduction to a new section of his “great philosophical poem,” The Recluse. Quintessentially the poet of close observation of his surroundings, Wordsworth also regarded his body of written work as an inner “landscape” and continually drew upon it for inspiration and re-visioning the world.

For the convenience of purchasers of the three paperback volumes, a consolidated index to the three volumes is also included.

An Addendum 9

An Evening Walk

In 1836 Wordsworth dated the composition of An Evening Walk, “1787, 8, & 9”; the earliest complete version was published in 1793, which is the one that appears in The Poems of William Wordsworth (vol. I, pp. 82–96). But he made significant additions to the poem in 1794, roughly doubling its length and transforming it from a solely descriptive poem to a dramatic and narrative one. This version he did not publish but instead incorporated much of its new material into the early stages of composing The Ruined Cottage. Setting An Evening Walk aside for two decades, he then assigned it—and its companion poem, Descriptive Sketches—to the “Poems Referring to the Period of Childhood” when he arranged his collected poems to follow “the course of human life” in Poems (1815).

In preparing successive editions of his collected poems, Wordsworth continued to revise An Evening Walk, creating distinct versions in 1827, 1832, 1836, 1840, and 1845. Of these the 1836 version is the one to which he gave the most attention, as he worked through the text at least three times to establish the final shape and content of the poem. It is this version that is included here.

The source for the reading text is An Evening Walk, edited by James Averill (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984).


An Evening Walk1

Addressed to a Young Lady

General Sketch of the Lakes—Author’s Regret of his youth passed amongst them—Short description of Noon—Cascade—Noon-tide Retreat—Precipice and sloping Lights—Face of Nature as the Sun declines—Mountain-farm, and the Cock—Slate-quarry—Sunset—Superstition of the Country, con-nected with that moment—Swans—Female Beggar—Twilight Sounds—Western Lights—Spirits—Night—Moonlight—Hope—Night-sounds—Conclusion.

Far from my dearest Friend, ’tis mine to roveThrough bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove;Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roarThat stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore;Where peace to Grasmere’s lonely island leads, 5To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads;Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds,Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds;Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander2 sleeps’Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; 10

1 WW’s general note to “Juvenile Pieces” (1820–1832) reads: “Of the Poems in this class, ‘The Evening Walk’ and ‘Descriptive Sketches’ were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems.”

In 1836 WW added, “The above [note], which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, ‘Descriptive Sketches,’ as it now stands. The cor-rections [to Descriptive Sketches], though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of Juvenile Pieces.” In 1845, WW omitted the final sentence of his original note, retaining the addition of 1836.

2 “These lines are only applicable to the middle part of that lake. Winander is Lake Windermere.” 1836

An Evening Walk 11

Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite’s shore,And memory of departed pleasures, more.

Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child,The echoes of your rocks my carols wild:The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, 15A cloudy substitute for failing gladness.In youth’s keen eye the livelong day was bright,The sun at morning, and the stars at night,Alike, when first the bittern’s hollow billWas heard, or woodcocks1 roamed the moonlight hill. 20

In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain,And hope itself was all I knew of pain;For then, the inexperienced heart would beatAt times, while young Content forsook her seat,And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, 25Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road.Alas! the idle tale of man is foundDepicted in the dial’s moral round;Hope with reflection blends her social raysTo gild the total tablet of his days; 30Yet still, the sport of some malignant power,He knows but from its shade the present hour.

But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain?To show what pleasures yet to me remain,Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, 35The history of a poet’s evening hear? When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still,Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill,And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen,Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between; 40When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make

1 “In the beginning of winter, these mountains are frequented by woodcocks, which in dark nights retire into the woods.” 1836


A fence far stretched into the shallow lake,Lashed the cool water with their restless tails,Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales;When school-boys stretched their length upon the green; 45And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene, In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deerShook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear;When horses in the sunburnt intake1 stood,And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, 50Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress,With forward neck the closing gate to press—Then, while I wandered where the huddling rillBrightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll2

As by enchantment, an obscure retreat 55Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet.While thick above the rill the branches close,In rocky basin its wild waves repose,Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green,Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; 60Save that aloft the subtle sunbeams shineOn withered briars that o’er the crags recline;Sole light admitted here, a small cascade,Illumines with sparkling foam the impervious shade;Beyond, along the vista of the brook, 65Where antique roots its bustling course o’erlook,The eye reposes on a secret bridge3

Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge;Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the listless swain Lingering behind his disappearing wain. 70—Did Sabine grace adorn my living line,Blandusia’s praise, wild stream, should yield to thine!

1 “The word intake is local, and signifies a mountain-inclosure.” 18362 “Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to this country: ghyll, and dingle, have the

same meaning.” 1836. Both words refer to a stream or small enclosed valley.3 “The reader who has made the tour of this country, will recognize, in this descrip-

tion, the features which characterize the lower waterfall in the grounds of Rydal.” 1836

An Evening Walk 13

Never shall ruthless minister of death’Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers, 75No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers;The mystic shapes that by thy margin roveA more benignant sacrifice approve;A mind, that, in a calm angelic moodOf happy wisdom, meditating good, 80Beholds, of all from her high powers required,Much done, and much designed, and more desired,—Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined,Entire affection for all human kind.

—Sweet rill, farewell! To-morrow’s noon again 85Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain;But now the sun has gained his western road,And eve’s mild hour invites my steps abroad.

While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; 90Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apaceTravel along the precipice’s base;Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone,By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o’ergrown; Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle’s beard: 95And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard.

How pleasant, as the sun declines, to viewThe spacious landscape change in form and hue!Here, vanish, as in mist, before a floodOf bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; 100There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed,Come forth, and here retire in purple shade;Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white,Soften their glare before the mellow light;The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide 105


Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide,Shed from their sides, that face the sun’s slant beam,Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream:Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloudMounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; 110The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire,Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire.

Into a gradual calm the breezes sink,A blue rim borders all the lake’s still brink:And now, on every side, the surface breaks 115Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks;Here, plots of sparkling water tremble brightWith thousand thousand twinkling points of light;There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away,Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray; 120And now the whole wide lake in deep reposeIs hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows,Save where, along the shady western marge,Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge.The sails are dropped, the poplar’s foliage sleeps, 125And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deeps.

Their panniered train a group of potters goad,Winding from side to side up the steep road;The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edgeShot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; 130Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illumeFeeding ’mid purple heath, “green rings,”1 and broom;While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds,Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds;In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, 135Dashed o’er the rough rock, lightly leaps along;From lonesome chapel at the mountain’s feet,

1 “‘Vivid rings of green.’—greenwood’s poem on shooting.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 86.

An Evening Walk 15

Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat;Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat;And blasted quarry thunders, heard remote! 140

Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods,Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floods,Not undelightful are the simplest charms,Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms.

Sweetly ferocious,1 round his native walks, 145Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks;Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread;A crest of purple tops the warrior’s head.Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurlsAfar, his tail he closes and unfurls; 150On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat,Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote:Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings,While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings!

Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine 155And yew-tree o’er the silver rocks recline;I love to mark the quarry’s moving trains,Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains:How busy all the enormous hive within,While Echo dallies with its various din! 160Some (hear you not their chisels’ clinking sound?)Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound;Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried,O’erwalk the slender plank from side to side;These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, 165In airy baskets hanging, work and sing.

1 “‘Dolcemente feroce.’—Tasso.—In this description of the cock, I remembered a spirited one of the same animal in L’Agriculture, ou Les Géorgiques Françoises, of M. Rossuet.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 86.


Just where a cloud above the mountain rearsAn edge all flame, the broadening sun appears;A long blue bar its ægis orb divides,And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; 170And now the sun has touched the purple steepWhose softened image penetrates the deep.’Cross the calm lake’s blue shades the cliffs aspire, With towers and woods, a “prospect all on fire”; While coves and secret hollows, through a ray 175Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between Shines in the light with more than earthly green.Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume, Far in the level forest’s central gloom; 180Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,— The dog, loud barking, ’mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.Where oaks o’erhang the road the radiance shoots 185On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; The druid-stones a burnished ring unfold;And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold;Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still,Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.1 190

In these secluded vales, if village fame,Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim;When up the hills, as now, retired the light,Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd’s sight.

The form appears of one that spurs his steed 195Midway along the hill with desperate speed;Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while allAttend, at every stretch, his headlong fall.

1 “From Thomson.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 88.

An Evening Walk 17

Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous showOf horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; 200At intervals imperial banners stream,And now the van reflects the solar beam;The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam.While silent stands the admiring crowd below,Silent the visionary warriors go, 205Winding in ordered pomp their upward way1

Till the last banner of their long arrayHas disappeared, and every trace is fledOf splendour—save the beacon’s spiry headTipt with eve’s latest gleam of burning red. 210

Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail,On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale;And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwinesIts darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines;’Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray 215Where, winding on along some secret bay,The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flingsHis neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings:The eye that marks the gliding creature seesHow graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease. 220While tender cares and mild domestic lovesWith furtive watch pursue her as she moves,The female with a meeker charm succeeds,And her brown little-ones around her leads,Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, 225Or playing wanton with the floating grass.She, in a mother’s care, her beauty’s prideForgets, unwearied watching every side;She calls them near, and with affection sweetAlternately relieves their weary feet; 230

1 “See a description of an appearance of this kind in Clark’s Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by vouchers of its veracity, that may amuse the reader.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 88.


Alternately they mount her back, and rest, Close by her mantling wings’ embraces prest.

Long may they float upon this flood serene;Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green,Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, 235And breathes in peace the lily of the vale!Yon isle, which feels not even the milk-maid’s feet,Yet hears her song, “by distance made more sweet,”1

Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower;Green water-rushes overspread the floor; 240Long grass and willows form the woven wall,And swings above the roof the poplar tall.Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk,They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk;Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn 245The hound, the horse’s tread, and mellow horn;Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings,Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings,Or, starting up with noise and rude delight,Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. 250

Fair Swan! by all a mother’s joys caressed,Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed;When with her infants, from some shady seatBy the lake’s edge, she rose—to face the noontide heat,Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 255A few short steps to totter with their load.

I see her now, denied to lay her head,On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed,Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry,By pointing to the gliding moon on high: 260I hear, while in the forest depth, he seesThe moon’s fixed gaze between the opening trees,

1 The quotation is from William Collins, The Passions. An Ode for Music, l. 60.

An Evening Walk 19

In broken sounds her elder child demand,While toward the sky he lifts his pale bright hand.If, in that country, where he dwells afar, 265His father views that good, that kindly star;—Alas! All light is mute amid the gloom,The interlunar cavern, of the tomb.—When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide,And fireless are the vallies far and wide, 270Where the brook brawls along the public roadDark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad,Oft has she taught them on her lap to layThe shining glow-worm; or, in heedless play,Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; 275While others, not unseen, are free to shedGreen unmolested light upon their mossy bed.

Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail,And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale;No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, 280Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold;Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield,And faint the fire a dying heart can yield!Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fearsThy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears; 285No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms,Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms!

Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar,Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star,Where the duck dabbles ’mid the rustling sedge, 290And feeding pike starts from the water’s edge,Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and billWetting, that drip upon the water still;And heron, as resounds the trodden shore,Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. 295


Now, with religious awe, the farewell lightBlends with the solemn colouring of the night;’Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain’s brow,And round the west’s proud lodge their shadows throw,Like Una shining on her gloomy way, 300The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray;Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small,Gleams that upon the lake’s still bosom fall;Soft o’er the surface creep those lustres paleTracking the motions of the fitful gale. 305With restless interchange at once the brightWins on the shade, the shade upon the light.No favoured eye was e’er allowed to gazeOn lovelier spectacle in faery days;1

When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, 310Brushing with lucid wands the water’s face;While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps,Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps.—The lights are vanished from the watery plains:No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 315Unheeded night has overcome the vales:On the dark earth the wearied vision fails;The latest lingerer of the forest train,The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain;Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, 320Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar;And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere,Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear.—Now o’er the soothed accordant heart we feelA sympathetic twilight slowly steal, 325And ever, as we fondly muse, we findThe soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind.Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay!Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away:

1 The 1836 text is alone in reading “spectacles”—probably a printer’s error. The reading “spectacle” is restored from 1815–32, 1840-48.

An Evening Walk 21

Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; 330Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains.

The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to threadSilent the hedge or steamy rivulet’s bed,From his grey re-appearing tower shall soonSalute with gladsome note the rising moon, 335While with a hoary light she frosts the ground,And pours a deeper blue to Æther’s bound;Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to foldIn robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold.

Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods 340O’er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods;Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace,Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely face:Across the gloomy valley flings her light,Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; 345And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew,To the green corn of summer autumn’s hue. Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed hornHer dawn, far lovelier than the moon’s own morn,’Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer 350The weary hills, impervious, blackening near;—Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the whileOn darling spots remote her tempting smile.

Even now she decks for me a distant scene,(For dark and broad the gulf of time between) 355Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray,(Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way;How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear!How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!)Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, 360’Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs(For sighs will ever trouble human breath)


Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death.

But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains,And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: 365The deepest cleft the mountain’s front displaysScarce hides a shadow from her searching rays;From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divideThe hills, while gleams below the azure tide;Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes 370A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreathsOf charcoal-smoke, that o’er the fallen wood,Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood.

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. 375Air listens, like the sleeping water, still,To catch the spiritual music of the hill,Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep,Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep,The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, 380The boat’s first motion—made with dashing oar;Sound of closed gate, across the water borne,Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn;The sportive outcry of the mocking owl;And at long intervals the mill-dog’s howl; 385The distant forge’s swinging thump profound;Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound.

1787, 8, & 9

The Baker’s Cart 23

The Baker’s Cart

Reflecting Wordsworth’s expanding interest in the men and women inhabiting the rural landscape—their struggles, their thoughts and feelings—the untitled fragment beginning “I have seen the Baker’s horse” unpacks from a momentary glimpse and brief utterance a life story of want and grief. The poem was composed in 1797.

The source for the reading text is “The Ruined Cottage” and “The Pedlar,” edited by James Butler (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979).

[The Baker’s Cart]

I have seen the Baker’s horseAs he had been accustomed at your door Stop with the loaded wain, when o’er his headSmack went the whip, and you were left, as if You were not born to live, or there had been 5 No bread in all the land. Five little ones, They at the rumbling of the distant wheels Had all come forth, and, ere the grove of birch Concealed the wain, into their wretched hut They all return’d. While in the road I stood 10Pursuing with involuntary look The wain now seen no longer, to my side [ ] came, a pitcher in her hand Filled from the spring; she saw what way my eyes Were turn’d, and in a low and fearful voice 15She said, “That waggon does not care for us.” The words were simple, but her look and voice Made up their meaning, and bespoke a mind Which being long neglected and denied The common food of hope was now become 20Sick and extravagant-by strong access Of momentary pangs driv’n to that state


ln which all past experience melts away And the rebellious heart to its own will Fashions the laws of nature. 25

A Night Piece 25

A Fragment [A Night-Piece]

Composed at Alfoxden in 1798 as simply “A Fragment,” the poem lay unpublished until Wordsworth revised the first ten lines and included it in Poems (1815) as A Night-Piece. The source for both versions included here is “Lyrical Ballads,” and Other Poems, 1797–1800. edited by James Butler and Karen Green (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992).

A Fragment [A Night-Piece]

The sky is overspread With a close veil of one continuous cloud All whitened by the moon, that just appears, A dim-seen orb, yet chequers not the ground With any shadow,—plant, or tower, or tree. At last, a pleasant gleam breaks forth at once, 5An instantaneous light; the musing [man] Who walks along with his eyes bent to earth Is startled. He looks about, the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head, he views The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. 10

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that small, And bright, and sharp, along the gloomy vault Drive as she drives. How fast they wheel away! 15Yet vanish not! The wind is in the trees, But they are silent; still they roll along Immeasurably distant, and the vault Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its interminable depth. 20At length the vision closes, and the mind Not undisturbed by the deep joy it feels,


Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

A Night Piece

——The sky is overcastWith a continuous cloud of texture close,Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 5A dull, contracted circle, yielding lightSo feebly spread that not a shadow falls,Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or tower.At length a pleasant instantaneous gleamStartles the pensive traveller while he treads 10His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are splitAsunder,—and above his head he seesThe clear moon, and the glory of the heavens.There, in a black blue vault she sails along, 15Followed by multitudes of stars, that, smallAnd sharp, and bright, along the dark abyssDrive as she drives;—how fast they wheel away,Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree,But they are silent;—still they roll along 20Immeasurably distant;—and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,Still deepens its unfathomable depth.At length the Vision closes; and the mind,Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 25Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

Nutting 27

Nutting

The version of Nutting that Wordsworth published in volume two of the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800) can be tracked through two earlier drafts composed probably between December 1798 and April 1799, certainly by June 1800. The first, from DC MS. 15, begins with an extended condemnation of wantonness towards the natural world that turns suddenly, in the final thirty lines, to the recollection of “the ragged boy” beating the branches of the hazel trees to collect the fallen nuts. In the second version, in DC MS. 16, Wordsworth omitted the memory of the ragged boy, creating instead a sustained tributes to “the Powers / That teach philosophy and good desires” and to his “beloved Maid.” These two poems should be compared to the published version, which appears in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. I, pp. 435–436. The source for the versions included here is “Lyrical Ballads,” and Other Poems, 1797–1800, edited by James Butler and Karen Green (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992).

[Nutting]

[Text in DC MS. 15]

Ah what a crash was that—with gentle hand Touch those fair hazels; my beloved Maid, Though tis a sight invisible to thee, From such rude intercourse the woods all shrink, As at the blowing of Astolpho’s horn. 5While in the cave we sat thou didst o’erflow With love even for the unsubstantial clouds And silent incorporeal colours spread Over the surface of the earth and sky. But had I met thee now with that keen look 10Half cruel in its eagerness, thy cheek Thus rich with a tempestuous bloom, in truth


I might have half believed that I had pass’d A houseless being in a human shape, An enemy of nature, one who comes 15From regions far beyond the Indian hills. Come rest on this light bed of purple heath And let me see thee sink to a dream Of gentle thoughts till once again thine eye Be like the heart of love and happiness, 20Yet still as water when the winds are gone And no man can tell whither.— See those two stems Both stretched upon the ground, two brother trees That in one instant at the touch of spring Put forth their tender leaves, and for nine years, 25In the dark nights, have both together heard

The driving storm— I would not strike a flower As many a man will strike his horse, at least If frozn the wantonness in which we play With things we love, or from a freak of [power]1 30Or from involuntary act of hand Or foot unruly with excess of life, It chanced that I ungently used a tuft [ ] or snapp’d the stem Of foxglove bending o’er his native rill, 35I should be loth to pass along my road With unreprov’d indifference, I would stop Self-question’d, asking wherefore that was done. For, seeing little worthy or sublime In what we blazon with the pompous names 40Of power and action, I was early taught To love those unassuming things that fill A silent station in this beauteous world. And dearest maiden, thou upon whose lap I rest my head, oh! do not deem that these 45 Are idle sympathies. It seems a day,

1 ‘power’ supplied from Norton Prelude, p. 493

Nutting 29

One of those heavenly days that cannot die, When through the autumnal woods, a figure quaint, Equipp’d with wallet and with crooked stick They led me, and I follow’d in their steps, 50 Trick’d out in proud disguise of beggar’s weeds, Put on for the occasion, by advice And exhortation of my frugal dame. Motley accoutrement! of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth, 55 More ragged than need was. They led me far, Those guardian Spirits, into some near nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Droop’d with its wither’d leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose 60 Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene! A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As Joy delights in; and with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 65 The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play’d; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been bless’d With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 70 —Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons reappear And fade, unseen by any human eye, Where faery water-breaks do murmur on For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam, 75 And with my cheek upon the mossy stones That like a flock of sheep were fleec’d with moss I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure, 80 The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,


And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragg’d to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage, and the shady nook 85 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deform’d and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet spirit; and unless I now Confound my present being with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turn’d away, 90 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings- I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky. Then, dearest maiden, if I have not now The skill to be thy teacher, think of him, 95 The ragged boy, and let his parting look Instruct. Move, sweet maid, along these shades In gentleness of heart.— With gentle hand Touch, for there is a spirit in the woods.

Nutting 31

Nutting

[Text in DC MS. 16]

Ah! what a crash was that! with gentle hand Touch these fair hazels-My beloved Maid! Though ‘tis a sight invisible to thee, From such rude intercourse the woods all shrink As at the blowing of Astolpho’s horn.— 5 Thou, Lucy, art a maiden “inland bred”, And thou hast “known some nurture”; but in truth If I had met thee here with that keen look Half cruel in its eagerness, those cheeks Thus [ ] flushed with a tempestuous bloom, 10 I might have almost deem’d that I had pass’d A houseless being in a human shape, An enemy of nature, hither sent From regions far beyond the Indian hills.- Come rest on this light bed of purple heath, 15 And let me see thee sink into a dream Of gentle thoughts, protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone And no one can tell whither. See those stems Both stretch’d along the ground, two brother trees 20 That in one instant at the touch of spring Put forth their tender leaves, and through nine years, In the dark nights, have both together heard The driving storm— Well! blessed be the Powers That teach philosophy and good desires 25 In this their still Lyceum, hand of mine Wrought not this ruin—I am guiltless here. For, seeing little worthy or sublime In what we blazon with the pompous names Of power and action, I was early taught 30 To look with feelings of fraternal love Upon those unassuming things which hold


A silent station in this beauteous world. Ye gentle Stewards of a Poet’’s time! Ye Powers! without whose aid the idle man 35 Would waste full half of the long summer’s day, Ye who, by virtue of this dome of leaves And its cool umbrage, make the forenoon walk, When July suns are blazing, to his verse Propitious, as a range o’er moonlight cliffs 40 Above the breathing sea—And ye no less! Ye too, who with most necessary care Amid the concentration of your groves Restore the springs of his exhausted frame, And ye whose general ministry it is 45 To interpose the covert of these shades, Even as a sleep, betwixt the heart of man And the uneasy world, ’twixt man himself, Not seldom, and his own unquiet heart, Oh! that I had a music and a voice 50Harmonious as your own, to tell the world What ye have done for me.

