| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| On Nature's invitation do I come, By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead, That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth, With all its unappropriated good, My own, and not mine only, for with me Entrenched—say rather peacefully embowered— Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, A younger orphan of a home extinct, The only daughter of my parents dwells: Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir; Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts, But either she, whom now I have, who now Divides with me this loved abode, was there, Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned, Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang; The thought of her was like a flash of light Or an unseen companionship, a breath Or fragrance independent of the wind. In all my goings, in the new and old Of all my meditations, and in this Favourite of all, in this the most of all.... Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in. Now in the clear and open day I feel Your guardianship: I take it to my heart; 'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night. But I would call thee beautiful; for mild, And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, Dear valley, having in thy face a smile, Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased, Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake, Its one green island, and its winding shores, The multitude of little rocky hills, Thy church, and cottages of mountain-stone Clustered like stars some few, but single most, And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, Or glancing at each other cheerful looks, Like separated stars with clouds between. Note Contents |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 |
Note:
This Grasmere cottage is identified, much more than Rydal Mount, with
Wordsworth's "poetic prime." It had once been a public-house, bearing
the sign of the Dove and Olive Bough—and as such is referred to in
The Waggoner—from which circumstance it was for a long time, and
is now usually, called "Dove Cottage." A small two storied house, it is
described somewhat minutely—as it was in Wordsworth's time—by De
Quincey, in his Recollections of the Lakes, and by the late
Bishop of Lincoln, in the Memoirs of his uncle.
"The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and garden ground, in which there is a spring and rocks; the enclosure shelves upwards towards the woody sides of the mountains above it."A
The following is De
Quincey's description of it, as he saw it in the summer of 1807.
"A white cottage, with two yew trees breaking the glare of its white walls" (these yews still stand on the eastern side of the cottage). "A little semi-vestibule between two doors prefaced the entrance into what might be considered the principal room of the cottage. It was an oblong square, not above eight and a half feet high, sixteen feet long, and twelve broad; wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark polished oak, slightly embellished with carving. One window there was—a perfect and unpretending cottage window, with little diamond panes, embowered at almost every season of the year with roses; and, in the summer and autumn, with a profusion of jasmine, and other fragrant shrubs.... I was ushered up a little flight of stairs, fourteen in all, to a little drawing-room, or whatever the reader chooses to call it. Wordsworth himself has described the fireplace of this room as hisIt was not fully seven feet six inches high, and in other respects pretty nearly of the same dimensions as the rustic hall below. There was, however, in a small recess, a library of perhaps three hundred volumes, which seemed to consecrate the room as the poet's study and composing room, and such occasionally it was. But far oftener he both studied, as I found, and composed on the high road."B'Half-kitchen and half-parlour fire.'
Other poems of later years refer, much more fully than the above, to
this cottage, and its orchard ground, where so many of Wordsworth's
lyrics were composed.
The "orchard ground," which was for the most part in grass, sloped upwards; but a considerable portion of the natural rock was exposed; and on its face, some rough stone steps were cut by Wordsworth, helped by a near neighbour of his—John Fisher—so as more conveniently to reach the upper terrace, where the poet built for himself a small arbour. All this garden and orchard ground is not much altered since 1800. The short terrace walk is curved, with a sloping bank of grass above, shaded by apple trees, hazel, holly, laburnum, laurel, and mountain ash. Below the terrace is the well, which supplied the cottage in Wordsworth's time; and there large leaved primroses still grow, doubtless the successors of those planted by his own and his sister's hands. Above, and amongst the rocks, are the daffodils, which they also brought to their "garden-ground;" the Christmas roses, which they planted near the well, were removed to the eastern side of the garden, where they flourished luxuriantly in 1882; but have now, alas! disappeared. The box-wood planted by the poet grows close to the cottage. The arbour is now gone; but, in the place where it stood, a seat is erected. The hidden brook still sings its under-song, as it used to do, "its quiet soul on all bestowing," and the green linnet may doubtless be seen now, as it used to be in 1803. The allusions to the garden ground at Dove Cottage, in the poems which follow, will be noted as they occur.—Ed.
