Were ripe as ripe could be;
And yellow leaves in sun and wind
Were falling from the tree.
Still swung the spikes of corn: 225
Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday—
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
There leads from Edward's door
A mossy track, all over boughed, 230
For half a mile or more.
The bride and bridegroom went;
Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seemed cheerful and content. 235
I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepped into the sun,
Her heart it died away.
Her limbs did creep and freeze:
But when they prayed, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
I saw poor Mary's back, 245
Just as she stepped beneath the boughs
Into the mossy track.
The married maiden set:
That moment—I have heard her say— 250
She wished she could forget.
Then came a chill like death:
And when the merry bells rang out,
They seemed to stop her breath. 255
No child could ever thrive:
A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
Would never heal the strife;
But Edward was a loving man
And Mary a fond wife.
My mother says her nay: 265
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
I know I have no reason! 270
Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 'tis a gloomy season.'
And on the few fine days
She stirred not out, lest she might meet 275
Her mother in the ways.
And weather dark and dreary,
Trudged every day to Edward's house,
And made them all more cheery. 280
More dear than any sister!
As cheerful too as singing lark;
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,
And then they always missed her. 285
But few to church repair:
For on that day you know we read
The Commination prayer.
Once, Sir, he said to me,
He wished that service was clean out
Of our good Liturgy.
To Ellen's seat she went: 295
Though Ellen always kept her church
All church-days during Lent.
With courteous looks and mild:
Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt, 300
And all be reconciled!'
The clouds were black outright:
And many a night, with half a moon,
I've seen the church more light. 305
The rain did beat and bicker;
The church-tower swinging over head,
You scarce could hear the Vicar!
And audibly she cried—
'Oh! may a clinging curse consume
This woman by my side!
Although you take my life— 315
O curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward woo'd his wife.
O let her curséd be!!!'
So having prayed, steady and slow, 320
She rose up from her knee!
And left the church, nor e'er again
The church-door entered she.
So pale! I guessed not why: 325
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.
Came round and asked her why:
Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 330
A trouble in her eye.
She smiled and told us why:
'It was a wicked woman's curse,'
Quoth she, 'and what care I?' 335
Ere from the door she stept—
But all agree it would have been
Much better had she wept.
This was her constant cry—
'It was a wicked woman's curse—
God's good, and what care I?'
Her struggles she redoubled: 345
'It was a wicked woman's curse,
And why should I be troubled?'
When 'twas the merest fairy—
Good creature! and she hid it all: 350
She told it not to Mary.
Round Ellen's neck she threw;
'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,
And now she hath cursed you!' 355
Stalk fast adown the lee,
He snatched a stick from every fence,
A twig from every tree.
And then away they flew!
As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
His farm lies underneath: 365
He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnashed his teeth.
In all his joys and cares:
And Ellen's name and Mary's name 370
Fast-linked they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.
He loved them both alike:
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 375
Upon his heart did strike!
They saw his inward strife:
And they clung round him with their arms,
Both Ellen and his wife. 380
So on his breast she bowed;
Then frenzy melted into grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
But closelier did she cling,
And turned her face and looked as if
She saw some frightful thing.
I hold it no good mark; 390
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon,
And bad luck in the dark!
The Lord, he takes away:
O Sir! the child of my old age 395
Lies there as cold as clay.
That was not dug by me;
I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three! 400
You, Sir! are but a lad;
This month I'm in my seventieth year,
And still it makes me sad.
For three good hours and more;
Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.
Did well nigh dote on Mary; 410
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary loved her more and more:
She managed all the dairy.
To church on Sundays came; 415
All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!
But all was not the same!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward looked as if he thought 420
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
Must sing some merry rhyme;
She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time. 425
Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.
And then her wrist she spanned;
And once when Mary was down-cast,
She took her by the hand,
And gazed upon her, and at first
She gently pressed her hand; 435
Did gripe like a convulsion!
'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!'
Round Mary's neck she flung,
And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.
Had she the words to smother: 445
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!'
Could make this sad house cheery;
And Mary's melancholy ways 450
Drove Edward wild and weary.
Though tired in heart and limb:
He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him. 455
And nothing in it read;
Then flung it down, and groaning cried,
'O! Heaven! that I were dead.'
And nothing to him said;
She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.
Upon his knees in prayer: 465
'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!'