The Ruined Cottage 33

The Ruined Cottage, MS.D

The 1798 version of The Ruined Cottage (MS. B) appears on pp. 270–286 of The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1. Almost immediately Wordsworth set to work revising it, and when he com-pleted this version in 1799, he treated it as a final text, preserving it in fair copy in his sister’s hand.

The manuscript (MS. D) includes material dating from 1799, 1801–1802, and—possibly—1809–1812. A later manuscript (MS. E, referred to in the note to l. 501 below), dating from 1803–1804, is a revised fair copy of The Pedlar, the expanded version of the poem that traces the history of the Pedlar and includes his story of Margaret. For the manuscript sources of the reading text and editor’s commentary on its recovery, see “The Ruined Cottage” and “The Pedlar,” ed. James A. Butler (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979). MS. D is one of Dorothy Wordsworth’s pocket notebooks (DC MS. 16). For the text of The Pedlar see The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, pp. 286–311.

The Ruined Cottage

Ist Part

’Twas summer and the sun was mounted high. Along the south the uplands feebly glared Through a pale steam, and all the northern downs In clearer air ascending shewed far off Their surfaces with shadows dappled o’er 5Of deep embattled clouds: far as the sight Could reach those many shadows lay in spots Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of clear and pleasant sunshine interposed; Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 10Extends his careless limbs beside the root


Of some huge oak whose aged branches make A twilight of their own, a dewy shade Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man, Half-conscious of that soothing melody, 15With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, By those impending branches made more soft, More soft and distant. Other lot was mine. Across a bare wide Common I had toiled With languid feet which by the slipp’ry ground 20Were baffled still, and when I stretched myself On the brown earth my limbs from very heat Could find no rest nor my weak arm disperse The insect host which gathered round my face And joined their murmurs to the tedious noise 25Of seeds of bursting gorse that crackled round. I rose and turned towards a group of trees Which midway in that level stood alone, And thither come at length, beneath a shade Of clustering elms that sprang from the same root 30I found a ruined house, four naked walls That stared upon each other. I looked round And near the door I saw an aged Man, Alone, and stretched upon the cottage bench; An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 35With instantaneous joy I recognized That pride of nature and of lowly life, The venerable Armytage, a friend As dear to me as is the setting sun. Two days before 40We had been fellow-travellers. I knew That he was in this neighbourhood and now Delighted found him here in the cool shade. He lay, his pack of rustic merchandize Pillowing his head—I guess he had no thought 45Of his way-wandering life. His eyes were shut; The shadows of the breezy elms above


Dappled his face. With thirsty heat oppress’d At length I hailed him, glad to see his hat Bedewed with water-drops, as if the brim 50Had newly scoop’d a running stream. He rose And pointing to a sun-flower bade me climb The [ ] wall where that same gaudy flower Looked out upon the road. It was a plot Of garden-ground, now wild, its matted weeds 55Marked with the steps of those whom as they pass’d, The goose-berry trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o’erleap The broken wall. Within that cheerless spot, 60Where two tall hedgerows of thick willow boughs Joined in a damp cold nook, I found a well Half-choked [with willow flowers and weeds.]1

I slaked my thirst and to the shady bench Returned, and while I stood unbonneted 65To catch the motion of the cooler air The old Man said, “I see around me here Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 70Dies with him or is changed, and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left. The Poets in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 75And senseless rocks, nor idly; for they speak In these their invocations with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 80That steal upon the meditative mind And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood

1 DW left a gap that WW filled in pencil.


And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been 85When every day the touch of human hand Disturbed their stillness, and they ministered To human comfort. When I stooped to drink, A spider’s web hung to the water’s edge, And on the wet and slimy foot-stone lay 90The useless fragment of a wooden bowl; It moved my very heart. The day has been When I could never pass this road but she Who lived within these walls, when I appeared, A daughter’s welcome gave me, and I loved her 95As my own child. O Sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a passenger Has blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 100From that forsaken spring, and no one came But he was welcome, no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The worm is on her cheek, and this poor hut, Stripp’d of its outward garb of houshold flowers, 105Of rose and sweet-briar, offers to the wind A cold bare wall whose earthy top is tricked With weeds and the rank spear-grass. She is dead, And nettles rot and adders sun themselves Where we have sate together while she nurs’d 110Her infant at her breast. The unshod Colt, The wandring heifer and the Potter’s ass, Find shelter now within the chimney-wall Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze And through the window spread upon the road 115Its cheerful light.— You will forgive me, Sir, But often on this cottage do I muse As on a picture, till my wiser mind


Sinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief. She had a husband, an industrious man, 120Sober and steady; I have heard her say That he was up and busy at his loom In summer ere the mower’s scythe had swept The dewy grass, and in the early spring Ere the last star had vanished. They who pass’d 125At evening, from behind the garden-fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply After his daily work till the day-light Was gone and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So they pass’d their days 130In peace and comfort, and two pretty babes Were their best hope next to the God in Heaven. —You may remember, now some ten years gone, Two blighting seasons when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased heaven to add 135A worse affliction in the plague of war: A happy land was stricken to the heart; ’Twas a sad time of sorrow and distress: A wanderer among the cottages, I with my pack of winter raiment saw 140The hardships of that season: many rich Sunk down as in a dream among the poor, And of the poor did many cease to be, And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridg’d Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 145To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With chearful hope: but ere the second autumn A fever seized her husband. In disease He lingered long, and when his strength returned 150He found the little he had stored to meet The hour of accident or crippling age Was all consumed. As I have said, ’twas now A time of trouble; shoals of artisans


Were from their daily labour turned away 155To hang for bread on parish charity, They and their wives and children—happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedges or the kite That makes her dwelling in the mountain rocks. 160Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dwelt In this poor cottage; at his door he stood And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them, or with his knife Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks, 165Then idly sought about through every nook Of house or garden any casual task Of use or ornament, and with a strange, Amusing but uneasy novelty He blended where he might the various tasks 170Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good-humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was, And poverty brought on a petted mood And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, 175And he would leave his home, and to the town Without an errand would he turn his steps Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes And with a cruel tongue: at other times 180He played with them wild freaks of merriment: And ’twas a piteous thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. ‘Every smile,’ Said Margaret to me here beneath these trees, ‘Made my heart bleed.’” At this the old Man paus’d 185And looking up to those enormous elms He said, ‘“Tis now the hour of deepest noon. At this still season of repose and peace, This hour when all things which are not at rest Are chearful, while this multitude of flies 190


Fills all the air with happy melody, Why should a tear be in an old man’s eye? Why should we thus with an untoward mind And in the weakness of humanity From natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 195To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears, And feeding on disquiet thus disturb The calm of Nature with our restless thoughts?”

End of the first Part

Second Part

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: But when he ended there was in his face 200Such easy chearfulness, a look so mild That for a little time it stole away All recollection, and that simple tale Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. A while on trivial things we held discourse, 205To me soon tasteless. In my own despite I thought of that poor woman as of one Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed Her homely tale with such familiar power, With such a[n active] countenance, an eye 210So busy, that the things of which he spake Seemed present, and, attention now relaxed, There was a heartfelt chillness in my veins. I rose, and turning from that breezy shade Went out into the open air and stood 215To drink the comfort of the warmer sun. Long time I had not stayed ere, looking round Upon that tranquil ruin, I returned And begged of the old man that for my sake He would resume his story. He replied, 220“It were a wantonness and would demand


Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts Could hold vain dalliance with the misery Even of the dead, contented thence to draw A momentary pleasure never marked 225By reason, barren of all future good. But we have known that there is often found In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, A power to virtue friendly; were’t not so, I am a dreamer among men, indeed 230An idle dreamer. ’Tis a common tale, By moving accidents uncharactered, A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed In bodily form, and to the grosser sense But ill adapted, scarcely palpable 235To him who does not think. But at your bidding I will proceed. While thus it fared with them To whom this cottage till that hapless year Had been a blessed home, it was my chance To travel in a country far remote. 240And glad I was when, halting by yon gate That leads from the green lane, again I saw These lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest: With many pleasant thoughts I cheer’d my way O’er the flat common. At the door arrived, 245I knocked, and when I entered with the hope Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me A little while, then turned her head away Speechless, and sitting down upon a chair Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do 250Or how to speak to her. Poor wretch! at last She rose from off her seat—and then, oh Sir! I cannot tell how she pronounced my name: With fervent love, and with a face of grief Unutterably helpless, and a look 255That seem’d to cling upon me, she enquir’d


If I had seen her husband. As she spake A strange surprize and fear came to my heart, Nor had I power to answer ere she told That he had disappeared—just two months gone. 260He left his house; two wretched days had passed, And on the third by the first break of light, Within her casement full in view she saw A purse of gold. ‘I trembled at the sight,’ Said Margaret, ‘for I knew it was his hand 265That placed it there, and on that very day By one, a stranger, from my husband sent, The tidings came that he had joined a troop Of soldiers going to a distant land. He left me thus—Poor Man! he had not heart 270To take a farewell of me, and he feared That I should follow with my babes, and sink Beneath the misery of a soldier’s life.’ This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And when she ended I had little power 275To give her comfort, and was glad to take Such words of hope from her own mouth as serv’d To cheer us both: but long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around 280As if she had been shedding tears of joy. We parted. It was then the early spring; I left her busy with her garden tools; And well remember, o’er that fence she looked, And while I paced along the foot-way path 285Called out, and sent a blessing after me With tender chearfulness and with a voice That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. I roved o’er many a hill and many a dale With this my weary load, in heat and cold, 290Through many a wood, and many an open ground, In sunshine or in shade, in wet or fair,


Now blithe, now drooping, as it might befal, My best companions now the driving winds And now the ‘trotting brooks’ and whispering trees 295And now the music of my own sad steps, With many a short-lived thought that pass’d between And disappeared. I came this way again Towards the wane of summer, when the wheat Was yellow, and the soft and bladed grass 300Sprang up afresh and o’er the hay-field spread Its tender green. When I had reached the door I found that she was absent. In the shade Where now we sit I waited her return. Her cottage in its outward look appeared 305As chearful as before; in any shew Of neatness little changed, but that I thought The honeysuckle crowded round the door And from the wall hung down in heavier wreathes, And knots of worthless stone-crop started out 310Along the window’s edge, and grew like weeds Against the lower panes. I turned aside And stroll’d into her garden.— It was chang’d: The unprofitable bindweed spread his bells From side to side and with unwieldy wreaths 315Had dragg’d the rose from its sustaining wall And bent it down to earth; the border-tufts—Daisy and thrift and lowly camomile And thyme—had straggled out into the paths Which they were used to deck. Ere this an hour 320Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps, And as I walked before the door it chanced A stranger passed, and guessing whom I sought He said that she was used to ramble far. The sun was sinking in the west, and now 325I sate with sad impatience. From within Her solitary infant cried aloud. The spot though fair seemed very desolate,


The longer I remained more desolate. And, looking round, I saw the corner-stones, 330 Till then unmark’d, on either side the door With dull red stains discoloured and stuck o’er With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep That feed upon the commons thither came Familiarly and found a couching-place 335 Even at her threshold.—The house-clock struck eight; I turned and saw her distant a few steps. Her face was pale and thin, her figure too Was chang’d. As she unlocked the door she said, ‘It grieves me you have waited here so long, 340 But in good truth I’ve wandered much of late And sometimes, to my shame I speak, have need Of my best prayers to bring me back again.’ While on the board she spread our evening meal She told me she had lost her elder child, 345 That he for months had been a serving-boy Apprenticed by the parish. ‘I perceive You look at me, and you have cause. TodayI have been travelling far, and many days About the fields I wander, knowing this 350 Only, that what I seek I cannot find. And so I waste my time: for I am changed; And to myself,’ said she, ‘have done much wrong, And to this helpless infant. I have slept Weeping, and weeping I have waked; my tears 355 Have flow’d as if my body were not such As others are, and I could never die. But I am now in mind and in my heart More easy, and I hope,’ said she, ‘that heaven Will give me patience to endure the things 360 Which I behold at home.’ It would have grieved Your very heart to see her. Sir, I feel The story linger in my heart. I fear ’Tis long and tedious, but my spirit clings


To that poor woman: so familiarly 365 Do I perceive her manner, and her look And presence, and so deeply do I feel Her goodness, that not seldom in my walks A momentary trance comes over me; And to myself I seem to muse on one 370By sorrow laid asleep or borne away, A human being destined to awake To human life, or something very near To human life, when he shall come again For whom she suffered. Sir, it would have griev’d 375Your very soul to see her: evermore Her eye-lids droop’d, her eyes were downward cast; And when she at her table gave me food She did not look at me. Her voice was low, Her body was subdued. In every act 380Pertaining to her house-affairs appeared The careless stillness which a thinking mind Gives to an idle matter—still she sighed, But yet no motion of the breast was seen, No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 385We sate together, sighs came on my ear; I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then With the best hope and comfort I could give; 390She thanked me for my will, but for my hope It seemed she did not thank me. I returnedAnd took my rounds along this road againEre on its sunny bank the primrose flower Had chronicled the earliest day of spring. 395I found her sad and drooping; she had learn’d No tidings of her husband: if he lived She knew not that he lived; if he were dead She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same


In person [and] appearance, but her house 400Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence; The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless [ ],1 The windows too were dim, and her few books, Which, one upon the other, heretofore 405Had been piled up against the corner-panes In seemly order, now with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe Had from its mother caught the trick of grief 410And sighed among its playthings. Once again I turned towards the garden-gate and saw More plainly still that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: the earth was hard, With weeds defaced and knots of withered grass; 415No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled on the earth; a chain of straw Which had been twisted round the tender stem 420Of a young apple-tree lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms,And seeing that my eye was on the tree She said, ‘I fear it will be dead and gone 425Ere Robert come again.’ Towards the house Together we returned, and she inquired If I had any hope. But for her Babe And for her little friendless Boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die 430Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place. His sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail, his very staff

1 Excursion, 1: 859–60 reduces three lines to two: ‘Was comfortless, and her small lot of books / Which, in the cottage window, heretofore’


Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when I passed this way beaten by Autumn winds 435She told me that her little babe was dead And she was left alone. That very time, I yet remember, through the miry lane She walked with me a mile, when the bare trees Trickled with foggy damps, and in such sort 440That any heart had ached to hear her begg’d That wheresoe’er I went I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then, Our final parting, for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned 445Into this tract again. Five tedious years She lingered in unquiet widowhood, A wife and widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting. I have heard, my friend, That in that broken arbour she would sit 450 The idle length of half a sabbath day— There, where you see the toadstool’s lazy head—And when a dog passed by she still would quit The shade and look abroad. On this old Bench For hours she sate, and evermore her eye 455Was busy in the distance, shaping things Which made her heart beat quick. Seest thou that path? (The green-sward now has broken its grey line) There to and fro she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of flax 460That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps.— Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments shewed the Soldier’s red, Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor’s garb, The little child who sate to turn the wheel 465 Ceased from his toil, and she with faltering voice, Expecting still to learn her husband’s fate, Made many a fond inquiry; and when they


Whose presence gave no comfort were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate 470Which bars the traveller’s road she often stood And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully, Most happy if from aught discovered there Of tender feeling she might dare repeat 475The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut Sunk to decay, for he was gone whose hand At the first nippings of October frost Closed up each chink and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 480Through the long winter, reckless and alone, Till this reft house by frost, and thaw, and rain Was sapped; and when she slept the nightly damps Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind 485Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence; and still that length of road And this rude bench one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart, and here, my friend, 490In sickness she remained, and here she died, Last human tenant of these ruined walls.” The old Man ceased: he saw that I was mov’d; From that low Bench, rising instinctively, I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 495To thank him for the tale which he had told. I stood, and leaning o’er the garden-gate Reviewed that Woman’s suff’rings, and it seemed To comfort me while with a brother’s love I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 500At length [towards] the [Cottage I returned]1 Fondly, and traced with milder interest

1 Before erasures the line read “At length upon the hut I fix’d my eyes.” No insertion was made in MS. D, but MS. E and Excursion, 1: 860 read “At length towards the Cottage I return’d.”


That secret spirit of humanity Which, ’mid the calm oblivious tendencies Of nature, ’mid her plants, her weeds, and flowers, 505And silent overgrowings, still survived. The old man, seeing this, resumed and said, “My Friend, enough to sorrow have you given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more; Be wise and chearful, and no longer read 510The forms of things with an unworthy eye. She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops silver’d o’er, 515As once I passed did to my heart convey So still an image of tranquillity, So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair 520From ruin and from change, and all the grief The passing shews of being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream that could not live Where meditation was. I turned away And walked along my road in happiness.” 525 He ceased. By this the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance which began To fall upon us where beneath the trees We sate on that low bench, and now we felt, Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 530A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. The old man rose and hoisted up his load. Together casting then a farewell look 535Upon those silent walls, we left the shade And ere the stars were visible attained A rustic inn, our evening resting-place.

The End

Yew-Trees 49

Yew-Trees

The two earlier versions of this poem appear in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. I, pp. 747–748. Wordsworth visited Lorton Vale in the fall of 1804, the likely time of his composing the earliest version, “That vast Eugh-tree, Pride of Lorton Vale.” The second version, called simply “Ewtrees,” was composed between about June 1811 and December 1814, leading up to its publication in Poems (1815). The main substantial changes Wordsworth made in 1815 were to compress the opening four lines to three and to settle on the spelling of “Yew-tree”:

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,Which to this day stands single, in the midstOf its own darkness, as it stood of yore.

The text printed here is from the first Moxon edition of Poetical Works (1836). In that edition the text took its final form, including punctuation and capitalization. For the manuscripts and transcrip-tions of “—That vast eugh-tree, pride of Lorton Vale” and Ewtrees, see “Poems, in Two Volumes” and Other Poems, 1800–1807, edited by Jared Curtis (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983; second print-ing with revisions, 1990).

Yew-Trees

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,Which to this day stands single, in the midstOf its own darkness, as it stood of yore:Not loathe to furnish weapons for the BandsOf Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 5To Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the seaAnd drew their sounding bows at Azincour,Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.Of vast circumference and gloom profoundThis solitary Tree! a living thing 10


Produced too slowly ever to decay;Of form and aspect too magnificentTo be destroyed. But worthier still of noteAre those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; 15Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growthOf intertwisted fibres serpentineUp-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looksThat threaten the profane; —a pillared shade, 20Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,By sheddings from the pining umbrage tingedPerennially—beneath whose sable roofOf boughs, as if for festal purpose deckedWith unrejoicing berries—ghostly Shapes 25May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,Silence and Foresight, Death the SkeletonAnd Time the Shadow; —there to celebrate,As in a natural temple scattered o’erWith altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 30United worship; or in mute reposeTo lie, and listen to the mountain floodMurmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.

Odes, 1815–1817 51

Odes, 1815–1817

Wordsworth’s burst of odic expression after the defeat and abdication of Napoleon in 1814 included Ode. The Morning of the Day Appointed for a General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816 and several shorter pieces. The original form of this composition is the version included in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. III, pp. 82–92. Twenty-five years later he divided the 354-line poem into two separate odes of nearly equal length: Ode. The Morning of the Day Appointed for a General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816 and Ode. 1815. The two poems, most of their content originally composed between January 18 and February 25, 1816, as sections of Thanksgiving Ode, took their present form between 1843 and 1845 and were published in Poems, 1845.

The Horatian urge continued through April 1817, this time in cel-ebration of fine spring days. Wordsworth first composed an untitled but clearly finished ode, “Forsake me not, Urania, but when Ev’n / Fades,” in four strophes (included in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. III, pp. 113–115). Within the same month he transformed and expanded this poem as Ode.—1817, with the opening line, “Beneath the concave of an April sky,” and published it in The River Duddon, a Series of Sonnets; Vaudracour and Julia: and Other Poems and Poetical Works in 1820. In this second version Wordsworth adopted a distinctly more vatic style, assigning to a “Stranger”—who is “Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the East / Suddenly raised by some Enchanter’s power”—the central invocation to “eternal Love and Power divine.” In 1827 a third form of the poem appeared, called Vernal Ode, with several new lines, again in 1836 with a dozen additional lines, and in 1845 with a few more changes. The second (1827) and third (1845) forms of the poem follow below. For manuscripts and transcriptions of these poems, as well as notes and variants, see Shorter Poems of William Wordsworth, 1807–1820, edited by Carl H. Ketcham (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989).


Ode.

THE MORNING OF THE DAY APPOINTED FOR A GENERAL THANkSGIVING.

JANUARY 18, 1816.

I.

Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night!Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitudeOn hearts howe’er insensible or rude;Whether thy punctual visitations smiteThe haughty towers where monarchs dwell; 5Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence brightCheer’st the low threshold of the peasant’s cell!Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the skyIn naked splendour, clear from mist or haze,Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, 10Which even in deepest winter testify Thy power and majesty,Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze.—Well does thine aspect usher in this Day;As aptly suits therewith that modest pace 15 Submitted to the chainsThat bind thee to the path which God ordains That thou shalt trace,Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass away!Nor less, the stillness of these frosty plains, 20Their utter stillness, and the silent graceOf yon ethereal summits white with snow,(Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity Report of storms gone by To us who tread below) 25Do with the service of this Day accord.—Divinest Object which the uplifted eyeOf mortal man is suffered to behold;Thou, who upon those snow-clad Heights has poured

Odes, 1815–1817 53

Meek lustre, nor forget’st the humble Vale; 30Thou who dost warm Earth’s universal mould,And for thy bounty wert not unadored By pious men of old;Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee hail!Bright be thy course to-day, let not this promise fail! 35

II.

’Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour,All nature seems to hear me while I speak,By feelings urged that do not vainly seekApt language, ready as the tuneful notesThat stream in blithe succession from the throats 40 Of birds, in leafy bower,Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower.—There is a radiant though a short-lived flame,That burns for Poets in the dawning east;And oft my soul hath kindled at the same, 45When the captivity of sleep had ceased;But He who fixed immoveably the frameOf the round world, and built, by laws as strong, A solid refuge for distress— The towers of righteousness; 50He knows that from a holier altar cameThe quickening spark of this day’s sacrifice;Knows that the source is nobler whence doth rise The current of this matin song; That deeper far it lies 55Than aught dependent on the fickle skies.