The "orchard ground," which was for the most part in grass, sloped upwards; but a considerable portion of the natural rock was exposed; and on its face, some rough stone steps were cut by Wordsworth, helped by a near neighbour of his—John Fisher—so as more conveniently to reach the upper terrace, where the poet built for himself a small arbour. All this garden and orchard ground is not much altered since 1800. The short terrace walk is curved, with a sloping bank of grass above, shaded by apple trees, hazel, holly, laburnum, laurel, and mountain ash. Below the terrace is the well, which supplied the cottage in Wordsworth's time; and there large leaved primroses still grow, doubtless the successors of those planted by his own and his sister's hands. Above, and amongst the rocks, are the daffodils, which they also brought to their "garden-ground;" the Christmas roses, which they planted near the well, were removed to the eastern side of the garden, where they flourished luxuriantly in 1882; but have now, alas! disappeared. The box-wood planted by the poet grows close to the cottage. The arbour is now gone; but, in the place where it stood, a seat is erected. The hidden brook still sings its under-song, as it used to do, "its quiet soul on all bestowing," and the green linnet may doubtless be seen now, as it used to be in 1803. The allusions to the garden ground at Dove Cottage, in the poems which follow, will be noted as they occur.—Ed.
See the Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 156.—Ed.
See Recollections of the Lakes, etc., pp. 130-137,
Works, vol. ii., edition of 1862.—Ed.
"Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak"A
Composed (probably) in 1800.—Published 1851
The Poem
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak, When hitherward we journeyed, side by side, Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers, Paced the long vales, how long they were, and yet How fast that length of way was left behind, Wensley's rich vale and Sedbergh's naked heights. The frosty wind, as if to make amends For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, And drove us onward like two ships at sea; Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air, Parted and reunited by the blast. Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced In that stern countenance; for our souls thence drew A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared To question us, "Whence come ye? To what end?" Note Contents |
5 10 15 |
This is a fragment of The Recluse, ll. 152-167; but
it was originally published in the Memoirs of Wordsworth by his
nephew (1851).—Ed.
Note:
This poem refers to a winter journey on foot, which Wordsworth and his
sister took from Sockburn to Grasmere, by Wensleydale and Askrigg; and,
since he has left us an account of this journey, in a letter to
Coleridge, written a few days after their arrival at Grasmere—a letter
in which his characterisation of Nature is almost as happy as it is in
his best poems—some extracts from it may here be appended.
"We left Sockburn last Tuesday morning. We crossed the Tees by moonlight in the Sockburn fields, and after ten good miles riding came in sight of the Swale. It is there a beautiful river, with its green banks and flat holms scattered over with trees. Four miles further brought us to Richmond, with its huge ivied castle, its friarage steeple, its castle tower resembling a huge steeple.... We were now in Wensleydale, and D. and I set off side by side to foot it as far as Kendal.... We reached Askrigg, twelve miles, before six in the evening, having been obliged to walk the last two miles over hard frozen roads.... Next morning the earth was thinly covered with snow, enough to make the road soft and prevent its being slippery. On leaving Askrigg we turned aside to see another waterfall. It was a beautiful morning, with driving snow showers, which disappeared by fits, and unveiled the east, which was all one delicious pale orange colour. After walking through two small fields we came to a mill, which we passed, and in a moment a sweet little valley opened before us, with an area of grassy ground, and a stream dashing over various laminæ of black rocks close under a bank covered with firs; the bank and stream on our left, another woody bank on our right, and the flat meadow in front, from which, as at Buttermere, the stream had retired, as it were, to hide itself under the shade. As we walked up this delightful valley we were tempted to look back perpetually on the stream, which reflected the orange lights of the morning among the gloomy rocks, with a brightness varying with the agitation of the current. The steeple of Askrigg was between us and the east, at the bottom of the valley; it was not a quarter of a mile distant.... The two banks seemed to join before us with a facing of rock common to them both. When we reached this bottom the valley opened out again; two rocky banks on each side, which, hung with ivy and moss, and fringed luxuriantly with brushwood, ran directly parallel to each other, and then approaching with a gentle curve at their point of union, presented a lofty waterfall, the termination of the valley. It was a keen frosty morning, showers of snow threatening us, but the sun bright and active. We had a task of twenty-one miles to perform in a short winter's day.... On a nearer approach the waters seemed to fall down a tall arch or niche that had shaped itself by insensible moulderings in the wall of an old castle. We left this spot with reluctance, but highly exhilarated.... It was bitter cold, the wind driving the snow behind us in the best style of a mountain storm. We soon reached an inn at a place called Hardrane, and descending from our vehicles, after warming ourselves by the cottage fire, we walked up the brook-side to take a view of a third waterfall. We had not walked above a few hundred yards between two winding rocky banks before we came full upon the waterfall, which seemed to throw itself in a narrow line from a lofty wall of rock, the water, which shot manifestly to some distance from the rock, seeming to be dispersed into a thin