The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 1 (of 8)

Variant 46:

1832
... frame ...	1798

return

Variant 47:

1836
So passed another day, and so the third: Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort,	1798

return

Variant 48:

1827
Dizzy my brain, with interruption short And I had many interruptions short	1798 1802

return

Variant 49:

1802
... sunk ...	1798

return

Variant 50:

1827
And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital.	1798 1802

return

Variant 51:

1827
Recovery came with food: but still, my brain Was weak, nor of the past had memory.	1798

return

Variant 52:

1842
... with careless cruelty,	1798

return

Variant 53:

1815
... would ...	1798

return

Variant 54:

1836
... torpid ...	1798

return

Variant 55:

1827
Memory, though slow, returned with strength; ... My memory and my strength returned; ...	1798 1802

return

Variant 56:

1802
The wild brood ...	1798

return

Variant 57:

The following stanza occurs only in the editions of 1798 to 1805:

My heart is touched to think that men like these,
The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief:
How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!
And their long holiday that feared not grief,
For all belonged to all, and each was chief.
No plough their sinews strained; on grating road
No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf
In every vale for their delight was stowed:
For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed.

My heart is touched to think that men like these,
Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief:

In every field, with milk their dairy overflow'd.

1798

1802

1802

return

Variant 58:

1836
Semblance, with straw and pannier'd ass, they made Of potters wandering on from door to door: But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made Of Potters ...	1798 1802

return

Variant 59:

1836
In depth of forest glade, when ... Among the forest glades when ...	1798 1802

return

Variant 60:

1802
But ill it suited me, in journey dark	1798

return

Variant 61:

1802
Poor father! ...	1798

return

Variant 62:

1842
Ill was I ...	1798

return

Variant 63:

1842
With tears whose course no effort could confine, By high-way side forgetful would I sit By the road-side forgetful would I sit In the open air forgetful ...	1798 1802 1836

return

Variant 64:

1836
... my ...	1798

return

Variant 65:

1836
I lived upon the mercy of the fields, And oft of cruelty the sky accused; On hazard, or what general bounty yields, I led a wandering life among the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, I liv'd upon what casual bounty yields,	1798 1802

return

Variant 66:

1802
The fields ...	1798

return

Variant 67:

1836
Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Three years thus wandering, ...	1798 1802

return

Variant 68:

1836
And now across this moor my steps I bend—	1798

return

Footnote A:

In the

Prelude

, he says it was "three summer days." See book xiii. l. 337.—Ed.

return

Footnote B:

By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this edition (1840).

See

p. 37.—Ed.

return

Footnote C:

From a short MS. poem read to me when an under-graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young.—W. W. 1842.

Charles Farish was the author of

The Minstrels of Winandermere

.—Ed.

return

Footnote D:

Compare Milton's "grinding sword,"

Paradise Lost

, vi. l. 329.—Ed.

return

Sub-Footnote i:

Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.—W. W. 1798.

return

Contents

Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree...

which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding^A a beautiful prospect.

Composed 1795.—Published 1798

The Poem

Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks above the peninsula on which the Ferry House^B stands. This property afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr. Curwen. The site was long ago pointed out by Mr. West, in his Guide, as the pride of the Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station." So much used I to be delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these notes.—I. F.

From 1815 to 1843 these 'Lines' were placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." In 1845, they were classed among "Poems written in Youth."—Ed.

The Poem

text	variant	line number
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.—He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,—against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,—how lovely 'tis Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, When nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those Beings to whose minds Warm from the labours of benevolence The world, and human life, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died,—this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.	¹ ² ³ ⁴ ⁵ ⁶ ⁷ ⁸ ⁹ ¹⁰	5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60

The place where this Yew-tree stood may be found without difficulty. It was about three-quarters of a mile from Hawkshead, on the eastern shore of the lake, a little to the left above the present highway, as one goes towards Sawrey. Mr. Bowman, the son of Wordsworth's last teacher at the grammar-school of Hawkshead, told me that it stood about forty yards nearer the village than the yew which is now on the roadside, and is sometimes called "Wordsworth's Yew." In the poet's school-days the road passed right through the unenclosed common, and the tree was a conspicuous object. It was removed, he says, owing to the popular belief that its leaves were poisonous, and might injure the cattle grazing in the common. The present tree is erroneously called "Wordsworth's Yew." Its proximity to the place where the tree of the poem stood has given rise to the local tradition.—Ed.

Variant 1:

1832
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;	1798

return to variant mark

Variant 2:

1836
First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree,	1798

return

Variant 3:

1800
Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,	1798

return

Variant 4:

1802

... In youth, by genius nurs'd,
And big with lofty views, he to the world
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped
At once, with rash disdain he turned away,

... The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service: he was like a plant
Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds,
But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by,
Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once,
With indignation did he turn away