III.

Have we not conquered?—by the vengeful sword?Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity;That curbed the baser passions, and left freeA loyal band to follow their liege Lord 60


Clear-sighted Honour, and his staid Compeers,Along a track of most unnatural years;In execution of heroic deedsWhose memory, spotless as the crystal beadsOf morning dew upon the untrodden meads, 65Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres.He, who in concert with an earthly string Of Britain’s acts would sing, He with enraptured voice will tellOf One whose spirit no reverse could quell; 70Of One that mid the failing never failed—Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailedShall represent her labouring with an eye Of circumspect humanity;Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, 75 All martial duties to fulfil;Firm as a rock in stationary fight;In motion rapid as the lightning’s gleam;Fierce as a flood-gate bursting at mid nightTo rouse the wicked from their giddy dream— 80Woe, woe to all that face her in the field!Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield.

IV.

And thus is missed the sole true glory That can belong to human story! At which they only shall arrive 85 Who through the abyss of weakness dive.The very humblest are too proud of heart;And one brief day is rightly set apartFor Him who lifteth up and layeth low;For that Almighty God to whom we owe, 90Say not that we have vanquished—but that we survive.

Odes, 1815–1817 55

V.

How dreadful the dominion of the impure!Why should the Song be tardy to proclaimThat less than power unbounded could not tameThat soul of Evil—which, from hell let loose, 95Had filled the astonished world with such abuseAs boundless patience only could endure?—Wide-wasted regions—cities wrapt in flame—Who sees, may lift a streaming eyeTo Heaven;—who never saw, may heave a sigh; 100But the foundation of our nature shakes,And with an infinite pain the spirit aches,When desolated countries, towns on fire, Are but the avowed attireOf warfare waged with desperate mind 105Against the life of virtue in mankind; Assaulting without ruth The citadels of truth;While the fair gardens of civility, By ignorance defaced, 110 By violence laid waste,Perish without reprieve for flower or tree!

VI.

A crouching purpose—a distracted will—Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn,And to desires whose ever-waxing horn 115Not all the light of earthly power could fill;Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient skill,And to celerities of lawless force;Which, spurning God, had flung away remorse—What could they gain but shadows of redress? 120—So bad proceeded propagating worse;And discipline was passion’s dire excess.Widens the fatal web, its lines extend,


And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend.When will your trials teach you to be wise? 125—O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies!

VII.

No more—the guilt is banished, And, with the guilt, the shame is fled;And, with the guilt and shame, the Woe hath vanished,Shaking the dust and ashes from her head! 130—No more—these lingerings of distressSully the limpid stream of thankfulness.What robe can Gratitude employSo seemly as the radiant vest of Joy?What steps so suitable as those that move 135In prompt obedience to spontaneous measuresOf glory, and felicity, and love,Surrendering the whole heart to sacred pleasures?

VIII.

O Britain! dearer far than life is dear, If one there be 140 Of all thy progenyWho can forget thy prowess, never moreBe that ungrateful Son allowed to hearThy green leaves rustle or thy torrents roar.As springs the lion from his den, 145 As from a forest-brake Upstarts a glistering snake,The bold Arch-despot re-appeared;—againWide Europe heaves, impatient to be cast, With all her armèd Powers, 150 On that offensive soil, like waves upon a thousand shores.The trumpet blew a universal blast!But Thou art foremost in the field:—there stand:Receive the triumph destined to thy hand!

Odes, 1815–1817 57

All States have glorified themselves;—their claims 155Are weighed by Providence, in balance even;And now, in preference to the mightiest names,To Thee the exterminating sword is given.Dread mark of approbation, justly gained!Exalted office, worthily sustained! 160

IX.

Preserve, O Lord! within our hearts The memory of thy favour, That else insensibly departs, And loses its sweet savour!Lodge it within us!—as the power of light 165Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems,Fixed on the front of Eastern diadems,So shine our thankfulness for ever bright!What offering, what transcendent monumentShall our sincerity to Thee present? 170—Not work of hands; but trophies that may reachTo highest Heaven—the labour of the Soul;That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach,Upon the internal conquests made by each,Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. 175Yet will not heaven disown nor earth gainsayThe outward service of this day;Whether the worshippers entreatForgiveness from God’s mercy-seat;Or thanks and praises to His throne ascend 180That He has brought our warfare to an end,And that we need no second victory!—Ha! what a ghastly sight for man to see;And to the heavenly saints in peace who dwell, For a brief moment, terrible; 185But, to thy sovereign penetration, fair,Before whom all things are, that were,


All judgments that have been, or e’er shall be;Links in the chain of thy tranquillity!Along the bosom of this favoured Nation, 190Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation! Let all who do this land inherit Be conscious of thy moving spirit!Oh, ’tis a goodly Ordinance,—the sight,Though sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure delight; 195Bless Thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive,When a whole people shall kneel down in prayer,And, at one moment, in one rapture, striveWith lip and heart to tell their gratitude For thy protecting care, 200Their solemn joy—praising the Eternal Lord For tyranny subdued,And for the sway of equity renewed,For liberty confirmed, and peace restored!

X.

But hark—the summons!—down the placid lake 205Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells;Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams would wakeThe tender insects sleeping in their cells;Bright shines the Sun—and not a breeze to shakeThe drops that tip the melting icicles. 210 O, enter now his temple gate!Inviting words—perchance already flung(As the crowd press devoutly down the aisleOf some old Minster’s venerable pile)From voices into zealous passion stung, 215While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast,And has begun—its clouds of sound to cast Forth towards empyreal Heaven, As if the fretted roof were riven.Us, humbler ceremonies now await; 220

Odes, 1815–1817 59

But in the bosom, with devout respectThe banner of our joy we will erect,And strength of love our souls shall elevate:For to a few collected in his name,Their heavenly Father will incline an ear 225Gracious to service hallowed by its aim;—Awake! the majesty of God revere! Go—and with foreheads meekly bowedPresent your prayers—go—and rejoice aloud— The Holy One will hear! 230And what, ’mid silence deep, with faith sincere,Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate,Shall simply feel and purely meditate—Of warnings—from the unprecedented might,Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed; 235And of more arduous duties thence imposedUpon the future advocates of right; Of mysteries revealed, And judgments unrepealed, Of earthly revolution, 240 And final retribution,— To his omniscience will appearAn offering not unworthy to find place,On this high Day of Thanks, before the Throne of Grace!


Ode.

1815.

I.

Imagination—ne’er before content,But aye ascending, restless in her prideFrom all that martial feats could yieldTo her desires, or to her hopes present—Stooped to the Victory, on that Belgic field, 5Achieved, this closing deed magnificent, And with the embrace was satisfied. —Fly, ministers of Fame,With every help that ye from earth and heaven may claim!Bear through the world these tidings of delight! 10—Hours, Days, and Months, have borne them in the sighOf mortals, hurrying like a sudden shower That landward stretches from the sea, The morning’s splendours to devour;But this swift travel scorns the company 15Of irksome change, or threats from saddening power. —The shock is given—the Adversaries bleed— Lo, Justice triumphs! Earth is freed!Joyful annunciation!—it went forth—It pierced the caverns of the sluggish North— 20 It found no barrier on the ridgeOf Andes—frozen gulphs became its bridge—The vast Pacific gladdens with the freight—Upon the Lakes of Asia ’tis bestowed—The Arabian desert shapes a willing road Across her burning breast, 25For this refreshing incense from the West!— —Where snakes and lions breed,Where towns and cities thick as stars appear,

Odes, 1815–1817 61

Wherever fruits are gathered, and where’erThe upturned soil receives the hopeful seed— 30While the Sun rules, and cross the shades of night—The unwearied arrow hath pursued its flight!The eyes of good men thankfully give heed, And in its sparkling progress readOf virtue crowned with glory’s deathless meed: 35Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won,And slaves are pleased to learn that mighty feats are done;Even the proud Realm, from whose distracted bordersThis messenger of good was launched in air,France, humbled France, amid her wild disorders, 40Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare,That she too lacks not reason to rejoice,And utter England’s name with sadly-plausive voice.

II.

O genuine glory, pure renown!And well might it beseem that mighty Town 45Into whose bosom earth’s best treasures flow,To whom all persecuted men retreat;If a new Temple lift her votive browHigh on the shore of silver Thames—to greetThe peaceful guest advancing from afar. 50Bright be the Fabric, as a starFresh risen, and beautiful within!—there meetDependence infinite, proportion just;A Pile that Grace approves, and Time can trustWith his most sacred wealth, heroic dust. 55

III.

But if the valiant of this landIn reverential modesty demand,That all observance, due to them, be paidWhere their serene progenitors are laid;


Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint-like sages, 55England’s illustrious sons of long, long ages;Be it not unordained that solemn rites,Within the circuit of those Gothic walls,Shall be performed at pregnant intervals;Commemoration holy that unites 60The living generations with the dead; By the deep soul-moving sense Of religious eloquence,— By visual pomp, and by the tie Of sweet and threatening harmony; 65 Soft notes, awful as the omen Of destructive tempests coming, And escaping from that sadness Into elevated gladness; While the white-robed choir attendant, 70 Under mouldering banners pendant,Provoke all potent symphonies to raise Songs of victory and praise,For them who bravely stood unhurt, or bledWith medicable wounds, or found their graves 75Upon the battle field, or under ocean’s waves;Or were conducted home in single state,And long procession—there to lie,Where their sons’ sons, and all posterity,Unheard by them, their deeds shall celebrate! 80

IV.

Nor will the God of peace and love Such martial service disapprove. He guides the Pestilence—the cloud Of locusts travels on his breath; The region that in hope was ploughed 85His drought consumes, his mildew taints with death; He springs the hushed Volcano’s mine,

Odes, 1815–1817 63

He puts the Earthquake on her still design,Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink,And, drinking towns and cities, still can drink 90Cities and towns—’tis Thou—the work is Thine!—The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy courts— He hears the word—he flies— And navies perish in their ports;For Thou art angry with thine enemies! 95 For these, and mourning for our errors, And sins, that point their terrors,We bow our heads before Thee, and we laudAnd magnify thy name, Almighty God! But Man is thy most awful instrument, 100 In working out a pure intent;Thou cloth’st the wicked in their dazzling mail,And for thy righteous purpose they prevail; Thine arm from peril guards the coasts Of them who in thy laws delight: 105Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight,Tremendous God of battles, Lord of Hosts!

V.

Forbear:—to Thee—Father and Judge of all, with fervent tongue But in a gentler strain 110Of contemplation, by no sense of wrong,(Too quick and keen) incited to disdainOf pity pleading from the heart in vain— To Thee—To Thee—Just God of christianised Humanity 115Shall praises be poured forth, and thanks ascend,That thou hast brought our warfare to an end,And that we need no second victory!Blest, above measure blest,If on thy love our Land her hopes shall rest, 120


And all the Nations labour to fulfilThy law, and live henceforth in peace, in pure good will.

Odes, 1815–1817 65

Ode. —1817.

Beneath the concave of an April sky, When all the fields with freshest green were dight, Appeared, in presence of that spiritual eye That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, The form and rich habiliments of One 5 Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun, When it reveals, in evening majesty, Features half lost amid their own pure light. Poised in the middle region of the air He hung,—then floated with angelic ease, 10 Softening that bright effulgence by degrees, Until he reached a rock, of summit bare, Where oft the vent’rous Heifer drinks the summer breeze. Upon the apex of that lofty cone Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone; 15 Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the East Suddenly raised by some Enchanter’s power, Where nothing was; and firm as some old Tower Of Britain’s realm, whose leafy crest Waves high, embellish’d by a gleaming shower! 20

II.

Beneath the shadow of his purple wings Rested a golden Harp;—he touch’d the strings; And, after prelude of unearthly sound Poured through the echoing hills around, He sang, “No wintry desolations, 25 Scorching blight, or noxious dew, Affect my native habitations; Buried in glory, far beyond the scope Of man’s enquiring gaze, and imaged to his hope (Alas, how faintly!) in the hue 30 Profound of night’s ethereal blue;


And in the aspect of each radiant orb;— Some fix’d, some wandering with no timid curb; But wandering orb and fix’d, to mortal eye, Blended in absolute serenity, 35 And free from semblance of decline;— So wills eternal Love and Power divine.

III.

“And what if his presiding breath Impart a sympathetic motion Unto the gates of life and death, 40 Throughout the bounds of earth and ocean; Though all that feeds on nether air, Howe’er magnificent or fair, Grows but to perish, and entrust Its ruins to their kindred dust; 45 Yet, by the Almighty’s ever-during care, Her procreant vigils Nature keeps Amid the unfathomable deeps; And saves the peopled fields of earth From dread of emptiness or dearth. 50 Thus, in their stations, lifting tow’rd the sky The foliag’d head in cloud-like majesty, The shadow-casting race of Trees survive: Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive Sweet Flowers;—what living eye hath viewed 55 Their myriads?—endlessly renewed, Wherever strikes the sun’s glad ray; Where’er the joyous waters stray; Wherever sportive zephyrs bend Their course, or genial showers descend! 60 Rejoice, O men! the very Angels quit Their mansions unsusceptible of change, Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, And through your sweet vicissitudes to range!”

Odes, 1815–1817 67

IV.

O, nursed at happy distance from the cares 65 Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse! That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, And to her sister Clio’s laurel wreath, Prefer’st a garland cull’d from purple heath, Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews; 70 Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me? And was it granted to the simple ear Of thy contented Votary Such melody to hear! Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, 75 Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn tree, To lie and listen, till oer-drowsed sense Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence, To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. 80 —A slender sound! yet hoary Time Doth, to the Soul exalt it with the chime Of all his years;—a company Of ages coming, ages gone; Nations from before them sweeping— 85 Regions in destruction steeping;— But every awful note in unison With that faint utterance, which tells Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; 90 Where She, a statist prudent to confer Upon the public weal; a warrior bold,— Radiant all over with unburnished gold, And armed with living spear for mortal fight; A cunning forager 95 That spreads no waste;—a social builder, one In whom all busy offices unite With all fine functions that afford delight, Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells!


V.

And is She brought within the power 100 Of vision?—o’er this tempting flower Hovering until the petals stay Her flight, and take its voice away? Observe each wing—a tiny van!— The structure of her laden thigh; 105 How fragile!—yet of ancestry Mysteriously remote and high; High as the imperial front of man, The roseate bloom on woman’s cheek; The soaring eagle’s curved beak; 110 The white plumes of the floating swan; Old as the tyger’s paws, the lion’s mane Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain At which the desart trembles.—Humming Bee! Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown; 115 The seeds of malice were not sown; All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free, And no pride blended with their dignity. —Tears had not broken from their source; Nor anguish strayed from her Tartarian den: 120 The golden years maintained a course Not undiversified, though smooth and even; We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then; Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men; And earth and stars composed a universal heaven! 125

Odes, 1815–1817 69

Vernal Ode

Rerum Natura tota est nusquam magis quam in minimis. —PLIN. “Nat. Hist.”

I.

Beneath the concave of an April sky,When all the fields with freshest green were dight,Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eyeThat aids or supersedes our grosser sight,The form and rich habiliments of One 5Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun,When it reveals, in evening majesty,Features half lost amid their own pure light.Poised like a weary cloud, in middle airHe hung,—then floated with angelic ease 10(Softening that bright effulgence by degrees)Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare,Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noontide breeze.Upon the apex of that lofty coneAlighted, there the Stranger stood alone; 15Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the eastSuddenly raised by some enchanter’s power,Where nothing was; and firm as some old TowerOf Britain’s realm, whose leafy crestWaves high, embellished by a gleaming shower! 20

II.

Beneath the shadow of his purple wingsRested a golden harp;—he touched the strings;And, after prelude of unearthly soundPoured through the echoing hills around,He sang— “No wintry desolations, 25Scorching blight or noxious dew,Affect my native habitations;


Buried in glory, far beyond the scopeOf man’s inquiring gaze, but to his hopeImaged, though faintly, in the hue 30Profound of night’s ethereal blue;And in the aspect of each radiant orb;—Some fixed, some wandering with no timid curb:But wandering star and fixed, to mortal eye,Blended in absolute serenity, 35And free from semblance of decline;—Fresh as if Evening brought their natal hour,Her darkness splendour gave, her silence powerTo testify of Love and Grace divine.

III.

“What if those bright fires 40Shine subject to decay,Sons haply of extinguished sires,Themselves to lose their light, or pass awayLike clouds before the wind,Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand bestows, 45Nightly, on human kindThat vision of endurance and repose.—And though to every draught of vital breathRenewed throughout the bounds of earth or ocean,The melancholy gates of Death 50Respond with sympathetic motion;Though all that feeds on nether air,Howe’er magnificent or fair,Grows but to perish, and entrustIts ruins to their kindred dust; 55Yet, by the Almighty’s ever-during care,Her procreant vigils Nature keepsAmid the unfathomable deeps;And saves the peopled fields of earthFrom dread of emptiness or dearth. 60

Odes, 1815–1817 71

Thus, in their stations, lifting tow’rd the skyThe foliaged head in cloud-like majesty,The shadow-casting race of trees survive:Thus, in the train of Spring, arriveSweet flowers;—what living eye hath viewed 65Their myriads?—endlessly renewed,Wherever strikes the sun’s glad ray;Where’er the subtle waters stray;Wherever sportive breezes bendTheir course, or genial showers descend! 70Mortals, rejoice! the very Angels quitTheir mansions unsusceptible of change,Amid your pleasant bowers to sit,And through your sweet vicissitudes to range!”

IV.

Oh, nursed at happy distance from the cares 75Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse!That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears,And to her sister Clio’s laurel wreath,Prefer’st a garland culled from purple heath,Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews; 80Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me?And was it granted to the simple earOf thy contented VotarySuch melody to hear!Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, 85Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence,While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn-tree,To lie and listen—till o’er-drowsed senseSinks, hardly conscious of the influence—To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. 90—A slender sound! yet hoary TimeDoth to the Soul exalt it with the chimeOf all his years;—a company


Of ages coming, ages gone;(Nations from before them sweeping, 95Regions in destruction steeping,)But every awful note in unisonWith that faint utterance, which tellsOf treasure sucked from buds and bells,For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; 100Where She—a statist prudent to conferUpon the common weal; a warrior bold,Radiant all over with unburnished gold,And armed with living spear for mortal fight; A cunning forager 105That spreads no waste; a social builder; oneIn whom all busy offices uniteWith all fine functions that afford delight—Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells!

V.

And is She brought within the power 110Of vision?—o’er this tempting flowerHovering until the petals stayHer flight, and take its voice away!—Observe each wing!—a tiny van!The structure of her laden thigh, 115How fragile! yet of ancestryMysteriously remote and high;High as the imperial front of man;The roseate bloom on woman’s cheek;The soaring eagle’s curved beak; 120The white plumes of the floating swan;Old as the tiger’s paw, the lion’s maneEre shaken by that mood of stern disdainAt which the desert trembles.—Humming Bee!Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown, 125The seeds of malice were not sown;

Odes, 1815–1817 73

All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free,And no pride blended with their dignity.—Tears had not broken from their source;Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean den; 130The golden years maintained a courseNot undiversified though smooth and even;We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then,Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men;And earth and stars composed a universal heaven! 135


Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence (1826)

Facing a forced removal from his home of nearly two decades to accommodate a relative of its owner, Wordsworth began a poem in which he bid farewell to his favorite spring, Nab Well, in late December 1825 (see The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. II, pp. 294–297, and ‘The Tuft of Primroses’ with Other Late Poems for the ‘Recluse,’ edited by Joseph F. Kishel, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986). By the end of the year he had expanded the first effort to a 200-line poem, Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence, celebrating the spring lying a few yards above Rydal Mount. Wordsworth, probably echoing a long-standing Coleridgean scheme, regarded his poem as an “introduction to a portion of The Recluse,” telling Henry Crabb Robinson that this “portion” was to present “a poetical view of water as an ele-ment in the composition of our globe” (Robinson on Books, ed. Morley, I, 339). In the three long sections, the lines on Narcissus, those on the muses, and the long section on Joan of Arc and her vision at “the Fountain of the Fairies,” Wordsworth tried to stretch the original lines on the “well” of imagination that served to appease the grief of losing a home to include, through the device of the inspirational powers of water, the broader con-cerns of ancient myth and recent political history.

