See
to this volume.—Ed.
Lines written in Early Spring
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the Comb, in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree—an ash if I rightly remember—from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, after an interval of more than forty yearsA, this interesting feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep along without difficulty.—I. F.
These Lines were included among the "Poems of Sentiment
and Reflection."—Ed.
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| I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? |
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This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a
trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge
thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This Lime-Tree Bower, my
Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb:
The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the midday sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fanned by the waterfall!
Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly
associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as
suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880,
I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored. An ash tree, having fallen
across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the
Fenwick note.—Ed.
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See the Fenwick note to "A whirl-blast from behind the
hill," p. 238.—Ed.
See
—Ed.
To my Sister
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed.—I. F.
In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, Lines written
at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the
person to whom they are addressed. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, To
my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my
little Boy. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply To my Sister. The
poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and
Reflection."—Ed.
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| It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field. My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun. Edward will come with you;—and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar: We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: —It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. |
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The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be
identified.—Ed.
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Expostulation and Reply
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
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| "Why, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? "Where are your books?—that light bequeathed To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. "You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!" One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply. "The eye—it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? "—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away." |
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In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical
Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes,
"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy."
Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it —a much more probable
supposition—his friend, S. T. Coleridge?—Ed.
The Tables Turned
an evening scene on the same subject.
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
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| Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. |
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A mediæval anticipation of this may be quoted in a
footnote.
"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters."
I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all
approaching to it which I can verify is the following:
"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit, maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet."
See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of
Bernardi Opera
, ii. 1072,
S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo
.—Ed.
The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey
with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins,
and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place
will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend
to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes
alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in
with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the
females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that
very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the
Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs
us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling
noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the
following poem.—W. W. 1798.
At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads."—I. F.
Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections." —Ed.
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| I | Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars, they were among my dreams; In rustling conflict through the skies, I heard, I saw the flashes drive, And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive; Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! |
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| II | My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain: All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie! Alone, I cannot fear to die. |
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| III | Alas! ye might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair; Why did ye listen to my prayer? When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; And oh, how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, Dear friends, when ye were gone away. |
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| IV | My Child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, A most strange working did I see; —As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me: And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a helpless child. |
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| V | My little joy! my little pride! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee. O wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send; Too soon, my friends, ye went away; For I had many things to say. |
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| VI | I'll follow you across the snow; Ye travel heavily and slow; In spite of all my weary pain I'll look upon your tents again. —My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood: The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I; Then wherefore should I fear to die? |
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| VII | Young as I am, my course is run, I shall not see another sun; I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken Child, if I For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then would die, And my last thought would happy be; But thou, dear Babe, art far away, Nor shall I see another day. |
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