Old sextons, Sir! like me,
Rest on their spades to cough; the spring 470
Was late uncommonly.
They came, we knew not how:
You looked about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough. 475
A furlong up the wood:
Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,)
To any pasture-plot;
But clustered near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies marked the spot.
As of an arbour took, 485
A close, round arbour; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 490
Just as the first bell rung.
To hear the Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell. 495
Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep. 500
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,
And talked as 'twere by stealth.
See, dearest Ellen! see!
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,
No bigger than your ee;
A perfect glory too; 510
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory gay and bright
Round that small orb, so blue.'
What colour they might be; 515
Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that,
'They're amber-like to me.'
Were troubling Edward's rest;
But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 520
And the thumping in his breast.
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
With horror and huge pain. 525
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one
That hath been just struck blind.
Had had time to depart,
'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed)
'I have torn out her heart.'
Into ungentle laughter; 535
And Mary shivered, where she sat,
And never she smiled after.
1797-1809.
Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!
FOOTNOTES:
[267:1] Parts III and IV of the Three Graves were first published in The Friend, No. VI, September 21, 1809. They were included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Parts I and II, which were probably written in the spring of 1798, at the same time as Parts III and IV, were first published, from an autograph MS. copy, in Poems, 1893. [For evidence of date compare ll. 255-8 with Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal for March 20, 24, and April 6, 8.] The original MS. of Parts III and IV is not forthcoming. The MS. of the poem as published in The Friend is in the handwriting of Miss Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Mrs. Hazlitt), and is preserved with other 'copy' of The Friend (of which the greater part is in the handwriting of Miss Sarah Hutchinson) in the Forster Collection which forms part of the Victoria and Albert Museum, South Kensington. The preface and emendations are in the handwriting of S. T. C. The poem was reprinted in the British Minstrel, Glasgow, 1821 as 'a modern ballad of the very first rank'. In a marginal note in Mr. Samuel's copy of Sibylline Leaves Coleridge writes:—'This very poem was selected, notwithstanding the preface, as a proof of my judgment and poetic diction, and a fair specimen of the style of my poems generally (see the Mirror): nay! the very words of the preface were used, omitting the not,' &c. See for this and other critical matter, Lyrical Ballads, 1798, edited by Thomas Hutchinson, 1898. Notes, p. 257.
[268:1] in the common ballad metre MS.
[268:2] mistaking The Friend.
[269:1] In the first issue of The Friend, No. VI, September 21, 1809, the poem was thus introduced:—'As I wish to commence the important Subject of—The Principles of political Justice with a separate number of The Friend, and shall at the same time comply with the wishes communicated to me by one of my female Readers, who writes as the representative of many others, I shall conclude this Number with the following Fragment, or the third and fourth [second and third MS. S. T. C.] parts of a Tale consisting of six. The two last parts may be given hereafter, if the present should appear to have afforded pleasure, and to have answered the purpose of a relief and amusement to my Readers. The story as it is contained in the first and second parts is as follows: Edward a young farmer, etc.'
[271:1] It is uncertain whether this stanza is erased, or merely blotted in the MS.
[271:2] Othello iii. 3.
[271:3] The words 'Part II' are not in the MS.
[276:1] In the MS. of The Friend, Part III is headed:—'The Three Graves. A Sexton's Tale. A Fragment.' A MS. note erased in the handwriting of S. T. C. is attached:—'N. B. Written for me by Sarah Stoddart before her brother was an entire Blank. I have not voluntarily been guilty of any desecration of holy Names.' In The Friend, in Sibylline Leaves, in 1828, 1829, and 1834, the poem is headed 'The Three Graves, &c.' The heading 'Part III' first appeared in 1893.
LINENOTES:
In the silent summer heat MS. alternative reading.
turned] strove MS. erased.
happy] wedding MS. variant.
A deadly] The ghastly MS. erased.
Part III] III MS. erased.
220 foll. In The Friend the lines were printed continuously. The division into stanzas (as in the MS.) dates from the republication of the poem in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.
as ripe] as they MS.
High on the hedge-elms in the lane MS. erased.
spikes] strikes Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [Note. It is possible that 'strikes'—a Somersetshire word—(compare 'strikes of flax') was deliberately substituted for 'spikes'. It does not appear in the long list of Errata prefixed to Sibylline Leaves. Wagons passing through narrow lanes leave on the hedge-rows not single 'spikes', but little swathes or fillets of corn.]
over boughed] over-bough'd MS.
they] he MS. The Friend, 1809.