Verses on Nab Well 75

Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence

The doubt to which a wavering hope had clung Is fled; we must depart, willing or not, Sky-piercing Hills! must bid farewell to you And all that Ye look down upon with pride, With tenderness embosom; to your paths, 5 And pleasant dwellings, to familiar trees And wild flowers known as well as if our hands Had tended them: and O pellucid Spring! Insensibly the foretaste of this parting Hath ruled my steps, and seals me to thy side, 10Mindful that Thou (ah wherefore by my Muse So long unthanked) hast cheared a simple board With beverage pure as ever fixed the choice Of Hermit, dubious where to scoop his Cell; Which Persian Kings might envy; and thy meek 15 And gentle aspect oft has ministered To finer uses. They for me must cease; Days will pass on, the year, if years be given, Fade,—and the moralizing mind derive No lesson from the presence of a Power 20By the inconstant nature we inherit Unmatched in delicate beneficence; For neither unremitting rains avail To swell Thee into voice; nor longest drought Thy bounty stints, nor can thy beauty mar, 25 Beauty not therefore wanting change to stir The fancy, pleased by spectacles unlooked for. Not yet, perchance, translucent Spring! had tolled The Norman curfew bell when human hands First offered help that the deficient rock 30 Might overarch Thee, from pernicious heat Defended, and appropriate to Man’s need. Such ties will not be severed: but, when We


Are gone, what summer Loiterer with regard Inquisitive, thy countenance will peruse, 35 Pleased to detect the dimpling stir of life, The breathing faculty with which thou yield’st (Tho’ a mere goblet to the careless eye) Boons inexhaustible? Who, hurrying on With a step quickened by November’s cold, 40 Shall pause, the skill admiring that can work Upon thy chance-defilements—withered twigs That, lodged within thy chrystal depths, seem bright As if they from a silver tree had fallen— And oaken leaves that, driven by whirling blasts, 45 Sunk down, and lay immersed in dead repose For Time’s invisible tooth to prey upon— Unsightly objects and uncoveted, Till thou with crystal bead-drops didst encrust Their skeletons turned to brilliant ornaments. 50 But, from thy bosom, should some venturous hand Abstract those gleaming relics, and uplift them, However gently, toward the vulgar air, At once their tender brightness disappears, Leaving the Intermeddler to upbraid 55 His folly. —Thus (I feel it while I speak) Thus, with the fibres of these thoughts it fares; And oh! how much, of all that love creates Or beautifies, like changes undergoes, Suffers like loss when drawn out of the Soul, 60 Its silent laboratory! Words should say (Could they depict the marvels of thy cell) How often I have marked a plumy fern From the live rock with grace inimitable Bending its apex toward a paler self 65 Reflected all in perfect lineaments— Shadow and substance kissing point to point In mutual stillness; or, if some faint breeze Entering the Cell gave restlessness to one,


The other, glassed in thy unruffled breast, 70 Partook of every motion, met, retired, And met again, such playful sympathy, Such delicate caress as in the shape Of this green Plant had aptly recompensed, For baffled lips and disappointed arms 75 And hopeless pangs, the Spirit of that Youth, The fair Narcissus, by some pitying God Changed to a crimson Flower, when he, whose pride Provoked a retribution too severe, Had pined; upon his watery Duplicate 80 Wasting that love the Nymphs implored in vain. Thus while my Fancy wanders, Thou, clear Spring— Moved (shall I say?) like a dear friend who meets A parting moment with her loveliest look And seemingly her happiest, look so fair 85 It frustrates its own purpose, and recalls The grieved One whom it meant to send away— Dost tempt me by disclosure exquisite To linger, bending over Thee; for now, What witchcraft, mild Enchantress, may with thine 90 Compare! thy earthy bed a moment past Palpable unto sight as the dry ground, Eludes perception, not by rippling air Concealed, nor through effect of some impure Upstirring; but, abstracted by a charm 95 Of thy own cunning, earth mysteriously From under thee hath vanished, and slant beams, The silent inquest of a western sun, Assisting, lucid Well-Spring! Thou revealest Communion without check of herbs and flowers, 100 And the vault’s hoary sides to which they cling, Imaged in downward shew; the flowrets, herbs— These not of earthly texture, and the Vault Not there diminutive, but, through a scale Of vision less and less distinct, descending 105


To gloom impenetrable. So (if Truths The highest condescend to be set forth By processes minute) even so—when thought Wins help from something greater than herself— Is the firm basis of habitual sense 110 Supplanted, not for treacherous vacancy And blank dissociation from a world We love, but that the Residues of flesh, Mirrored, yet not too strictly, may refine To Spirit; for the idealizing Soul 115 Time wear the features of Eternity; And Nature deepen into Nature’s God. Millions of Kneeling Hindoos at this day Bow to the watery Element, adored In their vast Stream, and if an age hath been 120 (As Books and haply votive Altars vouch) When British Floods were worshipped, some faint trace Of that Idolatry, through Monkish rites Transmitted far as living memory, Might wait on Thee, a silent monitor, 125 On Thee, bright Spring, a bashful little One, Yet to the measure of thy promises True, as the mightiest; upon Thee, sequestered For meditation, nor inopportune For social interest such as I have shared.— 130 Peace to the sober Matron who shall dip Her pitcher here at early dawn, by me No longer greeted—to the tottering Sire, For whom like service, now and then his choice, Relieves the tedious holiday of age, 135 Thoughts raised above the Earth while here he sits Feeding on sunshine—to the blushing Girl Who here forgets her errand, nothing loth To be waylaid by her Betrothed, peace And pleasure sobered down to happiness! 140 But should these Hills be ranged by One whose Soul,


Scorning love-whispers, shrinks from love itself As Fancy’s snare for female vanity, Here may the Aspirant find a trysting place For loftier intercourse. The Muses, crowned 145 With wreaths that have not faded to this hour, Sprung from high Jove, of sage Mnemosyne Enamoured, so the fable runs; but they Certes were self-taught Damsels, scattered Births Of many a Grecian Vale, who sought not praise 150 And heedless ever of Listeners, warbled out Their own emotions, given to mountain air In notes which mountain echoes would take up Boldly and bear away to softer life; Hence deified as Sisters they were bound 155 Together in a never-dying choir; Who, with their Hippocrene and grottoed fount Of Castaly, attest that woman’s heart Was in the limpid age of this stained World The most assured seat of fine ecstasy, 160 And new-born Waters deemed the happiest source Of Inspiration for the conscious lyre. Lured by the crystal element in times Stormy and fierce, the Maid of Arc withdrew From human converse to frequent alone 165 The Fountain of the Fairies. What to her, Smooth summer dreams, old favours of the place, Pageants and revels of blithe Elves—to her Whose country groaned under a foreign scourge? She pondered murmurs that attuned her ear 170 For the reception of far other sounds Than their too happy minstrelsy,—a Voice Reached her with supernatural mandates charged, More awful than the chambers of dark earth Have virtue to send forth. Upon the marge 175 Of the benignant fountain, while she stood Gazing intensely, the translucent lymph


Darkened beneath the shadow of her thoughts As if swift clouds swept over it, or caught War’s tincture, mid the forest green and still, 180 Turned into blood before her heart-sick eye. Erelong, forsaking all her natural haunts, All her accustomed offices and cares Relinquishing, but treasuring every law And grace of feminine humanity, 185 The chosen Rustic urged a war-like Steed Toward the beleagured City, in the might Of prophesy, accoutred to fulfil, At the sword’s point, visions conceived in love. The cloud of Rooks descending through mid air 190 Softens its evening uproar towards a close Near and more near; for this protracted strain A warning not unwelcome. Fare thee well! Emblem of equanimity and truth, Farewell!—if thy composure be not ours, 195 Yet as Thou still when we are gone wilt keep Thy living chaplet of fresh flowers and fern, Cherished in shade though peeped at by the sun; So shall our bosoms feel a covert growth Of grateful recollections, tribute due 200To thy obscure and modest attributes, To thee clear Spring, and all-sustaining Heaven!

1826

Salisbury Plain (1793–1794) and Guilt and Sorrow; Or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain (1842)

A narrative poem composed in the span from 1793 through 1799 bore two titles in its progress through two distinct versions. The first, called simply Salisbury Plain (1793–1794) and surviving in revised fair copy, is the more radical of the two in chastising England’s leadership for its sins of commission and omission against her own people, par-ticularly the poor. Heavily revising and expanding the poem over the next two years, Wordsworth retitled it Adventures on Salisbury Plain to reflect his shift from rhetorical argument to dramatic presentation of his characters caught in personal tragedy. This second version is included in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. I, pp. 123–151, as is also The Female Vagrant, which Wordsworth had excised from the manuscript of the first version and published separately in Lyrical Ballads (1798; see Poems, pp. 314–322). Though he attempted to publish the revised Adventures around the turn of the century, he did not succeed. In 1841 he took the poem up again and published it in Poems, Chiefly of Early and Late Years in April 1842 as Guilt and Sorrow; Or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain. For the manuscripts of the three versions and for insight into the composition and fea-tures of all three poems, see The Salisbury Plain Poems of William Wordsworth, edited by Stephen Gill (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975; second printing, 1991). Especially useful are Gill’s discussion in the shifts in emphasis with each new version and his notation of Wordsworth’s use of Miltonic and Spenserian compounds and other expression in the early versions, much of which he then weeded out in the final version. See also, Stephen Gill, Wordsworth’s Revisitings (2011), which acknowledges Guilt as Sorrow as poem with its own integrity addressed to the age of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary Barton.


Salisbury Plain

1

Hard is the life when naked and unhouzed And wasted by the long day’s fruitless pains, The hungry savage, ’mid deep forests, rouzedBy storms, lies down at night on unknown plains And lifts his head in fear, while famished trains 5Of boars along the crashing forests prowl,And heard in darkness, as the rushing rainsPut out his watch-fire, bears contending growlAnd round his fenceless bed gaunt wolves in armies howl.

2

Yet is he strong to suffer, and his mind 10Encounters all his evils unsubdued;For happier days since at the breast he pined He never knew, and when by foes pursuedWith life he scarce has reached the fortress rude, While with the war-song’s peal the valleys shake, 15What in those wild assemblies has he viewedBut men who all of his hard lot partake,Repose in the same fear, to the same toil awake?

3

The thoughts which bow the kindly spirits down And break the springs of joy, their deadly weight 20Derive from memory of pleasures flownWhich haunts us in some sad reverse of fate,Or from reflection on the stateOf those who on the couch of Affluence rest By laughing Fortune’s sparkling cup elate, 25While we of comfort reft, by pain depressed,No other pillow know than Penury’s iron breast.

Salisbury Plain 83

4

Hence where Refinement’s genial influence calls The soft affections from their wintry sleepAnd the sweet tear of Love and Friendship falls 30The willing heart in tender joy to steep,When men in various vessels roam the deepOf social life, and turns of chance prevail Various and sad, how many thousands weep Beset with foes more fierce than e’er assail 35The savage without home in winter’s keenest gale.

5

The troubled west was red with stormy fire, O’er Sarum’s plain the traveller with a sigh1Measured each painful step, the distant spire That fixed at every turn his backward eye 40Was lost, tho’ still he turned, in the blank sky. By thirst and hunger pressed he gazed around And scarce could any trace of man descry,Save wastes of corn that stretched without a bound, But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. 45

6

No shade was there, no meads of pleasant green, No brook to wet his lips or soothe his ear,Huge piles of corn-stack here and there were seen But thence no smoke upwreathed his sight to cheer; And see the homeward shepherd dim appear 50Far off—He stops his feeble voice to strain;No sound replies but winds that whistling near Sweep the thin grass and passing, wildly plain; Or desert lark that pours on high a wasted strain.

1 “Sarum” is Salisbury.


7

Long had each slope he mounted seemed to hide 55Some cottage whither his tired feet might turn, But now, all hope resigned, in tears he eyedThe crows in blackening eddies homeward borne, Then sought, in vain, a shepherd’s lowly thornOr hovel from the storm to shield his head. 60On as he passed more wild and more forlornAnd vacant the huge plain around him spread; Ah me! the wet cold ground must be his only bed.

8

Hurtle the rattling clouds together piledBy fiercer gales, and soon the storm must break. 65He stood the only creature in the wildOn whom the elements their rage could wreak, Save that the bustard of those limits bleak,1Shy tenant, seeing there a mortal wightAt that dread hour, outsent a mournful shriek 70And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.

9

The Sun unheeded sunk, while on a mound He stands beholding with astonished gaze, Frequent upon the deep entrenched ground, 75Strange marks of mighty arms of former days, Then looking up at distance he surveysWhat seems an antique castle spreading wide. Hoary and naked are its walls and raiseTheir brow sublime; while to those walls he hied 80A voice as from a tomb in hollow accents cried:

1 A large bird once common in England.

Salisbury Plain 85

10

“Oh from that mountain-pile avert thy face Whate’er betide at this tremendous hour.To hell’s most cursed sprites the baleful place Belongs, upreared by their magic power. 85Though mixed with flame rush down the crazing shower And o’er thy naked bed the thunder rollFly ere the fiends their prey unwares devour Or grinning, on thy endless tortures scowl Till very madness seem a mercy to thy soul. 90

11

“For oft at dead of night, when dreadful fire Reveals that powerful circle’s reddening stones,1’Mid priests and spectres grim and idols dire, Far heard the great flame utters human moans, Then all is hushed: again the desert groans, 95A dismal light its farthest bounds illumes, While warrior spectres of gigantic bones, Forth-issuing from a thousand rifted tombs,Wheel on their fiery steeds amid the infernal glooms.”

12

The voice was from beneath but face or form 100He saw not, mocked as by a hideous dream.Three hours he wildered through the watery storm No moon to open the black clouds and streamFrom narrow gulph profound one friendly beam; No watch-dog howled from shepherd’s homely shed. 105Once did the lightning’s pale abortive beam Disclose a naked guide-post’s double head,Sole object where he stood had day its radiance.

1 The circle of stones is Stonehenge.


13

’Twas dark and waste as ocean’s shipless flood Roaring with storms beneath night’s starless gloom. 110[ ]Where the wet gypsey in her straw-built home Warmed her wet limbs by fire of fern and broom. Nor transient meteor burst upon his sightNor taper glimmered dim from sick man’s room. 115Along the moor no line of mournful lightFrom lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.

14

At length, deep hid in clouds, the moon arose And spread a sickly glare. With flight unwilled,Worn out and wasted, wishing the repose 120Of death, he came where, antient vows fulfilled, kind pious hands did to the Virgin buildA lonely Spital, the belated swain1From the night-terrors of that waste to shield. But there no human being could remain 125And now the walls are named the dead house of the plain.

15

Till then as if his terror dogged his road He fled, and often backward cast his face;And when the ambiguous gloom that ruin shewed How glad he was at length to find a place 130That bore of human hands the chearing trace:Here shall he rest till Morn her eye unclose. Ah me! that last of hopes is fled apace;For, entering in, his hair in horror roseTo hear a voice that seemed to mourn in sorrow’s throes. 135

1 “Spital” is a house for the indigent; here it is a shelter for travelers.

Salisbury Plain 87

16

It was the voice of one that sleeping mourned, A human voice! and soon his terrors fled;At dusk a female wanderer hither turnedAnd found a comfortless half-sheltered bed. The moon a wan dead light around her shed; 140He waked her and at once her spirits fail Thrill’d by the poignant dart of sudden dread, For of that ruin she had heard a taleThat might with a child’s fears the stoutest heart assail.

17

Had heard of one who forced from storms to shroud 145Felt the loose walls of this decayed retreatRock to his horse’s neighings shrill and loud,While the ground rang by ceaseless pawing beat, Till on a stone that sparkled to his feetStruck and still struck again the troubled horse. 150The man half raised that stone by pain and sweat, Half raised; for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a new murdered corse.

18

Such tales of the lone Spital she had learned,And when that shape with eyes in sleep half-drowned 155By the moon’s sullen lamp she scarce discerned,Cold stony horror all her senses bound.But he to her low words of chearing sound Addressed. With joy she heard such greeting kind And much they conversed of that desert ground, 160Which seemed to those of other worlds consignedWhose voices still they heard as paused the hollow wind.


19

The Woman told that through a hollow deepAs on she journeyed, far from spring or bower,An old man beckoning from the naked steep 165Came tottering sidelong down to ask the hour; There never clock was heard from steeple tower. From the wide corn the plundering crows to scare He held a rusty gun. In sun and shower,Old as he was, alone he lingered there, 170His hungry meal too scant for dog that meal to share.

20

Much of the wonders of that boundless heath He spoke, and of a swain who far astray Reached unawares a height and saw beneath Gigantic beings ranged in dread array. 175Such beings thwarting oft the traveller’s way With shield and stone-ax stride across the wold, Or, throned on that dread circle’s summit gray Of mountains hung in air, their state unfold,And like a thousand Gods mysterious council hold. 180

21

And oft a night-fire mounting to the clouds Reveals the desert and with dismal red Clothes the black bodies of encircling crowds. It is the sacrificial altar fedWith living men. How deep it groans—the dead 185Thrilled in their yawning tombs their helms uprear;The sword that slept beneath the warriour’s headThunders in fiery air: red arms appearUplifted thro’ the gloom and shake the rattling spear.

Salisbury Plain 89

22

Not thus where clear moons spread their pleasing light. 190—Long bearded forms with wands uplifted shewTo vast assemblies, while each breath of nightIs hushed, the living fires that bright and slowRounding th’aetherial field in order go.Then as they trace with awe their various files 195All figured on the mystic plain below,Still prelude of sweet sounds the moon beguilesAnd charmed for many a league the hoary desart smiles.

23

While thus they talk the churlish storms relent;And round those broken walls the dying wind 200In feeble murmurs told his rage was spent.With sober sympathy and tranquil mindGently the Woman gan her wounds unbind.Might Beauty charm the canker worm of painThe rose on her sweet cheek had ne’er declined: 205Moved she not once the prime of Keswick’s plainWhile Hope and Love and Joy composed her smiling train?

24

Like swans, twin swans, that when on the sweet brink Of Derwent’s stream the south winds hardly blow,’Mid Derwent’s water-lillies swell and sink 210In union, rose her sister breasts of snow,(Fair emblem of two lovers’ hearts that know No separate impulse) or like infants played, Like infants strangers yet to pain and woe. Unwearied Hope to tend their motions made 215Long Vigils, and Delight her cheek between them laid.


25

And are ye spread ye glittering dews of youth For this,—that Frost may gall the tender flower In Joy’s fair breast with more untimely tooth? Unhappy man! thy sole delightful hour 220Flies first; it is thy miserable dowerOnly to taste of joy that thou may’st pineA loss, which rolling suns shall ne’er restore. New suns roll on and scatter as they shineNo second spring, but pain, till death release thee, thine. 225

26

“By Derwent’s side my father’s cottage stood,” The mourner thus her artless story told.“A little flock and what the finny flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport rolled: 230With thoughtless joy I stretched along the shore My parent’s nets, or watched, when from the fold High o’er the cliffs I led his fleecy store,A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar.

27

“Can I forget my seat beneath the thorn, 235My garden stored with peas and mint and thyme, And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn;The church-inviting bell’s delightful chime,The merriment and song at shearing time,My hen’s rich nest with long grass overgrown, 240The cowslip gathering at the morning prime,The hazel copse with teeming clusters brown,[ ]

Salisbury Plain 91

28

“Can I forget the casement where I fedThe red-breast when the fields were whitened o’er, 245My snowy kerchiefs on the hawthorn spreadMy humming wheel and glittering table store, The well-known knocking at the evening door, The hunted slipper and the blinded game,The dance that loudly beat the merry floor, 250The ballad chaunted round the brightening flameWhile down the ravaged hills the storm unheeded came?

29

“The suns of eighteen summers danced along Joyous as in the pleasant morn of May.At last by cruel chance and wilful wrong 255My father’s substance fell into decay. Oppression trampled on his tresses grey:His little range of water was denied; Even to the bed where his old body layHis all was seized; and weeping side by side 260Turned out on the cold winds, alone we wandered wide.

30

“Can I forget that miserable hourWhen from the last hill-top my sire surveyed,Peering above the trees, the steeple-towerThat on his marriage-day sweet music made? 265There at my birth my mother’s bones were laid And there, till then, he hoped his own might rest. Bidding me trust in God he stood and prayed:I could not pray, by human grief oppressed,Viewing our glimmering cot through tears that never ceased. 270


31

“There was a youth whose tender voice and eye Might add fresh happiness to happiest days.At uprise of the sun when he was byThe birds prolonged with joy their choicest lays, The soft pipe warbled out a wilder maze, 275The silent moon of evening, hung above,Showered through the waving lime-trees mellower rays; Warm was the breath of night: his voice of loveCharmed the rude winds to sleep by river, field, or grove.

32

“His father bid him to a distant town 280To ply remote from groves the artist’s trade. What tears of bitter grief till then unknown, What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!To him our steps we turned, by hope upstayed. Oh with what bliss upon his neck I wept; 285And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief: his faith he kept,And sheltered from the winds once more my father slept.

33

“Four years each day with daily bread was blessed, By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 290Three lovely infants lay within my breastAnd often viewing their sweet smiles I sighedAnd knew not why. My happy father diedJust as the children’s meal began to fail.For War the nations to the field defied. 295The loom stood still; unwatched, the idle gale Wooed in deserted shrouds the unregarding sail.

Salisbury Plain 93

34

“How changed at once! for Labor’s chearful hum Silence and Fear, and Misery’s weeping train. But soon with proud parade the noisy drum 300Beat round to sweep the streets of want and pain. My husband’s arms now only served to strainMe and his children hungering in his view.He could not beg: my prayers and tears were vain; To join those miserable men he flew. 305We reached the western world a poor devoted crew.

35

“Oh dreadful price of being! to resign All that is dear in being; better farIn Want’s most lonely cave till death to pine Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star. 310Better before proud Fortune’s sumptuous car Obvious our dying bodies to obtrude,Than dog-like wading at the heels of War Protract a cursed existence with the broodThat lap, their very nourishment, their brother’s blood. 315

36

“The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and Famine, Agony and Fear,In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,It would thy brain unsettle even to hear.All perished, all in one remorseless year, 320Husband and children one by one, by swordAnd scourge of fiery fever: every tearDried up, despairing, desolate, on boardA British ship I waked as from a trance restored.”


37

Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, 325Living once more those hours that sealed her doom. Meanwhile he looked and saw the smiling mornAll unconcerned with their unrest resumeHer progress through the brightening eastern gloom. Oh when shall such fair hours their gleams bestow 330To bid the grave its opening clouds illume?Fled each fierce blast and hellish fiend, and lo!Day fresh from ocean wave uprears his lovely brow.

38

“Oh come,” he said, “come after weary night So ruinous far other scene to view.” 335So forth she came and eastward look’d. The sight O’er her moist eyes meek dawn of gladness threw That tinged with faint red smile her faded hue. Not lovelier did the morning star appearParting the lucid mist and bathed in dew, 340The whilst her comrade to her pensive chearTempered sweet words of hope and the lark warbled near.

39

They looked and saw a lengthening road and wain Descending a bare slope not far remote.The downs all glistered dropt with freshening rain; 345The carman whistled loud with chearful note;The cock scarce heard at distance sounds his throat; But town or farm or hamlet none they viewed,Only were told there stood a lonely cotFull two miles distant. Then, while they pursued 350Their journey, her sad tale the mourner thus renewed.

Salisbury Plain 95

40

“Peaceful as this immeasurable plainBy these extended beams of dawn impressed, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. The very ocean has its hour of rest 355Ungranted to the human mourner’s breast. Remote from man and storms of mortal care,With wings which did the world of waves invest, The Spirit of God diffused through balmy airQuiet that might have healed, if aught could heal, Despair. 360

41

“Ah! how unlike each smell, each sight and sound That late the stupor of my spirit broke.Of noysome hospitals the groan profound,The mine’s dire earthquake, the bomb’s thunder stroke; Heart sickening Famine’s grim despairing look; 365The midnight flames in thundering deluge spread;The stormed town’s expiring shriek that wokeFar round the griesly phantoms of the dead,And pale with ghastly light the victor’s human head.

42

“Some mighty gulf of separation passed 370I seemed transported to another world:A dream resigned with pain when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled,And whistling called the wind that hardly curled The silent seas. The pleasant thoughts of home 375With tears his weather-beaten cheek impearled:For me, farthest from earthly port to roamWas best; my only wish to shun where man might come.


43

“And oft, robbed of my perfect mind, I thought At last my feet a resting-place had found. 380‘Here will I weep in peace,’ so Fancy wrought, ‘Roaming the illimitable waters round,Here gaze, of every friend but Death disowned, All day, my ready tomb the ocean flood.’To break my dream the vessel reached its bound 385And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

44

“Three years a wanderer round my native coast My eyes have watched yon sun declining tend Down to the land where hope to me was lost; 390And now across this waste my steps I bend:Oh! tell me whither, for no earthly friendHave I, no house in prospect but the tomb.”She ceased. The city’s distant spires ascendLike flames which far and wide the west illume, 395Scattering from out the sky the rear of night’s thin gloom.

45

Along the fiery east the Sun, a showMore gorgeous still! pursued his proud career. But human sufferings and that tale of woeHad dimmed the traveller’s eye with Pity’s tear, 400And in the youthful mourner’s doom severeHe half forgot the terrors of the night,Striving with counsel sweet her soul to chear, Her soul for ever widowed of delight.He too had withered young in sorrow’s deadly blight. 405

Salisbury Plain 97

46

But now from a hill summit down they look Where through a narrow valley’s pleasant scene A wreath of vapour tracked a winding brookBabbling through groves and lawns and meads of green. A smoking cottage peeped the trees between, 410The woods resound the linnet’s amorous lays,And melancholy lowings interveneOf scattered herds that in the meadows graze,While through the furrowed grass the merry milkmaid strays.

47

Adieu ye friendless hope-forsaken pair! 415Yet friendless ere ye take your several road, Enter that lowly cot and ye shall share Comforts by prouder mansions unbestowed.For you yon milkmaid bears her brimming load, For you the board is piled with homely bread, 420And think that life is like this desart broad, Where all the happiest find is but a shedAnd a green spot ’mid wastes interminably spread.

48

Though from huge wickers paled with circling fire No longer horrid shrieks and dying cries 425To ears of Dæmon-Gods in peals aspire,To Dæmon-Gods a human sacrifice;Though Treachery her sword no longer dyesIn the cold blood of Truce, still, reason’s ray,What does it more than while the tempests rise, 430With starless glooms and sounds of loud dismay, Reveal with still-born glimpse the terrors of our way?


49

For proof, if man thou lovest, turn thy eyeOn realms which least the cup of Misery taste. For want how many men and children die? 435How many at Oppression’s portal placed Receive the scanty dole she cannot waste,And bless, as she has taught, her hand benign? How many by inhuman toil debased,Abject, obscure, and brute to earth incline 440Unrespited, forlorn of every spark divine?

50

Nor only is the walk of private life Unblessed by Justice and the kindly trainOf Peace and Truth, while Injury and Strife, Outrage and deadly Hate usurp their reign; 445From the pale line to either frozen mainThe nations, though at home in bonds they drink The dregs of wretchedness, for empire strain, And crushed by their own fetters helpless sink,Move their galled limbs in fear and eye each silent link. 450

51

Lo! where the Sun exulting in his might In haste the fiery top of Andes scalesAnd flings deep silent floods of purple light Down to the sea through long Peruvian vales, At once a thousand streams and gentle gales 455Start from their slumber breathing scent and song. But now no joy of man or woman hailsThat star as once, ere with him came the throng Of Furies and grim Death by Avarice lashed along.

Salisbury Plain 99

52

Oh that a slave who on his naked knees 460Weeps tears of fear at Superstition’s nod, Should rise a monster Tyrant and o’er seas And mountains stretch so far his cruel rod To bruise meek nature in her lone abode. Is it for this the planet of the pole 465Sends through the storms its stedfast light abroad? Through storms we ride with Misery to her goal:Nor star nor needle know the tempests of the soul.

53

How changed that paradise, those happy boundsWhere once through his own groves the Hindoo strayed; 470No more the voice of jocund toil resoundsAlong the crowded banyan’s high arcade.

Lines 473–504 are missing.

57

How weak the solace such fond thoughts afford, 505When with untimely stroke the virtuous bleed.Say, rulers of the nations, from the swordCan ought but murder, pain, and tears proceed? Oh! what can war but endless war still breed?Or whence but from the labours of the sage 510Can poor benighted mortals gain the meedOf happiness and virtue, how assuageBut by his gentle words their self-consuming rage?

58

Insensate they who think, at Wisdom’s porchThat Exile, Terror, Bonds, and Force may stand: 515That Truth with human blood can feed her torch,


And Justice balance with her gory handScales whose dire weights of human heads demand A Nero’s arm. Must Law with iron scourgeStill torture crimes that grew a monstrous band 520Formed by his care, and still his victims urge,With voice that breathes despair, to death’s tremendous verge?

Lines 523–539 are missing.

Who fierce on kingly crowns hurled his own lightning blaze. 540

61

Heroes of Truth pursue your march, uptear Th’Oppressor’s dungeon from its deepest base; High o’er the towers of Pride undaunted rear Resistless in your might the herculean mace Of Reason; let foul Error’s monster race 545Dragged from their dens start at the light with pain And die; pursue your toils, till not a traceBe left on earth of Superstition’s reign,Save that eternal pile which frowns on Sarum’s plain.

Guilt and Sorrow 101

Guilt and Sorrow;

or,

Incidents upon Salisbury Plain

I

A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum’s PlainPursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;Stooping his gait, but not as if to gainHelp from the staff he bore; for mien and airWere hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 5Both of the time to come, and time long fled:Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair;A coat he wore of military redBut faded, and stuck o’er with many a patch and shred.

II

While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 10He saw and passed a stately inn, full sureThat welcome in such house for him was none.No board inscribed the needy to allureHung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poorAnd desolate, “Here you will find a friend!” 15The pendent grapes glittered above the door;—On he must pace, perchance ’till night descend,Where’er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.

III

The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire,In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 20That 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, 25Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound;But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.

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, 30But 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 hearWinds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 35Or whistling thro’ thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.

V

Long had he fancied each successive slopeConcealed some cottage, whither he might turnAnd rest; but now along heaven’s darkening copeThe crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 40Thus warned he sought some shepherd’s spreading thornOr 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. 45

VI

And be it so—for to the chill night showerAnd the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared;A Sailor he, who many a wretched hourHath told; for, landing after labour hard,Three years endured in hope of just reward, 50


He to an armed fleet was forced awayBy seamen, who perhaps themselves had sharedLike fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey,’Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.

VII

For years the work of carnage did not cease, 55And death’s dire aspect daily he surveyed,Death’s minister; then came his glad release,And hope returned, and pleasure fondly madeHer dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy’s aidThe happy husband flies, his arms to throw 60Round his wife’s neck; the prize of victory laidIn her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flowAs if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.

VIII

Vain hope! For fraud took all that he had earned.The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 65Even in the desert’s heart; but he, returned,Bears not to those he loves their needful food.His home approaching, but in such a moodThat from his sight his children might have run.He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; 70And when the miserable work was doneHe fled, a vagrant since, the murderer’s fate to shun.

IX

From that day forth no place to him could beSo lonely, but that thence might come a pangBrought from without to inward misery. 75Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clangA 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; 80And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly.1

X

It was a spectacle which none might view,In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain;Nor only did for him at once renewAll he had feared from man, but roused a train 85Of 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, rose and pursued his way. 90

XI

As one whose brain demoniac phrensy firesOwes to the fit in which his soul hath tossedProfounder quiet, when the fit retires,Even so the dire phantasma which had crossedHis sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 95Left his mind still as a deep evening stream.Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed,Moody, or inly troubled, would he seemTo traveller who might talk of any casual theme.

XII

Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 100Gone is the raven timely rest to seek;He seemed the only creature in the wildOn whom the elements their rage might wreak;Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak

1 WW’s Note 1842: ‘From a short MS. poem read to me when an undergraduate, 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.’


Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 105A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek,And half upon the ground, with strange affright,Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.

XIII

All, all was cheerless to the horizon’s bound;The weary eye—which, wheresoe’er it strays, 110Marks nothing but the red sun’s setting round,Or on the earth strange lines, in former daysLeft by gigantic arms—at length surveysWhat seems an antique castle spreading wide;Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 115Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bideHe turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.

XIV

Pile of Stone-henge! So proud to hint yet keepThy secrets, thou that lov’st to stand and hearThe Plain resounding to the whirlwind’s sweep, 120Inmate of lonesome Nature’s endless year;Even if thou saw’st the giant wicker rearFor sacrifice its throngs of living men,Before thy face did ever wretch appear,Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain 125Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain!

XV

Within that fabric of mysterious form,Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme;And, from its perilous shelter driven, through stormAnd rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 130From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam,Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led;


Once did the lightning’s faint disastrous gleamDisclose a naked guide-post’s double head,Sight which tho’ lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. 135

XVI

No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elmTo stay his steps with faintness overcome;‘Twas dark and void as ocean’s watery realmRoaring with storms beneath night’s starless gloom;No gipsy cowered o’er fire of furze or broom; 140No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright,Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man’s room;Along the waste no line of mournful lightFrom lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.

XVII

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145The downs were visible—and now revealedA structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose.It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled,kind pious hands did to the Virgin buildA lonely Spital, the belated swain 150From 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.

XVIII

Though he had little cause to love the abodeOf man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed,How glad he was at length to find some traceOf human shelter in that dreary place.Till to his flock the early shepherd goes,Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160


In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrowsHe lays his stiffened limbs,—his eyes begin to close;

XIX

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to comeFrom one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head,And saw a woman in the naked room 165Outstretched, 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 170Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;

XX

Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud,Felt the loose walls of this decayed RetreatRock to incessant neighings shrill and loud,While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175Till 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 forceDisclosing the grim head of a late-murdered corse. 180

XXI

Such tale of this lone mansion she had learnedAnd, 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; 185Recovering 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.

XXII

But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190Banished that dismal thought; and now the windIn fainter howlings told its rage was spent:Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind,Which by degrees a confidence of mindAnd mutual interest failed not to create. 195And, to a natural sympathy resigned,In that forsaken building where they sateThe Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.

XXIII

“By Derwent’s side my father dwelt—a manOf virtuous life, by pious parents bred; 200And I believe that, soon as I beganTo 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; 205For books in every neighbouring house I sought,And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

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 210Plucked 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 215Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side!


XXV

“The staff I well remember which upboreThe bending body of my active sire;His seat beneath the honied sycamoreWhere the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220When market-morning came, the neat attireWith which, though bent on haste, myself I decked;Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tireThe stranger till its barking-fit I checked;The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked.

225XXVI

“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 230When Fortune would put on a kinder look;But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they;He from his old hereditary nookMust part; the summons1 came;—our final leave we took.

XXVII

“It was indeed a miserable hour 235When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,Peering above the trees, the steeple towerThat on his marriage day sweet music made!Tilt then, he hoped his bones might there be laidClose by my mother in their native bowers: 240Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;—I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showersGlimmered our dear-loved home, alas! No longer ours!

1 The reading in 1836 is “summer”—which makes good sense, but both the MS. and the printed text from 1845 through 1849 read “summons.”


XXVIII

“There was a Youth whom I had loved so long,That when I loved him not I cannot say: 245‘Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless songWe 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; 250And I in truth did love him like a brother,For never could I hope to meet with such another.

XXIX

“Two years were passed since to a distant townHe had repaired to ply a gainful trade:What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 255What 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; 260And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

XXX

“We lived in peace and comfort; and were blestWith daily bread, by constant toil supplied.Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast;And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265And knew not why. My happy father died,When threatened war reduced the children’s meal:Thrice happy! That for him the grave could hideThe empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. 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 drumBeat round to clear the streets of want and pain.My husband’s arms now only served to strain 275Me 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.

XXXII

“There were we long neglected, and we bore 280Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed;Green fields before us, and our native shore,We breathed a pestilential air, that madeRavage for which no knell was heard. We prayedFor our departure; wished and wished—nor knew, 285‘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.

XXXIII

“But the calm summer season now was past.On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 290Ran 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, 295That we the mercy of the waves should rue:We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew.


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, 300It would unman the firmest heart to hear.All perished—all in one remorseless year,Husband and children! One by one, by swordAnd ravenous plague, all perished: every tearDried up, despairing, desolate, on board 305A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.”

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. 310He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased,He rose, and to the ruin’s portal went,And saw the dawn opening the silvery eastWith rays of promise, north and southward sent;And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. 315

XXXVI

“O come,” he cried, “come, after weary nightOf such rough storm, this happy change to view.”So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sightOver her brow like dawn of gladness threw;Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 320Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear,And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew:The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheerTempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near.


XXXVII

They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain 325That 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, 330Only were told there stood a lonely cotA long mile thence. While thither they pursuedTheir way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed.

XXXVIII

“Peaceful as this immeasurable plainIs now, by beams of dawning light imprest, 335In 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, 340And looked, and fed upon the silent airUntil it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.

XXXIX

Ah! How unlike those late terrific sleeps,And groans that rage of racking famine spoke;The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, 345The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke,The shriek that from the distant battle broke,The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid hostDriven by the bomb’s incessant thunderstrokeTo loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, 350Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!


XL

Some mighty gulf of separation past,I seemed transported to another world;A thought resigned with pain, when from the mastThe impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 355And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curledThe silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of homeAnd from all hope I was for ever hurled.For me—farthest from earthly port to roamWas best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. 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, 365And 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.

XLII

No help I sought, in sorrow turned adrift 370Was 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 cockFrom the cross-timber of an out-house hung: 375Dismally 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.


XLIII

So passed a second day; and, when the thirdWas come, I tried in vain the crowd’s resort. 380—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 385Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl:Unsought for was the help that did my life recall.

XLIV

Borne to a hospital, I lay with brainDrowsy and weak, and shattered memory;I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 390Of 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, 395And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start.

XLV

“These things just served to stir the slumbering sense,Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.With strength did memory return; and, thenceDismissed, again on open day I gazed, 400At 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. 405


XLVI

“Rough potters seemed they, trading soberlyWith 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 410In barn uplighted; and companions boon,Well met from far with revelry secureAmong the forest glades, while jocund JuneRolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

XLVII

“But ill they suited me—those journeys dark 415O’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, 420And 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.

XLVIII

“What could I do, unaided and unblest?My father! Gone was every friend of thine: 425And kindred of dead husband are at bestSmall 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; 430In open air forgetful would I sitWhole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit.


XLIX

“The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields;Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused.Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, 435Now 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,Foregone the home delight of constant truth, 440And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

L

“Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed,Through tears have seen him towards that world descendWhere my poor heart lost all its fortitude:Three years a wanderer now my course I bend— 445Oh! Tell me whither—for no earthly friendHave I.”—She ceased, and weeping turned away;As if because her tale was at an end,She wept; because she had no more to sayOf that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 450

LI

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


LII

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

LIII

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

LIV

His voice with indignation rising highSuch further deed in manhood’s name forbade;The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480With 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, 485Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.


LV

Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretchedWith face to earth; and, as the boy turned roundHis battered head, a groan the Sailor fetchedAs if he saw—there and upon that ground— 490Strange repetition of the deadly woundHe had himself inflicted. Through his brainAt once the griding iron passage found;1

Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495

LVI

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

LVII

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

1 “To gride” is to pierce with a weapon (“iron”), a word used by both Spenser and Milton.


LVIII

Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they lookInto a narrow valley’s pleasant scene 515Where 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 520Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun’s rays.

LIX

They saw and heard, and, winding with the road,Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;Comfort, by prouder mansions unbestowed, 525Their 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, 530Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.

LX

Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.She rose and bade farewell! And, while her heartStruggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535She 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 treesAnd banks of ragged earth; beneath the shadeAcross the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540


LXI

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

LXII

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

LXIII

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


LXIV

So in they bear her to the chimney seat,And busily, though yet with fear, untieHer garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sighShe 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; 575Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

LXV

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

LXVI

“My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;But, if I have not meekly suffered, meekMay my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb:Should child of mine e’er wander hither, speakOf me, say that the worm is on my cheek.— 590Torn from our hut, that stood beside the seaNear Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek,My husband served in sad captivityOn shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.


LXVII

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

LXVIII

“For evil tongues made oath how on that dayMy husband lurked about the neighbourhood; 605Now 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. 610My husband’s lovingkindness stood betweenMe and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen.”

LXIX

Alas! The thing she told with labouring breathThe Sailor knew too well. That wickednessHis hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, 615He saw his Wife’s lips move his name to blessWith her last words, unable to suppressHis anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,He cried—“Do pity me! That thou shouldst live 620I neither ask nor wish—forgive me, but forgive!”


LXX

To tell the change that Voice within her wroughtNature by sign or sound made no essay;A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,And every mortal pang dissolved away. 625Borne 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 sentPeace to my parting soul, the fullness of content.” 630

LXXI

‘She’ slept in peace,—his pulses throbbed and stopped,Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then tookHer 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 635His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;All night from time to time under him shookThe floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;And I groaned aloud, “O God, that I were dead!”

LXXII

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


LXXIII

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly preparedFor act and suffering, to the city straight 650He 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,” 655He said, “the pangs that to my conscience cameOut of that deed. My trust, Saviour! Is in thy name!”

LXXIV

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

1793–4.1

1 When WW published this poem in Poems Chiefly of Early and Late Years in 1842, he printed the date of original composition of the poem (see Salisbury Plain, above).


Index of titles, first lines and series titles Volumes I, II, III and Addendum Titles

A barking sound the Shepherd hears I.591A Book came forth of late called, “Peter Bell;” III.138A bright-haired company of youthful Slaves III.374A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted Yew III.356A famous Man is Robin Hood I.652A few bold Patriots, Reliques of the Fight III.15A fig for your languages, German and Norse I.440A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by I.631A genial hearth, a hospitable board III.405A German Haggis––from Receipt III.571A little onward lend thy guiding hand III.107A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time III.358A Manciple there was, one of a Temple II.659A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags I.458A pen—to register; a key— III.577A Pilgrim, when the summer day III.132A plain Youth, Lady, and a simple Lover I.736A pleasant music floats along the Mere III.381A Poet!—He hath put his heart to school III.755A point of life between my Parents’ dust III.490A prized memorial this slight work may prove III.737A Rock there is whose homely front III.656A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground III.34A sad and lovely face, with upturn’d eyes III.737A simple child, dear brother Jim I.332A slumber did my spirit seal I.401A Stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee III.582A sudden conflict rises from the swell III.415A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum’s Plain I.123A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain III.473A voice, from long-expectant thousands sent III.403A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found III.570A weight of awe not easy to be borne III.510A whirl-blast from behind the hill I.420A winged Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought III.429

Index to the Three Volumes 127

A Winter’s Evening— Fragment of an Ode to winter I.21A youth too certain of his power to wade III.495Abruptly paused the Strife;—the field throughout III.432Abuse of Monastic Power III.390Acquittal of the Bishops III.403Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle III.491Address to Kilchurn Castle upon Loch Awe III.604Address to my Infant Daughter, On being reminded, that she was

a month old, on that day I.744Address to the Ocean I.70Address to the Sons of Burns after visiting their Father’s Grave.