So five months passed: this mother foul MS. erased.
dark] dank MS. The Friend, 1809.
swinging] singing MS. The Friend, 1809: swaying S. L.
You could not hear the Vicar. MS. The Friend, 1809.
you] thou The Friend, 1809.
Part IV] The Three Graves, a Sexton's Tale, Part the IVth MS.
O Sir!] Oh! 'tis S. L.
you're] how MS.
we] one MS. The Friend, 1809.
Lone] Some MS. The Friend, 1809.
a] the MS. The Friend, 1809.
friends] dears MS. erased.
in] in MS. The Friend, 1809.
inserted by S. T. C. MS.
While his eyes seem'd to start
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN[285:1]
PREFATORY NOTE
A prose composition, one not in metre at least, seems primâ facie to require explanation or apology. It was written in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire, at which place (sanctum et amabile nomen! rich by so many associations and recollections) the author had taken up his residence in order to enjoy the society and close neighbourhood of a dear and honoured friend, T. Poole, Esq. The work was to have been written in concert with another [Wordsworth], whose name is too venerable within the precincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought into connection with such a trifle, and who was then residing at a small distance from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were suggested by myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the contents for each of the three books or cantos, of which the work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be informed, was to have been finished in one night! My partner undertook the first canto: I the second: and which ever had done first, was to set about the third. Almost thirty years have passed by; yet at this moment I cannot without something more than a smile moot the question which of the two things was the more impracticable, for a mind so eminently original to compose another man's thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and simple to imitate the Death of Abel? Methinks I see his grand and noble countenance as at the moment when having despatched my own portion of the task at full finger-speed, I hastened to him with my manuscript—that look of humourous despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous admission of failure struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole scheme—which broke up in a laugh: and the Ancient Mariner was written instead.
Years afterward, however, the draft of the plan and proposed incidents, and the portion executed, obtained favour in the eyes of more than one person, whose judgment on a poetic work could not but have weighed with me, even though no parental partiality had been thrown into the same scale, as a make-weight: and I determined on commencing anew, and composing the whole in stanzas, and made some progress in realising this intention, when adverse gales drove my bark off the 'Fortunate Isles' of the Muses: and then other and more momentous interests prompted a different voyage, to firmer anchorage and a securer port. I have in vain tried to recover the lines from the palimpsest tablet of my memory: and I can only offer the introductory stanza, which had been committed to writing for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the metre, as a specimen:—
That leafy twine his only dress!
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
(In a moonlight wilderness Aids to Reflection, 1825.)
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.
It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more belov'd than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd,
That beauteous Boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,
In place so silent and so wild—
Has he no friend, no loving mother near?
I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature decease of the 'Wanderings of Cain, a poem',—intreating, however, my Readers, not to think so meanly of my judgment as to suppose that I either regard or offer it as any excuse for the publication of the following fragment (and I may add, of one or two others in its neighbourhood) in its primitive crudity. But I should find still greater difficulty in forgiving myself were I to record pro taedio publico a set of petty mishaps and annoyances which I myself wish to forget. I must be content therefore with assuring the friendly Reader, that the less he attributes its appearance to the Author's will, choice, or judgment, the nearer to the truth he will be.
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN
CANTO II
'A little further, O my father, yet a little further, and
we shall come into the open moonlight.' Their road was
through a forest of fir-trees; at its entrance the trees stood
at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and
the moonlight and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, 5
and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the
path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon
sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was
dark as a cavern.
'It is dark, O my father!' said Enos, 'but the path under 10
our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into
the open moonlight.'
'Lead on, my child!' said Cain; 'guide me, little child!'
And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand
which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his 15
father. 'The fir branches drip upon thee, my son.' 'Yea,
pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee
the pitcher and the cake, and my body is not yet cool. How
happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir-trees! they leap
from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their 20
young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon,
O my father, that I might play with them, but they leaped
away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they
leap, and in a moment I beheld them on another tree. Why,
O my father, would they not play with me? I would be good 25
to them as thou art good to me: and I groaned to them
even as thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and when
thou coverest me at evening, and as often as I stand at thy
knee and thine eyes look at me?' Then Cain stopped, and
stifling his groans he sank to the earth, and the child Enos 30
stood in the darkness beside him.