(August 14th, 1803.) I.664Addressed to ———, on the longest day III.117Adieu ye lays that fancy’s flow’rs adorn I.35Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown III.488Admonition (“Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!”) I.693Advance—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground III.22Adventures on Salisbury Plain I.123Aeneid, Book I II.667Aeneid, Book II II.696Aeneid, Book III II.727Aeneid, Book IV, Lines 688–692 II.750Aeneid, Book VIII, Lines 337–366 II.750Aerial Rock—whose solitary brow III.82Affections lose their objects; Time brings forth III.771Affliction of Margaret —— of ——, The I.606Afflictions of England III.400After Landing—the Valley of Dover. Nov. 1820. III.457After Leaving Italy III.550After reading a luscious scene of the above—The Wonder explained III.571After Visiting the Field of Waterloo III.429After-thought III.466AGE! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers! I.659Ah! have you seen a bird of sweetest tone I.20Ah me! the lowliest children of the spring I.50Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide III.559Ah, when the Frame, round which in love we clung III. 377Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen III.18Ah why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit III.549, 565


Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light III.396Airey-force Valley III.715Aix-la-Chapelle III.430Alas! what boots the long, laborious quest III.21Alcæus to Sappho I.479Alfred III.380Alice Fell I.622All breathed in silence, and intensely gaz’d II.696All by the moonlight river side I.492All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed III.738Along the mazes of this song I go I.746Ambition, following down this far-famed slope III.449American Tradition III.355Amid a fertile region green with wood III.480Amid the dark control of lawless sway III.12Amid the smoke of cities did you pass I.455Amid this dance of objects sadness steals III.431Among a grave fraternity of Monks III.708Among all lovely things my Love had been I.615Among the dwellers in the silent fields III.760Among the dwellings framed by birds III.684Among the mountains were we nursed, loved stream! III.490Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines III.548An age hath been when Earth was proud III.116An Orpheus! An Orpheus!—yes, Faith may grow bold I.687Anacreon Imitated I.14And has the Sun his flaming Chariot driv’n I.11And I will bear my vengeful blade I.50And is it among rude untutored Dales III.21And is this—Yarrow?—This the Stream III.62And not in vain embodied to the sight III.386And shall,” the Pontiff asks, “profaneness flow III.382And sweet it is to see in summer time I.749And thus a Structure potent to enchain III.413And what is Penance with her knotted thong III.390And what melodious sounds at times prevail! III.387And will you leave me thus alone I.18Andrew Jones I.417Anecdote for Fathers, shewing how the art of lying may be taught I.330


Animal Tranquillity and Decay (see Old Man Travelling)Another year!—another deadly blow! I.651Anticipation. October, 1803 I.651Apology (“No more: the end is sudden and abrupt”) III.483Apology (“Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend”) III.376Apology (“Not utterly unworthy to endure”) III.393Apology (“The formal World relaxes her cold chain”) III.560Archbishop Chicheley to Henry V III.389Are souls then nothing? Must at length the die I.735Are States oppress’d afflicted and degraded III.595Armenian Lady’s Love, The III.657Arms, and the Man I sing, the first who bore II.667Army of clouds, what would ye? Flight of Clouds II.292Around a wild and woody hill III.434Arran! a single-crested Teneriffe III.499Art, Nature, Love here claim united praise III.739Art thou a Statesman, in the van I.448Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best I.594Artegal and Elidure— III.71As faith thus sanctified the warrior’s crest III.422As indignation mastered grief, my tongue III.551As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow III.550As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow III.566As often as I murmur here III.642As star that shines dependent upon star III.405As the cold aspect of a sunless way III.111As the fresh wine the poet pours I.49As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain III.371As with the stream our voyage we pursue III.384Aspects of Christianity in America III.420At Albano III.538At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be Written by a Friend

of the Author.) III.497At Bologna, in Remembrance of the Late Insurrections III.549, 565At Dover III.468At early dawn,—or rather when the air III.135At Florence III.546At Florence.—From M. Angelo (“Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load”) III.548


At Florence.—From Michael Angelo (“Rapt above earth by power of one fair face”) III.547

At Furness Abbey (“Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing”) III.746At Furness Abbey (“Well have yon Railway Labourers to this ground”) III.769At last this loitering day of June II.250At Rome (“Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?”) III.535At Rome (“They—who have seen the noble Roman’s scorn”) III.537At Rome.—Regrets.—In Allusion to Niebuhr and other Modern

Historians III.536At Sea off the Isle of Man III.493At the Convent of Camaldoli III.543At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears I.414At the Eremite or Upper Convent of Camaldoli III.544At the Grave of Burns. 1803 III.724At Tyndrum III.477At Vallombrosa III.545Author’s Voyage down the Rhine (Thirty Years Ago) III.431Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind III.32Avaunt this oeconomic rage! III.701avaunt! with tenfold pleasure I.23Avon (A Feeder of the Annan), The III.481Avon—a precious, an immortal name! III.481Baker’s Cart, The Addendum, 23Baptism III.416Barberry-Tree, The I.728Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful Genius made III.41Be this the chosen site—the virgin sod III.409Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear I.720Beauty and Moonlight. An Ode Fragment I.17Before I see another day I.368Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Raphael, in the Gallery at Florence III.547Before the world had past her time of youth III.557Beggars I.619Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf I.402Beguiled into forgetfulness of care III.704Behold a Pupil of the Monkish gown III.380Behold her, single in the field I.656Beloved Vale!” I said, “when I shall con I.636


Beneath this thorn when I was young I.74Beneath yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound III.45Benjamin the Waggoner II.250Between two sister moorland rills I.451Bishops and Priests, blessèd are ye, if deep III.423Black Demons hovering o’er his mitred head III.384Black Stones of Iona, The III.503Blandusian spring than glass more brightly clear I.60Blest be the Church, that, watching o’er the needs III.416Blest is this Isle—our native Land III.573Blest Statesman He, whose Mind’s unselfish will III.562Blind Highland Boy, The. (A Tale told by the Fire-side.) I.676Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong III.493Borderers, The I.151Bothwell Castle III.480Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight III.20Bright Flower, whose home is every where! I.690Broken in fortune, but in mind entire III.497Brook, that hast been my solace days and weeks I.721Brothers, The I.384Brownie, The III.479Bruges (“Bruges I saw attired with golden light”) III.428Bruges (“The Spirit of Antiquity, enshrined”) III.428Bruges I saw attired with golden light III.428But cease my Soul ah! cease to pry I.38But hark! the Curfew tolls! and lo! the night I.21But here no cannon thunders to the gale III.362But liberty, and triumphs on the Main III.409But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book III.394But, to remote Northumbria’s royal Hall III.374But what if One, thro’ grove or flowery mead III.378But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord III.419By a blest Husband guided, Mary came III.679By a Retired Mariner. (A Friend of the Author.) III.496By antique Fancy trimmed—tho’ lowly, bred III.438By Art’s bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand III.746By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied III.417By Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood I.314By Moscow self–devoted to a blaze III.571By playful smiles, (alas too oft III.747


By such examples moved to unbought pains III.379By the Sea-Shore, Isle of Man III.495By the Sea-Side III.691By the Side of Rydal Mere III.688By their floating Mill I.684By vain affections unenthralled III.586Calais, August 15th, 1802 I.641Calais, August, 1802 I.639Call not the royal Swede unfortunate III.19Calm as an under current—strong to draw III.404Calm is all nature as a resting wheel I.635Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose III.686Calvert! it must not be unheard by them I.638Camoëns, he the accomplished and the good III.569Can aught survive to linger in the veins III.380Can Lubbock fail to make a good M.P. III.683Cantata del Metastasio I.740Cantata, From Metastasio I.738Canute III.381Captivity III.111Carved, Mathew, with a master’s skill I.483Casual Incitement III.374Catechizing III.406Cathedrals, &c. III.410Cave of Staffa (“Thanks for the lessons of this Spot—fit school”) III.501Cave of Staffa (“We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd”) III.500Cave of Staffa (“Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims”) III.501Cenotaph III.586Change me, some God, into that breathing rose! III.352Character, In the Antithetical Manner, A I.450Character of the Happy Warrior I.600Characteristics of a Child three Years old III.49Charles the Second III.402Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the pride III.678Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream III.604Child of the clouds! remote from every taint III.349Childless Father, The I.441Church of San Salvador, seen from the Lake of Lugano, The III.439Church to be Erected III.409Cistertian Monastery III.385


Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb I.694Clerical Integrity III.403Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered III.419Column Intended by Buonaparte for a Triumphal Edifice in Milan, The III.449Come gentle Sleep, Death’s image tho’ thou art III.736Come thou in robe of darkest blue” [To Melpomene] I.41Come ye—who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land I.743Commination Service, The III.425Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered III.524Companion to the Foregoing [Love Lies Bleeding] III.703Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same III.536Complaint, A I.699Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman, The I.368Composed after a Journey across the Hamilton Hills, Yorkshire I.630Composed after Reading a Newspaper of the Day III.475Composed after Reading a Newspaper of the Day III.561Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in North Wales III.582Composed at Cora Linn, in sight of Wallace’s tower III.54Composed at the Same Time, and on the Same Occasion [Cintra] III.18Composed by the Sea-shore III.693Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August, 1802 I.639Composed during one of the most awful of the late Storms, Feb. 1819 III.136Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons of Switzerland III.466Composed in one of the Valleys of Westmoreland, on Easter Sunday III.53Composed in Recollection of the Expedition of the French into Russia, February 1816 III.97Composed in Roslin Chapel, During a Storm III.473Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive III.475Composed in the Valley, Near Dover, On the Day of landing I.644Composed on May-morning, 1838 III.553Composed on the Banks of a Rocky Stream III.135Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a Friend, in the Vale of Grasmere III.48Composed on the same Morning (“Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun”) III.735Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803 (“Earth has not

any thing to shew more fair”) I.635Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit


Rydal Mount as a Residence (1825) II.294Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit

Rydal Mount as a Residence (1826) Addendum 74Composed while the Author was Engaged in Writing a Tract,

Occasioned by the Convention of Cintra,1808 III.17Concluded (“As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow”) III.550Concluded (“Long-favoured England! be not thou misled”) III.564, 566Conclusion (“I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide”) III.363Conclusion (“If these brief Records, by the Muses’ art”) III.603Conclusion (“Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes”) III.509Conclusion (“Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled”) III.412Conclusion (“Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound”) III.560Concluded.—American Episcopacy III.421Conclusion. 1811 III.34Confirmation III.416Confirmation Continued III.416Congratulation III.408Conjectures III.368Continued (“And what melodious sounds at times prevail!”) III.387Continued (“As indignation mastered grief, my tongue”) III.551Continued (“Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same”) III.536Continued (“From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled”) III.420Continued (“Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean”) III.549, 566Continued (“Methinks that to some vacant Hermitage”) III.378Continued (“Mine ear has rung, my spirits sunk subdued”) III.409Continued (“The world forsaken, all its busy cares”) III.544Continued (“They dreamt not of a perishable home”) III.411Continued (“Who ponders National events shall find”) III.563Continued (“Yet some, Noviciates of the cloistral shade”) III.392Contrast, The III.584Conversion III.376Convict, The I.370Corruptions of the Higher Clergy III.390Could I the priest’s consent have gained I.480Council of Clermont, The III.382Countess’s Pillar III.482Cranmer III.396Critics, right honourable Bard! decree III.571Crusaders III.387


Crusades III.383Cuckoo and the Nightingale, The; Translation of Chaucer’s II.643Cuckoo at Laverna. may 25th, 1837, The III.540Cuckoo-clock, The III.741Danish Conquests III.381Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are lost III.370Days passed—and Monte Calvo would not clear III.538Days undefiled by luxury or sloth III.565Dear Child of Nature, let them rail! I.684Dear fellow—Traveller! here we are once more I.644Dear Fellow-Travellers! think not that the Muse III.427Dear Native Brooks your ways have I pursu’d I.735Dear native Regions, I foretell III.65Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mold III.101Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed III.492Death a Dirge I.45Death of the Starling, The I.16Decay of Piety III.568Dedication (“Dear Fellow-Travellers! think not that the Muse”) III.427Deep is the lamentation! Not alone III.394Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord! I.664Deign Sovereign Mistress! to accept a Lay III.772Departed Child! I could forget thee once III.49Departing Summer hath assumed III.139Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. August 1803 III.36Deplorable his lot who tills the ground III.418Description of a dying storm I.39Descriptive Sketches I.97Desire we past illusions to recall? III.494Despond who will—I heard a voice exclaim III.498Desponding Father! mark this altered bough III.709Destined to war from very infancy III.26Desultory Stanzas III.462Devotional Incitements III.680Dion III.102Dirge I.483Dirge Sung by a Minstrel I.45Discourse was deemed Man’s noblest attribute III.774Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law III.476


Dissensions. III.372Dissolution of the Monasteries III.391Distractions III.398Distressful gift! this Book receives I.757Dog—An Idyllium, The I.22Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur! III.135Dont wake little Enoch III.571Doomed as we are our native dust III.466Doubling and doubling with laborious walk III.478Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design III.415Dread hour! when upheaved by war’s sulphurous blast III.441Driven in by Autumn’s sharpening air III.712Druid Temple III.413Druidical Excommunication III.369Dunolly Eagle, The III.500Eagle and the Dove, The III.759Eagles, Composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of Oban III.476Earl of Breadalbane’s Ruined Mansion, and Family Burial-Place,

near Killin, The III.477Earth has not any thing to shew more fair I.635Ecclesiastical Sketches III.368Echo, upon the Gemmi III.451Eclipse of the Sun, 1820, The III.445Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed III.505Edward Signing the Warrant for the Execution of Joan of Kent III.395Edward VI III.395Effusion in Presence of the Painted Tower of Tell, at Altorf III.465Effusion, in the pleasure-ground on the banks of the Bran, near Dunkeld III.58Egyptian Maid, The; or, the romance of the water lily. III.630Ejaculation III.412Ejaculation at the Grave of Burns I.721Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, the Seat of the Late Sir George Beaumont, Bart. III.677Elegiac Stanzas (“Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells”) III.454Elegiac Stanzas. 1824 III.586Elegiac Stanzas, composed in the churchyard of Grasmere III.13Elegiac Stanzas, Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle, in a Storm,

Painted by Sir George Beaumont I.709Elegiac Verses, February 1816 III.92


Elegiac Verses in Memory of my Brother, John Wordsworth I.755Elegies Written for John Wordsworth I.750Elegy written in the same place upon the same occasion I.480Elizabeth III.397Ellen Irwin, Or the Braes of Kirtle I.398Emigrant French Clergy III.417Eminent Reformers III.397Emperors and Kings, how oft have Temples rung III.70Engelberg III.437England! the time is come when thou shouldst wean I.649English Reformers in Exile III.397Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand III.763Enough! for see, with dim association III.388Enough of climbing toil!—Ambition treads III.123Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook III.477Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes III.643Epigrams on Byron’s Cain III.571Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart. From the South-west Coast of Cumberland,—1811 III.37Epitaph (“By a blest Husband guided, Mary came”) III.679Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale, Westmoreland III.747Epitaphs Translated from Chiabrera III.23Ere we had reach’d the wish’d-for place, night fell I.630Ere with cold beads of midnight dew III.591Ere yet our course was graced with social trees III.351Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load III.548Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky! III.590Eve’s lingering clouds extend in solid bars III.12Even as a dragon’s eye that feels the stress III.48Even so for me a Vision sanctified III.729Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France III.417Evening Sonnets I.48Evening Sounds I.39Evening Voluntaries III.686Evening Walk, An (1793) I.82Evening Walk, An (1793) Addendum, 9Ewtrees I.748Excursion, The; being a Portion of The Recluse, a Poem II.298Excuse is needless when with love sincere III.602Expostulation and Reply I.365


Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg III.723Extract from the conclusion of a poem, composed upon leaving school III.65Extract from the Strangers bookStation Winandermere III.609Extracts from The Vale of Esthwaite I.35Fact, and an Imagination, A; Or, Canute and Alfred III.100Faëry Chasm, The III.353Failing impartial measure to dispense III.734Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate I.398Fair is the Swan, whose majesty—prevailing III.102Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers III.758Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few III.550Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild III.594Fair Star of Evening, Splendor of the West I.639Fairy skill III.712Fall of the Aar—Handec, The III.435Fallen, and diffus’d into a shapeless heap III.366Fame tells of Groves—from England far away— III.143Fancy and Tradition III.505Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad III.588Far from [ ] Grasmere’s lake serene III.37Far from my dearest friend, ’tis mine to rove I.82Farewell Lines (“High bliss is only for a higher state”) III.609Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain ground I.736Farmer of Tilsbury Vale, The. A Character I.476Father! to God himself we cannot give III.418Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree III.399February 1816 III.80Feel for the wrongs to universal ken III.567Feelings of a Noble Biscayan at one of these funerals 1810 III.31Feelings of the Tyrolese III.20Female Vagrant The I.314Festivals have I seen that were not names I.641Fidelity I.591Filial Piety III.612First Floweret of the year is that which shows III.577Fish-women III.427Fit retribution, by the moral code III.558Five years have passed; five summers, with the length I.372


Flattered with promise of escape III.683Flower Garden, A III.578Flowers III.351Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance of the Cave III.502Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale! I.743Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep! I.632For action born, existing to be tried III.540For ever hallowed be this morning fair III.374For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes III.437For Lubbock vote—no legislative Hack III.682For thirst of power that Heaven disowns III.775For what contend the wise? for nothing less III.413Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise III.537Force of Prayer, The; Or the Founding of Bolton Priory. A Tradition. II.633Foregoing Subject Resumed, The [Lines Suggested by a Portrait] III.708Foresight, Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion I.698Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs III.539Forms of Prayer at Sea III.425Forsake me not, Urania, but when Ev’n III.113Forsaken, The I.726Fort Fuentes—at the Head of the Lake of Como III.441Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base III.769Forth rushed, from Envy sprung and Self-conceit III.735Fountain, The. A Conversation I.432Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein III.610Fragment, A (“Between two sister moorland rills”) I.451French, and the Spanish Guerillas, The III.32From Bolton’s old monastic tower II.575From early youth I ploughed the restless Main III.496From false assumption rose, and fondly hail’d III.422From little down to least—in due degree III.406From low to high doth dissolution climb III.407From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled III.420From Stirling Castle we had seen I.665From the Alban Hills, looking towards Rome III.539From the Baptismal hour, thro’ weal and woe III.425From the dark chambers of dejection freed III.64From the fierce aspect of this River throwing III.436From the Greek I.50


From the Italian of Michael Angelo (“Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace”) I.633From the Pier’s head, musing—and with increase III.468From the Same (“No mortal object did these eyes behold”) I.634From the Same. To the Supreme Being (“The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed”) I.634From this deep chasm—where quivering sun-beams play III.355Funeral Service III.425General View of the Troubles of the Reformation III.396Genius of Raphael! if thy wings III.641Gentle Zephyr I.739Georgics, Book IV, Lines 511–515 II.751Giordano, verily thy Pencil’s skill III.774Gipsies I.672Glad sight wherever new with old III.760Glad Tidings III.374Gleaner, The. (Suggested by a Picture.) III.616Glen-almain, or the Narrow Glen I.658Glory to God! and to the Power who came III.412Go back to antique Ages, if thine eyes III.594Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt III.682Gold and Silver Fishes, in a Vase III.667Goody Blake, and Harry Gill, A True Story I.322Gordale III.135Grace Darling III.760Grant, that by this unsparing Hurricane III.394Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast III.737Grateful is Sleep; more grateful still to be III.736Grave-stone upon the Floor in the Cloisters of Worcester Cathedral, A III.613Great Men have been among us; hands that penn’d I.646Green Linnet, The I.682Greenock III.504Greta, what fearful listening! when huge stones III.489Greyhound Ballad I.72Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready Friend III.47Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft III.543Guilt and Sorrow Addendum 101Gunpowder Plot III.399


Had this effulgence disappeared III.124Hail to the fields—with Dwellings sprinkled o’er III.354Hail Twilight,—sovereign of one peaceful hour! III.48Hail, universal Source of pure delight! III.82Hail, Virgin Queen! o’er many an envious bar III.397Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye III.18Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown III.602Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean III.549, 566Hark! ’tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest III.733Harp! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest string III.400Hart’s-Horn Tree, near Penrith III.482Hart-leap Well I.377Hast thou seen, with train incessant III.127Hast thou then survived I.744Haydon! let worthier judges praise the skill III.679He who defers his work from day to day III.701Her eyes are wild, her head is bare I.346Her only Pilot the soft breeze the Boat III.608Here let us rest—here, where the gentle beams III.122Here M. ————sleep[s] who liv’d a patriarch’s days I.23Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall III.385Here on their knees men swore: the stones were black III.503Here pause: the Poet claims at least this praise III.34Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed III.482Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing III.746High bliss is only for a higher state III.609High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you! I.694High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate I.703High is our calling, Friend!—Creative Art III.80High o’er the silver Rocks I rov’d I.17High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down III.743High on her speculative Tower III.445Highland Broach, The III.484Highland Hut III.478Hint from the Mountains for Certain Political Aspirants III.126Hints for the Fancy III.354His Descendants III.380His simple truths did Andrew glean I.403Hoarse sound the swoln and angry floods I.42


Hôffer III.23Holy and heavenly Spirits as they were III.398Home at Grasmere I.558Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba’s Cell III.504Hope I.41Hope rules a land for ever green III.613Hope smiled when your nativity was cast III.502Hopes what are they?—Beads of morning III.128Horace To Apollo I.49Horn of Egremont Castle, The I.603How art thou named? In search of what strange land III.583How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high III.773How beautiful your presence, how benign III.377How beautiful, when up a lofty height III.730How blest the Maid whose heart—yet free III.447How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright III.81How disappeared he?” Ask the newt and toad III.479How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled! III.414How long will ye round me be roaring I.70How profitless the relics that we cull III.483How rich that forehead’s calm expanse! III.578How rich the wave, in front, imprest I.363How shall I paint thee?—Be this naked stone III.350How soon—alas! did Man, created pure— III.421How sweet at Eve’s still hour the song I.37How sweet in Life’s tear-glistering morn I.40How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks I.629How sweet, when crimson colors dart I.479Humanity, delighting to behold III.97Humanity. (Written in the Year 1829.) III.673Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast III.32Hymn for the Boatmen, as they Approach the Rapids, under the Castle of Heidelberg III.432I am not One who much or oft delight I.699I bring, ye little noisy crew! I.483I dropped my pen;—and listened to the wind III.18I find it written of Simonides I.734I griev’d for Buonaparte, with a vain I.640I hate that Andrew Jones: he’ll breed I.417


I have a boy of five years old I.330I have been here in the Moon-light I.727I heard (alas, ’twas only in a dream) III.108I heard a thousand blended notes I.334I know an aged Man constrained to dwell III.770I listen—but no faculty of mine III.439I marvel how Nature could ever find space I.450I met Louisa in the shade I.590I only look’d for pain and grief I.752I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest III.360I saw a Mother’s eye intensely bent III.416I saw an aged Beggar in my walk I.442I saw far off the dark top of a Pine III.535I saw the figure of a lovely Maid III.401I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold III.724I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold I.721I the while I.42I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide III.363I travell’d among unknown Men I.616I wandered lonely as a Cloud I.670I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! I.709I watch, and long have watch’d, with calm regret III.82I, who descended with glad step to chase III.368I will be that fond Mother I.740I’ve watch’d you now a full half hour I.675Idiot Boy, The I.349Idle Shepherd-boys, Or Dungeon-gill Force, A Pastoral, The I.409If from the public way you turn your steps I.461If grief dismiss me not to them that rest I.52If Life were slumber on a bed of down III.519If money I lack III.130If Nature, for a favorite Child I.429If the whole weight of what we think and feel III.593If there be Prophets on whose spirits rest III.368If these brief Records, by the Muses’ art III.603If this great world of joy and pain III.683If thou in the dear love of some one friend I.414If Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven III.52If to Tradition faith be due III.484


If with old love of you, dear Hills! I share III.553Illustrated Books and Newspapers III.774Illustration III.399Imaginative Regrets III.394Imitation of Juvenal, Satire VIII I.60Immured in Bothwell’s Towers, at times the Brave III.480In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine III.431In a Garden of the same III.45In a smooth croft of Lorton’s pleasant Vale I.748In Allusion to Various Recent Histories and Notices of the French

Revolution III.563In Brugès town is many a street III.467In desultory walk through orchard grounds III.752In distant countries I have been I.343In due observance of an ancient rite III.30In Evening tints of joy [array’d] I.37In Lombardy III.550In my mind’s eye a Temple, like a cloud III.606In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth III.490In the Cathedral at Cologne III.430In the Channel, between the Coast of Cumberland and the Isle of Man III.493In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. (July 17, 1833.) III.498In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George Beaumont, Bart.

Leicestershire III.43In the Sound of Mull III.476In the sweet shire of Cardigan I.327In these fair Vales hath many a Tree III.676In this still place, remote from men I.658In trellis’d shed with clustering roses gay II.573In youth from rock to rock I went I.588Incident at Brugès III.467Incident, Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author I.690Indignation of a High-minded Spaniard. 1810 III.32Indulgent Muse, if Thou the labour share III.126Infant M——— M———, The III.585Influence Abused III.381Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood I.644


Inmate of a mountain Dwelling III.106Inscribed upon a rock III.127Inscription (“The massy Ways, carried across these Heights”) III.592Inscription for a Monument in Crosthwaite Church,

in the Vale of keswick III.763Inscription for a National Monument in Commemoration of the

Battle of Waterloo III.79Inscription for a seat by the pathway side ascending to Windy Brow I.55Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton III.45Inscription for the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere I.415Inscription for the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert’s Island, Derwent-water I.414Inscription Intended for a Stone in the Grounds of Rydal Mount III.676Inscriptions, supposed to be found in, and near, a hermit’s cell III.127Inside of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge III.411Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake III.758Interdict, An III.384Intrepid sons of Albion!—not by you III.79Introduction (“I, who descended with glad step to chase”) III.368Iona. (Upon Landing.) III.503Is Death, when evil against good has fought III.556Is it a Reed that’s shaken by the wind I.639Is then no nook of English ground secure III.764Is then the final page before me spread III.462Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer III.20Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? III.535Isle of Man III.495It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free I.637It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown I.675It is not to be thought of that the Flood I.646It is the first mild day of March I.326It seems a day, / One of those heavenly days which cannot die I.435It was a moral end for which they fought III.23It was an April morning: fresh and clear I.454Italian Itinerant, and the Swiss Goatherd, The III.442Jesu! bless our slender Boat III.432Jewish Family, A III.641Jones! when from Calais southward you and I I.640Journey Renewed III.360


June, 1820 (“Fame tells of Groves—from England far away—”) III.143Jung-Frau—and the Rhine at Shauffhausen, The III.434Just as the blowing thorn began I.480Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power III.743Keep for the Young the empassioned smile III.457King of Sweden, The I.642Kitten and the Falling Leaves, The I.609Labourer’s Noon-day Hymn, The III.702Lady! a Pen, perhaps, with thy regard III.709Lady! I rifled a Parnassian Cave III.141Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove I.636Lament for Bion (from Moschus) I.50Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the Eve of a New Year III.109Lament! for Dioclesian’s fiery sword III.370Lance, shield, and sword relinquished—at his side III.378Laodamia III.66Last night, without a voice, this Vision spake III.401Last of the Flock, The I.343Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria Della Grazia—Milan, The III.445Late on a breezy vernal eve I.728Latimer and Ridley III.414Latitudinarianism III.402Laud III.400Laura, farewell my Laura! I.738Let more ambitious Poets take the heart III.747Let other Bards of Angels sing III.580Let thy wheelbarrow alone I.416Let us quit the leafy Arbour III.117Liberty (Sequel to the Above [Gold and Silver Fishes].) III.669Lie here sequester’d:—be this little mound I.692Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun III.735Like a shipwreck’d Sailor tost III.694Lines Composed at Grasmere I.708Lines left upon a seat in a Yew-tree which Stands near the Lake of

Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, yet commanding a beautiful prospect. I.312Lines on Milton I.52Lines on the Bicentenary of Hawkshead School I.11


Lines on the Expected Invasion. 1803 I.743Lines Suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. Stone III.704Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey, On revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour, July 13, 1798 I.372Lines written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed I.326Lines written in early spring I.334Lines Written in the Album of the Countess of ———. Nov. 5, 1834 III.709Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening I.363Lines Written with a Slate pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heap lying near a deserted Quarry upon one of the Islands at Rydale I.428List! the bell-Sprite stuns my ears I.45List! the death-bell stuns mine ears I.45List, the winds of March are blowing III.697List—’twas the Cuckoo.—O with what delight III.540List, ye who pass by Lyulph’s Tower III.513Liturgy, The III.406Lo! in the burning West, the craggy nape III.456Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance III.737Lo! where the Moon along the sky III.729Local Recollection on the Heights near Hockheim III.432London, 1802 I.646Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they III.135Long-favoured England! be not thou misled III.564Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn III.538Lonsdale! it were unworthy of a Guest III.508Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there! I.673Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid III.19Lord of the Vale! astounding Flood! III.54Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up I.708Louisa I.590Love Lies Bleeding III.703Loving she is, and tractable, though wild III.49Lowther! in thy majestic Pile are seen III.508Lucy Gray I.407Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells III.454Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live III.751Lyrical Ballads, and Other Poems I.312


Mad Mother, The I.346Malham Cove III.134Man’s life is like a Sparrow, mighty King! III.375Manciple, The (from the Prologue) and his Tale; Translation of Chaucer’s II.659Manciple’s Tale, The II.660Mark the concentred Hazels that enclose III.11Marriage Ceremony, The III.423Mary Queen of Scots (Landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Workington) III.492Maternal Grief III.49Mathew Elegies I.480Matron of Jedborough and Her Husband, The I.659Meek Virgin Mother, more benign III.437melancholy joy I.35Melts into silent shades the Youth, discrowned III.413Memorial, III.434Memorials of a Tour in Italy III.524Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820 III.427Memory III.577Men of the Western World! in Fate’s dark book III.564Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy III.398Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road III.369Methinks that I could trip o’er heaviest soil III.397Methinks that to some vacant Hermitage III.378Methinks ’twere no unprecedented feat III.359Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne I.636Michael Angelo in reply to the passage upon his statue of Night sleeping III.737Michael, A Pastoral Poem I.461Mid-noon is past;—upon the sultry mead III.359Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour I.646Mine ear has rung, my spirits sunk subdued III.409Miserrimus!” and neither name nor date III.613Missions and Travels III.379Modern Athens, The III.487Monastery of Old Bangor III.373Monastic Domes! following my downward way III.408Monastic Voluptuousness III.391


Monks, and Schoolmen III.386Monument Commonly Called Long Meg and Her Daughters, near the River Eden, The III.510Monument of Mrs. Howard, (By Nollekins,) in Wetheral Church, near Corby, on the Banks of the Eden III.506Moods of My Own Mind I.667More may not be by human Art exprest III.739Morning Exercise, A III.588Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes III.509Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost III.393Motions and Means, on land and sea at war III.507Motto intended for Poems on the naming of Places I.726Musings Near Aquapendente III.524Mutability III.407My frame hath often trembled with delight III.357My heart leaps up when I behold I.669My Lesbia let us love and live I.16My Lord and Lady Darlington III.610Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands I.312Near Anio’s stream, I spied a gentle Dove III.538Near Rome, in Sight of St. Peter’s III.538Near the Lake of Thrasymene III.539Near the Same Lake III.540Near the spring of the hermitage III.129Never enlivened with the liveliest ray III.703New Church Yard III.410New Churches III.409Next morning Troilus began to clear II.654Night Piece, A Addendum, 26[Night-Piece, A] Addendum, 25Night Thought, A III.729No fiction was it of the antique age III.353No more: the end is sudden and abrupt III.483No mortal object did these eyes behold I.634No record tells of lance opposed to lance III.361No whimsy of the purse is here I.749Nor can Imagination quit the shores III.387Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend III.376Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject III.403


Nor unregarded may I pass thee by II.570Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid III.372Norman Boy, The III.743Norman Conquest, The III.382Not a breath of air / Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen III.715Not envying shades which haply yet may throw III.349Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep III.362Not in the lucid intervals of life III.687Not in the mines beyond the western main III.509Not (like his great compeers) indignantly III.433Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell III.568Not ’mid the World’s vain objects that enslave III.17Not pangs of grief for lenient time too keen III.496Not sedentary all: there are who roam III.379Not seldom, clad in radiant vest III.130Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance III.353Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard III.606Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew III.500Not to the object specially designed III.556Not utterly unworthy to endure III.393Not without heavy grief of heart did He III.24November 1, 1815 III.81November, 1806 I.651November, 1813 III.52November, 1836 III.729Now hollow sounding all around I hear I.39Now that a Parthenon ascends, to crown III.487Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright III.52Now that Astrology is out of date III.683Now that the farewell tear is dried III.442Now we are tired of boisterous joy I.676Now when the Gods had crush’d the Asian State II.727Now when the primrose makes a splendid show III.740Nun’s Well, Brigham III.491Nunnery III.507Nuns fret not at their Convent’s narrow room I.628Nutting I.435Nutting DC MS. 15 Addendum 29Nutting DC MS. 16 Addendum 31


O blithe New-comer! I have heard I.674O dearer far than light and life are dear III.583O flower of all that springs from gentle blood III.29O Fools that we were, we had land which we sold I.727O for a dirge! But why complain? III.586O, for a kindling touch of that pure flame III.80O for the help of Angels to complete III.430O Friend! I know not which way I must look I.645O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee I.631O Lelius, beauteous flower of gentleness III.28O Lord, our Lord! how wonderously (quoth she) II.635O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot I.633O Mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot III.355O Nightingale! thou surely art I.668O there is blessing in this gentle Breeze III.144O Thou who movest onward with a mind III.28O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought I.614O’er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain III.22O’erweening Statesmen have full long relied III.31Oak and the Broom, A Pastoral, The I.403Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power III.30Oak of Guernica, The III.30Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty III.404Occasioned by the Same Battle. February 1816 III.79October, 1803 (“Six thousand Veterans practis’d in War’s game”) I.650October, 1803 (“These times touch money’d Worldlings with dismay”) I.648October, 1803 (“When, looking on the present face of things”) I.649October, 1803 I.647Odes, 1815–1817 Addendum 51ODE (“There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream”) I.712Ode (“Who rises on the banks of Seine”) III.98Ode. 1815. Addendum 60Ode.—1817 III.113; Addendum 65Ode (from Horace) I.60Ode to Duty I.617Ode, composed in January 1816 III.93Ode, Composed on May Morning III.595Ode, Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendor and


Beauty III.124Ode, Performed in the Senate-house, Cambridge, on the Sixth of July,

M.DCCC.XLVII. At the first Commencement after the Installation of His Royal Highness The Prince Albert, Chancellor of the University. Installation Ode. III.775Ode. The morning of the day appointed for a general thanksgiving.

January 18, 1816 III.82; Addendum 52Ode. The Pass of Kirkstone III.120Ode, to Lycoris, May, 1817 III.116Of mortal Parents is the Hero born III.23Oft had I heard of Lucy Gray I.407Oft have I caught from fitful breeze III.510Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek III.568Oft is the Medal faithful to its trust III.45Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer! II.298Oh! bless’d all bliss above I.740Oh Life! without thy chequered scene III.466Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine I.418Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze II.11Oh thou whose fixed, bewildered eye I.57Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech! III.732Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter? I.322Old Abbeys III.408Old Cumberland Beggar, A Description, The I.442Old Man Travelling I.367On a Celebrated Event in Ancient History III.34On a Nursery piece of the same, by a Scottish Bard— III.571On a Portrait of the Duke of Wellington, upon the Field of Waterloo,

by Haydon III.746On an Event in Col: Evans’s redoubted performances in Spain III.729On Approaching the Staub-Bach, Lauterbrunnen III.435On Being Stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne III.456On Cain a Mystery dedicated to Sir Walter Scott III.571On Entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man III.494On Hearing the “Ranz Des Vaches” on the Top of the Pass of St. Gothard III.439On his morning rounds the Master I.690On, loitering Muse!—The swift Stream chides us—on! III.354On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life II.300


On Religion’s holy hill I.52On Revisiting Dunolly Castle III.499On Seeing a Needlecase in the Form of a Harp, the Work of E. M. S.

III.607On seeing some Tourists of the Lakes pass by reading; a practise very

common. I.722On the Banks of a Rocky Stream III.776On the death of an unfortunate Lady. I.20On the Death of His Late Majesty III.141On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples III.472On the Disinterment of the Remains of the Duke D’enghien III.101On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic I.641On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese III.23On the Frith of Clyde. (In a Steam-Boat.) III.499On the Lake of Brientz III.436On the Power of Sound III.623On the Same Occasion (“When in the antique age of bow and spear”) III.575On the same Subject (“Though I beheld at first with blank surprise”) III.738On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland III.473On tiptoe forward as I lean’d aghast I.44On to Iona!—What can she afford III.502Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee I.641Once I could hail (howe’er serene the sky) III.600Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn’d I.695Once more I welcome Thee, and Thou, fair Plant II.274Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear III.389Once on the brow of yonder Hill I stopped I.558Once on the top of Tynwald’s formal mound III.497One might believe that natural miseries I.647One morning (raw it was and wet I.595One who was suffering tumult in his soul III.136Open Prospect III.354Open your Gates ye everlasting Piles! III.410Orchard Pathway, The I.587Orchard Pathway, to and fro I.587Orlando, who great length of time had been I.740Other Benefits III.386


Other Influences III.377Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine III.558Our Lady of the Snow III.437Our walk was far among the antient trees I.461Outstretching flame-ward his upbraided hand III.396Oxford, May 30, 1820 (“Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow”) III.142Oxford, May 30, 1820 (“Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!”) III.142Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies I.597Papal Abuses III.384Papal Dominion III.385Parsonage in Oxfordshire, A III.569Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep III.473Pastor and Patriot! at whose bidding rise III.492Pastoral Character III.405Patriotic Sympathies III.401Patriots informed with Apostolic light III.421Paulinus III.374Pause, courteous Spirit!—Balbi supplicates III.25Pause, Traveller! whosoe’er thou be III.127Peasant’s Life, The II.568Pedlar, The I.286Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side I.720Pellucid Spring! unknown beyond the verge II.294People! your chains are severing link by link III.475People! your chains are severing link by link III.561Perhaps some needful service of the State III.27Persecution of the Scottish Convenanters III.414Persecution III.370Persuasion III.375Peter Bell, a Tale I.487Pet-lamb, A Pastoral, The I.438Picture of Daniel in the Lion’s Den, at Hamilton Palace III.480Pilgrim Fathers, The III.420Pilgrim’s Dream, or, the Star and the Glow-worm, The III.132Pillar of Trajan, The III.551Pine of Monte Mario at Rome, The III.535Pity (“Now too while o’er the heart we feel”) I.36Pity (“What tho’ my griefs must never flow”) I.35


Pity mourn in plaintive tone I.16Placard for a Poll bearing an Old Shirt III.130Place of Burial in the South of Scotland, A III.473Places of Worship III.405Plain of Donnerdale, The III.357Plea for Authors, A. May, 1838 III.734Plea for the Historian III.537Pleasures newly found are sweet I.599Poems Composed during a Tour, Chiefly on Foot I.619Poems, in Two Volumes I.587Poems on the Naming of Places I.453Poems Written During a Tour in Scotland I.652Poet and the Caged Turtledove, The III.642Poet to his Grandchild, A. (Sequel to the Foregoing.) III.736Poet’s Epitaph, A I.448Point at Issue, The III.413Poor Robin III.740Poor Susan I.414Portentous change when History can appear III.563Power of Music I.687Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay III.35Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain-springs III.419Preface [to The Excursion] II.298Prefatory Sonnet (“Nuns fret not at their Convent’s narrow room”) I.628Prelude (“In desultory walk through orchard grounds”) III.752Prelude, The (1798–1799) I.530Prelude, The (1805–1806) II.11Prelude, The (1824–1839) III.144Presentiments III.665Presentiments! they judge not right III.665Press’d with conflicting thoughts of love and fear II.291Primitive Saxon Clergy III.377Primrose of the Rock, The III.656Prioress’s Tale, The; Translation of Chaucer’s II.635Prithee gentle Lady list III.602Processions, Suggested on a Sabbath Morning in the Vale of Chamouny III.451Prologue to The Affliction of Mary —— of ——(written for the

Lyrical Ballads) I.718


Prompt transformation works the novel lore III.376Protest against the Ballot. 1838 III.735Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old III.765Pure element of waters! wheresoe’er III.134Pursued by Hate, debarred from friendly care III.400Queen and Negress chaste and fair! III.570Queen of the stars!—so gentle, so benign III.718Question and Answer III.683Ranging the Heights of Scawfell or Black-coom III.493Rapt above earth by power of one fair face III.547Realms quake by turns: proud Arbitress of grace III.384Recollection of the Portrait of King Henry Eighth, Trinity Lodge,

Cambridge III.569Record we too, with just and faithful pen III.386Recovery III.371Redbreast and the Butterfly, The I.594Redbreast, The. (Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage.) III.712Redoubted King, of courage leonine III.383Reflections III.394Regrets III.407Reluctant call it was; the rite delayed III.561Remembering how thou didst beguile I.481Reproof III.378Resolution and Independence I.624Rest and Be Thankful, at the Head of Glencoe III.478Rest, rest, perturbed Earth! III.92Resting-place, The III.359Retired Marine Officer, Isle of Man, The III.496Retirement III.593Return (“A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted Yew”) III.356Return, Content! for fondly I pursued III.360Revival of Popery III.413Reynolds come thy pencil prove I.14Richard I III.383Rid of a vexing and a heavy load I.722Rise!—they have risen: of brave Aneurin ask III.372River Duddon, a series of Sonnets, The III.349River Eden, Cumberland, The III.505Rob Roy’s Grave I.652


Roman Antiquities Discovered, at Bishopstone, Herefordshire III.611Roman Antiquities. (From the Roman Station at Old Penrith.) III.483Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey III.581Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen I.415Ruined Cottage, The. A Poem (MS.B) I.270Ruined Cottage, The (MS.D) Addendum 33Rural Architecture I.448Rural Ceremony III.406Rural Illusions III.663Russian Fugitive, The III.643Ruth I.421Sacheverell III.415Sacrament III.417Sacred Religion, “mother of form and fear,” III.356Sad thoughts, avaunt!—the fervour of the year III.359Said red-ribbon’d Evans III.733Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud III.562Sailor’s Mother, The I.595Saints III.392Salisbury Plain Addendum 82Same Subject, The (“Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance”) III.353Same Subject, The [“The lovely Nun (submissive but more meek”] III.392Same, The (“Holy and heavenly Spirits as they were”) III.398Same, The (“What awful pèrspective! while from our sight”) III.411Saxon Conquest III.372Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of the Religion III.379Say, what is Honour?—Tis the finest sense III.17Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills III.473Scattering, like Birds escaped the Fowler’s net III.397Scene in Venice III.384Scene III.436Scenery Between Namur and Liege III.429Scenes I.39Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned III.605Screams round the Arch-druid’s brow the Seamew—white III.369Seathwaite Chapel III.356Seclusion III.378See the Condemned alone within his cell III.559See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot III.478


See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins III.550Seek who will delight in fable III.765Sentiments of Affection for inanimate Nature I.37September 1st, 1802 I.643September, 1802 I.644September 1815 III.81September, 1819 III.138Septimi, Gades I.57Septimius and Acme I.51Septimius thus his [ ] love addressed I.51Sequel to the Foregoing [Beggars] composed many years after III.111Sequel to the Norman Boy III.743Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here III.732Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald I.612Seven Sisters, Or the Solitude of Binnorie, The I.612Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow III.142She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways I.401She had a tall Man’s height, or more I.619She was a Phantom of delight I.593She wept.—Life’s purple tide began to flow I.21Sheep-washing III.359Shepherd of Bield Crag, The II.570Shipwreck of the Soul I.47Shout, for a mighty Victory is won! I.651Show me the noblest Youth of present time III.617Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred III.425Sigh no more Ladies, sigh no more III.746Simon Lee, The Old Huntsman, with an incident in which he was

concerned I.327Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy III.498Six months to six years added, He remain’d III.52Six thousand Veterans practis’d in War’s game I.650Sky-Prospect—From the Plain of France III.456Small Celandine, The (“There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine”) I.671Small service is true service while it lasts III.704Smile of the Moon—for so I name III.109So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive III.764Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge—the Mere III.689Sole listener, Duddon! to the breeze that play’d III.351


Solitary Reaper, The I.656Some minds have room alone for pageant stories I.726Somnambulist, The III.513Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand III.736Song (“She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways”) I.401Song, at the Feast of Brougham Castle I.703Song for the Spinning Wheel Founded upon a Belief Prevalent among the Pastoral Vales of Westmorland III.46Song for the Wandering Jew I.420Sonnet (“The Stars are Mansions built by Nature’s hand”) III.115Sonnet. (Composed at —— Castle.) I.664Sonnet. A Prophecy. Feb. 1807 I.694Sonnet. September 25th, 1803 I.743Sonnet on Milton III.12Sonnet, on seeing a tuft of snowdrops in a storm III.136Sonnet, on seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams weep at a Tale of Distress I.21Sonnet, on the detraction which followed the publication of a certain poem III.138Sonnet on the Projected Kendal and Windermere Railway III.764Sonnet, on the same occasion. February 1816 III.98Sonnet, To Thomas Clarkson, On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March, 1807 I.694Sonnet written by Mr ——— immediately after the death of his Wife I.21Sonnets Composed or Suggested during a tour in Scotland, in the Summer of 1833. III.488Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty and Order III.561Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty I.639Sonnets, suggested by Mr. W. Westall’s views of the caves, &c. in

Yorkshire III.134Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death. In Series III.555Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest III.754Source of the Danube, The III.433Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till’d his Lands I.702Spanish Guerillas. 1811 III.33Sparrow’s Nest, The I.673Sponsors III.418St. Catherine of Ledbury III.611St. Paul’s II.291