And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and said,
'The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on
that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand-blast
he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air! 35
O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die—yea,
the things that never had life, neither move they upon the
earth—behold! they seem precious to mine eyes. O that
a man might live without the breath of his nostrils. So
I might abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty 40
space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither
would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den
of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he
sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice:
and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the Mighty One 45
who is against me speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove;
and in silence am I dried up.' Then Enos spake to his father,
'Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place
where I found the cake and the pitcher.' And Cain said,
'How knowest thou!' and the child answered:—'Behold the 50
bare rocks are a few of thy strides distant from the forest;
and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard
the echo.' Then the child took hold of his father, as if he
would raise him: and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly
on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, 55
and stood upright and followed the child.
The path was dark till within three strides' length of its
termination, when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees
formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment
like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open 60
air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness,
the child was affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were
wasted as by fire; his hair was as the matted curls on the
bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen eye
beneath: and the black abundant locks on either side, a rank 65
and tangled mass, were stained and scorched, as though the
grasp of a burning iron hand had striven to rend them; and his
countenance told in a strange and terrible language of agonies
that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.
The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could 70
reach it was desolate: the bare rocks faced each other, and
left a long and wide interval of thin white sand. You might
wander on and look round and round, and peep into the
crevices of the rocks and discover nothing that acknowledged
the influence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, 75
no autumn: and the winter's snow, that would have been
lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands. Never
morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge
serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and
the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coils of 80
the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges
of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and
seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not;
steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far
from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there 85
was one rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge.
It had been precipitated there perhaps by the groan which the
Earth uttered when our first father fell. Before you approached,
it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from
its point, and between its point and the sands a tall man might 90
stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher
and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they
had reached the rock they beheld a human shape: his back was
towards them, and they were advancing unperceived, when they
heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, 'Woe is me! woe is 95
me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with
thirst and hunger.'
Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the
heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of Cain; but the
child Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his father's robe, and 100
raised his eyes to his father, and listening whispered, 'Ere
yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father, that I heard that
voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice?
O my father! this is it': and Cain trembled exceedingly.
The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous, 105
like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether,
yet can not refrain himself from weeping and lamentation.
And, behold! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly round
the base of the rock, stood before the stranger, and looked up
into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, 110
and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those
of his brother Abel whom he had killed! And Cain stood
like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding
terribleness of a dream.
Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, the 115
Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried
out with a bitter outcry, 'Thou eldest born of Adam, whom
Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me! I was
feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers,
and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery.' Then Cain 120
closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands; and again he
opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos,
'What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?'
'Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and
he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation.' Then Cain 125
raised up the Shape that was like Abel, and said:—'The
Creator of our father, who had respect unto thee, and unto
thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?' Then the
Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and
his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; 130
and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his
face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the
rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his
right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under
the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like 135
Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child, 'I know where
the cold waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst
thou then take away my pitcher?' But Cain said, 'Didst
thou not find favour in the sight of the Lord thy God?'
The Shape answered, 'The Lord is God of the living only, 140
the dead have another God.' Then the child Enos lifted up
his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart.
'Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life,'
exclaimed the Shape, 'who sacrifice worthy and acceptable
sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil 145
ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of
the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst
snatch me away from his power and his dominion.' Having
uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands:
and Cain said in his heart, 'The curse of the Lord is on me; 150
but who is the God of the dead?' and he ran after the Shape,
and the Shape fled shrieking over the sands, and the sands
rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet
of him that was like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly
outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came 155
again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos
still stood; and the child caught hold of his garment as he
passed by, and he fell upon the ground. And Cain stopped,
and beholding him not, said, 'he has passed into the dark
woods,' and he walked slowly back to the rocks; and when he 160
reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his
garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon
the ground: and Cain once more sate beside him, and said,
'Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit
within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. 165
Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy pastures, and
by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, that thou tell me all
that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth
he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him?
for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, 170
and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than
I already am?' The Shape arose and answered, 'O that thou
hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me,
Son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee!'
And they three passed over the white sands between the 175
rocks, silent as the shadows.
1798.