Stanzas, Composed in the Semplon Pass III.450Stanzas on the Power of Sound III.623Stanzas Suggested in a Steam-Boat off St. Bees’ Heads, on the Coast of Cumberland III.518Stanzas written in my Pocket copy of the Castle of Indolence I.732Star Gazers I.686Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs III.42Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay III.755Stay near me—do not take thy flight! I.667Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways III.507Stepping Westward I.657Stepping-stones, The III.352Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! I.617Strange fits of passion I have known I.400Strange visitation! at Jemima’s lip III.592Stranger, ’tis a sight of pleasure III.126Stranger, this hillock of mishapen stones I.428Stretched on the dying Mother’s lap, lies dead III.506Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians III.372Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright III.591Such contrast, in whatever track we move III.400Such fruitless questions may not long beguile III.355Suggested by a beautiful ruin upon one of the islands of Loch Lo- mond, a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual, from whom this habitation acquired the name of The Brownie’s Cell III.55Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Paradise III.750Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood Forest III.481Suggested by the View of Lancaster Castle (On the Road from the South) III.555Supposed Address to the Same, 1810 III.30Surprized by joy—impatient as the Wind III.49Sweet Flower! belike one day to have I.750Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower I.662Sweet is the holiness of Youth”—so felt III.395Sweet was the Walk along the narrow Lane I.48Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel! III.46Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright III.663Tables Turned, The I.366Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take III.350


Tale of Peter Bell I.492Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense III.411Tell me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold III.578Temptations from Roman Refinements III.371Tenderly do we feel by Nature’s law III.555Thanks for the lessons of this Spot—fit school III.501Thanksgiving after Childbirth III.424That gloomy cave, that gothic nich III.643That happy gleam of vernal eyes III.616That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned III.372That is work which I am rueing— I.698That vast eugh-tree, pride of Lorton Vale I.747That way look, my Infant, lo! I.609The Ball whizzed by—it grazed his ear III.729The Baptist might have been ordain’d to cry III.547The Bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day III.79The barren wife all sad in mind I.72The captive Bird was gone;—to cliff or moor III.499The cattle crowding round this beverage clear III.491The cock is crowing I.669The confidence of Youth our only Art III.431The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love III.747The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair III.100The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I.438The embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine III.43The encircling ground, in native turf array’d III.410The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade III.47The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn III.494The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary III.507The forest huge of ancient Caledon III.481The formal World relaxes her cold chain III.560The gallant Youth, who may have gained III.469The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed III.750The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian Plains III.36The glory of evening was spread through the west I.370The God of Love—ah benedicite! II.643The hour-bell sounds and I must go I.70The Imperial Consort of the Fairy King III.366The imperial Stature, the colossal stride III.569


The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim’s eye III.362The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor I.377The Lady whom you here behold III.601The Land we from our Fathers had in trust III.20The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill III.690The Linnet’s warble, sinking towards a close III.688The little hedge-row birds I.367The lovely Nun (submissive but more meek III.392The Lovers took within this ancient grove III.505The martial courage of a day is vain— III.33The massy Ways, carried across these Heights III.592The May is come again:—how sweet I.682The Minstrels played their Christmas tune III.363The moaning owl shall soon I.42The most alluring clouds that mount the sky III.758The old inventive Poets, had they seen III.357The oppression of the tumult—wrath and scorn— III.373The peace which Others seek they find I.726The Pibroch’s note, discountenanced or mute III.474The ploughboy by his gingling wane I.39The Post-boy drove with fierce career I.622The power of Armies is a visible thing III.34The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed I.634The rains at length have ceas’d, the winds are still’d I.759The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die III.556The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal III.424The Scottish Broom on Bird-nest brae III.131The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! I.755The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said III.11The soaring Lark is blest as proud III.667The Spirit of Antiquity, enshrined III.428The Star that comes at close of day to shine III.740The Stars are Mansions built by Nature’s hand III.115The struggling Rill insensibly is grown III.352The Sun has long been set I.668, III.692The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest III.691The sun is dead—ye heard the curfew toll I.21The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire III.691The Swallow, that hath lost I.739


The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields III.138The taper turn’ d from blue to red I.39The tears of man in various measure gush III.395The torrent’s yelling Spectre, seen I.41The Turban’d Race are poured in thickening swarms III.383The unremitting voice of nightly streams III.616The valley rings with mirth and joy I.409The Vested Priest before the Altar stands III.423The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a QueenThe Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen III.399The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call I.642The western clouds a deepening gloom display I.54The wind is now thy organist;—a clank III.473The woman-hearted Confessor prepares III.382The world forsaken, all its busy cares III.544The world is too much with us; late and soon I.637The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale III.416Then did dire forms and ghastly faces float I.47There are no colours in the fairest sky III.403There is a bondage which is worse to bear I.648There is a change—and I am poor I.699There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine I.671There is a law severe of penury I.485There is a pleasure in poetic pains III.606There is a thorn; it looks so old I.335There is a trickling water, neither rill I.720There is an Eminence,—of these our hills I.458There never breathed a man who when his life III.25There!” said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride III.504There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs I.383There was a roaring in the wind all night I.624There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream I.712There’s an old man in London, the prime of old men I.476There’s George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore I.448There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass III.474There’s something in a flying horse I.487These chairs they have no words to utter I.731These times touch money’d Worldlings with dismay I.648These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live I.384


These Vales were saddened with no common gloom III.573These who gave earliest notice, as the Lark III.388These words were utter’d in a pensive mood I.630They called Thee merry England, in old time III.489They dreamt not of a perishable home III.411They seek, are sought; to daily battle led III.33They—who have seen the noble Roman’s scorn III.537This Book, which strives to express in tuneful sound I.718This Height a ministering Angel might select III.42This is the spot:—how mildly does the Sun I.485This Land of Rainbows, spanning glens whose walls III.475This Lawn, &c. III.664This Lawn, a carpet all alive III.664Tho’ searching damps and many an envious flaw III.445Thorn, The I.335Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard III.669Those old credulities, to nature dear III.536Those silver clouds collected round the sun III.137Thou look’st upon me, and dost fondly think III.491Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise III.439Thou who with youthful vigour rich, and light I.56Though I beheld at first with blank surprise III.738Though joy attend thee orient at the birth III.479Though many suns have risen and set III.597Though narrow be that Old Man’s cares, and near I.693Though Pulpits and the Desk may fail III.748Though the bold wings of Poesy affect III.750Though the torrents from their fountains I.420Though to give timely warning and deter III.558Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland I.645Thought on the Seasons III.683Thoughts Suggested the Day Following on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet’s Residence III.727Threats come which no submission may assuage III.391Three Cottage Girls, The III.447Three Graves, The I.74Three years she grew in sun and shower I.436Throned in the Sun’s descending car III.693Through Cumbrian wilds, in many a mountain cove III.70


Through shattered galleries, ’mid roofless halls III.582Thus far I write to please my Friend III.571Thus is the storm abated by the craft III.389Thy functions are etherial III.623Tinker, The I.718Tis eight o’clock,—a clear March night I.349Tis gone—with old belief and dream III.748Tis He whose yester-evening’s high disdain III.734Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill III.615Tis said, fantastic Ocean doth enfold III.427Tis said, that some have died for love I.412To ——— (“From the dark chambers of dejection freed”) III.64To ——— (“Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown”) III.602To ——— (“If these brief Records, by the Muses’ art”) III.603To ——— (“Let other Bards of Angels sing”) III.580To ——— (“Look at the fate of summer Flowers”) III.581To ——— (“O dearer far than light and life are dear”) III.583To ——— (“Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright”) III.591To ——— (“Those silver clouds collected round the sun”) III.137To ——— (“Wait, prithee, wait!” this answer Lesbia threw) III.612To ———, on her first ascent to the summit of Helvellyn III.106To ———, upon the birth of her first-born child, March, 1833 III.694To ———. With a selection from the poems of Anne, Countess of

Winchelsea; and extracts of similar character from other writers; the whole transcribed by a female friend III.141

To a Butterfly (“I’ve watch’d you now a full half hour”) I.675To a Butterfly (“Stay near me—do not take thy flight!”) I.667To a Friend, Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Ardres,

August 7th, 1802 I.640To a Friend (On the Banks of the Derwent) III.492To a good Man of most dear memory III.719To a Highland Girl. (At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) I.662To a Lady, in Answer to a Request that I would write her a Poem upon Some Drawings that she had made of Flowers in the Island of Madeira III.758To a Painter III.738To a Redbreast—(In Sickness) III.755To a Sexton I.416To a Sky-lark (“Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!”) III.590


To a Sky-lark (“Up with me! up with me into the clouds!”) I.620To a Snow-drop, appearing very early in the Season III.135To a Young Lady, Who had been reproached for taking long Walks

in the Country I.684To an Octogenarian III.771To appease the Gods; or public thanks to yield III.451To B. R. Haydon, Esq. On Seeing his Picture of Napoleon Buonaparte on the Island of St. Helena III.679To barren heath, and quaking fen III.55To Cordelia M——, Hallsteads, Ullswater III.509To Enterprize III.457To H. C., Six Years Old I.614To Henry Crabb Robinson III.524To Joanna I.455To kneeling Worshippers no earthly floor III.425To Lucca Giordano III.774To M. H. (“Our walk was far among the antient trees”) I.461To mark the white smoke rising slow I.37To May III.597To Melpomene I.41To public notice, with reluctance strong III.71To R. B. Haydon, Esq. III.80To Rotha Q ——— III.581To S. H. III.602To Sleep (“A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by”) I.631To Sleep (“Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!”) I.632To Sleep (“O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee”) I.631To the——— (“Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove”) I.636To the Author’s Portrait III.682To the Clouds II.292To the Cuckoo (“Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard”) III.606To the Cuckoo (“O blithe New-comer! I have heard”) I.674To the Daisy (“In youth from rock to rock I went”) I.588To the Daisy (“Sweet Flower! belike one day to have”) I.750To the Daisy (“With little here to do or see”) I.688To the Earl of Lonsdale III.508To the grove, the meadow, the well I.739To the Lady ———, On Seeing the Foundation Preparing for the Erection of ——— Chapel, Westmoreland III.573To the Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P. III.582


To the Memory of Raisley Calvert I.638To the Men of Kent. October, 1803 I.650To the Moon. (Composed by the Sea-Side,—on the Coast of Cumberland.) III.716To the Moon. (Rydal.) III.718To the Pennsylvanians III.565To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Composed at Loch Lomond III.479To the Planet Venus, upon its Approximation (as an Evening Star) to the Earth, January 1838 III.731To the Poet, Dyer III.41To the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D.D., Master of Harrow School,

after the Perusal of his Theophilus Anglicanus, recently published III.763

To the Rev. Dr. W—— III.363To the Right Honorable William, Earl of Lonsdale, K. G. &c. &c. II.298To the River Derwent III.490To the River Duddon (“O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot”) I.633To the River Greta, near Keswick III.489To the Same (“Enough of climbing toil!—Ambition treads”) III.123To the Same (“Here let us rest—here, where the gentle beams”) III.122To the Same Flower (“Bright Flower, whose home is every where!”) I.690To the Same Flower (“Pleasures newly found are sweet”) I.599To the Small Celandine (“Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies”) I.597To the Spade of a Friend I.702To the Torrent at the Devil’s Bridge, North Wales III.583To the Utilitarians III.701To the Yoke he bends, / Receives the chain from Nature’s conquering hand II.568To Toussaint L’Ouverture I.643Too frail to keep the lofty vow III.727Torquato Tasso rests within this Tomb III.29Torrent I.41Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men! I.643Town of Schwytz, The III.438Tracks let me follow far from human-kind III.435Tradition of Darley Dale, Derbyshire, A III.615Tradition III.358Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw III.476


Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou III.506Translation (“When Love was born of race divine”) I.53Translation from Ariosto, Orlando Furioso I.740Translation from Michelangelo. Fragment I.749Translation of the Bible III.394Translation of the Sestet of a Sonnet by Tasso III.569Translations from Metastasio I.738Translations of Chaucer and Virgil II.635Transubstantiation III.388Travelling I.485Trepidation of the Druids III.369Triad, The III.617Tributary Stream III.357Tribute to the Memory of the Same Dog I.692Troilus and Cresida, Translation of Chaucer’s II.654Trosachs, The III.474Troubled long with warring notions III.129Troubles of Charles the First III.400True is it that Ambrosio Salinero III.23Tuft of Primroses, The II.274Twas summer—and the sun was mounted high I.286, 270; II.308Two April Mornings, The I.430Two Thieves, Or the last Stage of Avarice, The I.418Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea I.645Tynwald Hill III.497Uncertainty III.370Under the shadow of a stately Pile III.546Ungrateful Country, if thou e’er forget III.404Unless to Peter’s Chair the viewless wind III.385Unquiet Childhood here by special grace III.585Untouched through all severity of cold III.612Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! I.441Up to the throne of God is borne III.702Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks I.366Up with me! up with me into the clouds! I.620Upon a Portrait III.740Upon Perusing the Foregoing Epistle Thirty Years after its Composition III.754Upon Seeing a Coloured Drawing of the Bird of Paradise in


an Album III.714Upon the Late General Fast. March, 1832 III.561Upon the Same Event III.35Upon the Same Occasion III.139Upon the Sight of a Beautiful Picture III.35Upon the sight of the Portrait of a female Friend.— III.739Upon those lips, those placid lips, I look III.739Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill III.381Vale of Esthwaite, The I.23Valedictory Sonnet III.732Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood III.450Vallombrosa—I longed in thy shadiest wood III.545Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of kent I.650Various Extracts from The vale of Esthwaite A Poem. Written at

Hawkshead in the Spring and Summer 1787 I.35Vaudois, The III.419Vernal Ode Addendum 69View from the Top of Black Comb III.42Virgil’s Aeneid, Translation of II.667Virgin, The III.393Visitation of the Sick III.424Wait, prithee, wait!” this answer Lesbia threw III.612Waldenses III.388Walton’s Book of “Lives” III.403Wanderer! that stoop’st so low, and com’st so near III.716Wansfell! this Household has a favoured lot III.759Ward of the Law!—dread Shadow of a King! III.141Warning, a Sequel to the Foregoing, The. March, 1833 III.697Wars of York and Lancaster III.389Was it for this / That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved I.530Was it to disenchant, and to undo III.430Was the aim frustrated by force or guile III.134Watch, and be firm! for soul-subduing vice III.371Waterfall and the Eglantine, The I.402We Are Seven I.332We can endure that He should waste our lands III.32We gaze, not sad to think that we must die III.740We had a fellow-Passenger who came I.643We have not passed into a doleful City III.504


We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd III.500We talk’d with open heart, and tongue I.432We walk’d along, while bright and red I.430Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind II.572; III.53Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air III.27Well have yon Railway Labourers to this ground III.769Well sang the bard who called the Grave, in strains III.477Well worthy to be magnified are they III.420Were there, below, a spot of holy ground I.97Westmoreland Girl, The III.765What! Adam’s eldest Son in this sweet strain! III.571What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size III.544What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled III.352What awful pèrspective! while from our sight III.411What Beast in wilderness or cultured field III.389What Beast of Chase hath broken from the cover? III.451What boots it, * *, that thy princely blood I.60What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by I.686What from the social chain can tear I.40What! He—who, mid the kindred throng III.58What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine” III.759What is good for a bootless bene? II.633What know we of the Blest above III.436What lovelier home could gentle Fancy chuse? III.429What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret III.693What need of clamorous bells, or ribbands gay III.48What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides III.731What though the Accused, upon his own appeal III.673What though the Italian pencil wrought not here III.465What waste in the labour of Chariot and Steed! I.722What you are stepping westward?” — “Yea.” I.657When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry III.414When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn III.35When first, descending from the moorlands III.723When first I journey’d hither, to a home I.723When haughty expectations prostrate lie III.136When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came III.539When human touch, as monkish books attest III.611When I have borne in memory what has tamed I.647


When in the antique age of bow and spear III.576When, looking on the present face of things I.649When Love was born of race divine I.53When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle III.593When Phoebus took delight on earth to dwell II.660When Ruth was left half desolate I.421When Severn’s sweeping Flood had overthrown III.754When slow from pensive twilight’s latest gleams I.48When the Brothers reach’d the gateway I.603When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch III.93Whence that low voice?—A whisper from the heart III.358Where are they now, those wanton Boys? III.111Where art thou, my beloved Son I.606Where be the noisy followers of the game III.457Where be the Temples which in Britain’s Isle III.71Where holy ground begins—unhallowed ends III.569Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go I.629Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom’s creed III.773Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root III.423Where Towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds III.551Where were ye nymphs when the remorseless deep I.22Where will they stop, those breathing Powers III.680While beams of orient light shoot wide and high III.759While flowing Rivers yield a blameless sport III.366While from the purpling east departs III.595While Merlin paced the Cornish sands III.630While not a leaf seems faded,—while the fields III.81While poring Antiquarians search the ground III.611While the Poor gather round, till the end of time III.482While they, her Playmates once, light-hearted tread III.590White Doe of Rylstone, The; Or the Fate of the Nortons II.572Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high III.773Who comes with rapture greeted, and caress’d III.402Who fancied what a pretty sight I.671Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he I.600Who leads a happy life I.718Who ponders National events shall find III.563Who rashly strove thy Image to portray? III.714Who rises on the banks of Seine III.98


Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce III.361Who weeps for Strangers?—Many wept III.13Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant III.676Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore III.456Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings— III.588Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle III.489Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy III.770Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled III.412Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine III.495Why, William, on that old grey stone I.365Wicliffe III.389Widow on Windermere Side, The III.730Wild Duck’s Nest, The III.366William the Third III.404Wishing-gate, The III.613Wishing-gate Destroyed, The III.748With a Small Present III.737With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme III.677With each recurrence of this glorious morn III.53With earnest look, to every voyager III.503With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the sky I.621With little here to do or see I.688With sacrifice, before the rising morn III.66With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh I.632With smiles each happy face was overspread III.406Within her gilded cage confined III.584Within the mind strong fancies work III.120Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey! III.381Woe to you, Prelates! rioting in ease III.390Woman! the Power who left his throne on high III.424Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave III.407Wouldst Thou be gathered to Christ’s chosen flock III.731Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight III.741Wren’s Nest, A III.684Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart. and in his Name, for an Urn, placed by him at the Termination of a newly-planted Avenue, in the same Grounds III.44Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson’s Ossian III.510Written in an Album III.704Written in Germany, On one of the coldest days of the Century I.440


Written in London, September, 1802 I.645Written in March, While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother’s Water I.669Written in Mrs. Field’s AlbumOpposite a Pen-and-ink Sketch in the

Manner of a Rembrandt Etching done by Edmund Field III.643Written in very early Youth (“Calm is all nature as a resting wheel”) I.635Written, November 13,1814, 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 III.71Written upon a Blank Leaf in “The Complete Angler” III.366Written upon a fly leaf in the Copy of the Author’s Poems which was sent to her Majesty Queen Victoria III.772Written with a Slate-pencil, on a Stone, on the Side of the Mountain of Black Comb III.42Yarrow Revisited III.469Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems . . . 1831 III.469Yarrow Unvisited I.665Yarrow Visited, September, 1814 III.62Ye Apennines! with all your fertile vales III.524Ye brood of conscience—Spectres! that frequent III.557Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn III.44Ye now are panting up life’s hill! I.664Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth! III.142Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims III.501Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! III.98Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand III.392Ye trees! whose slender roots entwine III.548Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew III.763Ye who with buoyant spirits blessed I.55Yes! full surely ’twas the Echo I.701Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear III.406Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace I.633Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! I.693Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved III.768Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound III.560Yet are they here?—the same unbroken knot I.672Yet more,—round many a Convent’s blazing fire III.391Yet some, Noviciates of the cloistral shade III.392Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind III.402Yet, yet, Biscayans, we must meet our Foes III.31


[Yew Trees MSS] I.747Yew-trees (1836) Addendum 49Yon hamlet far across the vale I.41You call it, “Love lies bleeding,”—so you may III.703You have heard “a Spanish Lady III.658Young England—what is then become of Old III.5671810 (“Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen”) III.181810 (“O’erweening Statesmen have full long relied”) III.311811 (“They seek, are sought; to daily battle led”) III.34

Ebook users may search all three volumes simultaneously

Introducing ‘The Cornell Wordsworth’ from HEB

Published in the years 1975 to 2007 the 21 volumes of ‘The Cornell Wordsworth’ have set the scholarly standard for Wordsworth’s texts, yet few students or general readers, and only a minority of scholars, are likely to own these costly library editions. Now, in The Poems of William Wordsworth: Collected Reading Texts from the Cornell Wordsworth (3 vols), Jared Curtis has collected the reading texts from all 21 volumes, making the poetry available to students, teachers and general readers in the form the poet gave it when first published or first completed.

At the same time, Professor Curtis has compiled an essential tool for the scholarly user of the 21 volumes of the Cornell Wordsworth, a Supplement which contains a unified index to titles and first lines for the entire series, a guide to the hundreds of manuscripts treated in the twenty-one volumes, and a comprehensive list of the contents of Wordsworth’s many lifetime editions, together with tabulated errata and appendices.

The Poems of William Wordsworth Volume 1784 pages. Demy-Octavo

Including Early Poems and Fragments, Lyrical Ballads, and Poems, in Two Volumes.

Ebook: 978-1-84760-085-1. Paperback: 978-1-84760-089-9


Including The Prelude (1805–1806), The Excursion, and Translations from Chaucer and Virgil.

Ebook: 978-1-84760-086-8. Paperback: 978-1-84760-090-5


Including Shorter Poems (1807–1820), The Prelude (1824–1829) and Last Poems.

Ebook: 978-1-84760-087-5. Paperback: 978-1-84760-091-2

The Cornell Wordsworth: A Supplement448 pages, Royal Octavo.

Ebook: 978-1-84760-088-2, Hardback: 978-1-84760-092-9

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John Beer, Coleridge the VisionaryJohn Beer, Blake’s HumanismRichard Gravil, Romantic Dialogues: Anglo-American Continuities,

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The Prose Works of William Wordsworth, Volume 1, edited by W. J. B. Owen and Jane Worthington Smyser †

Wordsworth’s Convention of Cintra, a Bicentennial Critical Edition, edited by W. J. B Owen, with a critical symposium by Simon Bain-bridge, David Bromwich, Richard Gravil, Timothy Michael and Patrick Vincent †

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