shower scarcely visible before it reached the bason. We were disappointed in the cascade itself, though the introductory and accompanying banks were an exquisite mixture of grandeur and beauty.... After cautiously sounding our way over stones of all colours and sizes, encased in the clearest water formed by the spray of the fall, we found the rock, which before had appeared like a wall, extending itself over our heads, like the ceiling of a huge cave, from the summit of which the waters shot directly over our heads into a bason, and among fragments wrinkled over with masses of ice as white as snow, or rather, as Dorothy says, like congealed froth. The water fell at least ten yards from us, and we stood directly behind it, the excavation not so deep in the rock as to impress any feeling of darkness, but lofty and magnificent; but in connection with the adjoining banks excluding as much of the sky as could well be spared from a scene so exquisitely beautiful. The spot where we stood was as dry as the chamber in which I am now sitting, and the incumbent rock, of which the groundwork was limestone, veined and dappled with colours which melted into each other with every possible variety of colour. On the summit of the cave were three festoons, or rather wrinkles, in the rock, run up parallel like the folds of a curtain when it is drawn up. Each of these was hung with icicles of various length, and nearly in the middle of the festoon, in the deepest valley of the waves that ran parallel to each other, the stream shot from the rows of icicles in irregular fits of strength, and with a body of water that varied every moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the bason in one continued current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in the midst of its fall, and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no great distance from our feet like the heaviest thunder shower. In such a situation you have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the sky. Large fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the water, and the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The rocks on each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed the vista of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive waterfalls, or rather courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of all that summer and winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in the centre of the falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep black, the adjoining parts yellow, white, purple, and dove colour, covered with water—plants of the most vivid green, and hung with streaming icicles, that in some places seem to conceal the verdure of the plants and the violet and yellow variegation of the rocks; and in some places render the colours more brilliant. I cannot express to you the enchanting effect produced by this Arabian scene of colour as the wind blew aside the great waterfall behind which we stood, and alternately hid and revealed each of these fairy cataracts in irregular succession, or displayed them with various gradations of distinctness as the intervening spray was thickened or dispersed. What a scene too in summer! In the luxury of our imagination we could not help feeding upon the pleasure which this cave, in the heat of a July noon, would spread through a frame exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the right, the bank winding round on the left with all its living foliage, and the breeze stealing up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with the freshest imaginable spray. And then the murmur of the water, the quiet, the seclusion, and a long summer day."
Ed.
Ellen Irwin; or, The Braes of KirtleA
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[It may be worth while to observe that as there are Scotch Poems on this
subject in simple ballad strain, I thought it would be both presumptuous
and superfluous to attempt treating it in the same way; and,
accordingly, I chose a construction of stanza quite new in our language;
in fact, the same as that of Bürger's Leonora, except that the
first and third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I
threw out a classical image to prepare the reader for the style in which
I meant to treat the story, and so to preclude all comparison.—I. F.]
In the editions of 1815 and 1820 this was included among the "Poems
founded on the Affections." In 1827 it was placed in the "Memorials of a
Tour in Scotland, 1803."—Ed.
The Poem
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches. From many knights and many squires The Bruce had been selected; And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected. Sad tidings to that noble Youth! For it may be proclaimed with truth, If Bruce hath loved sincerely, That Gordon loves as dearly. But what are Gordon's form and face, His shattered hopes and crosses, To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, Reclined on flowers and mosses? Alas that ever he was born! The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing; Beholds them blest and blessing. Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce He launched a deadly javelin! Fair Ellen saw it as it came, And, starting up to meet the same, Did with her body cover The Youth, her chosen lover. And, falling into Bruce's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus, from the heart of her True-love, The mortal spear repelling. And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish crescent. But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing. So, coming his last help to crave, Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave His body he extended, And there his sorrow ended. Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel churchyard view The grave of lovely Ellen: By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; And, for the stone upon his head, May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn Hic jacet. Note Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 |
| 1815 | |
|
1800 |
| 1837 | |
|
1800 |
| 1837 | |
|
1800 |
| 1837 | |
|
1800 |
| 1837 | |
|
1800 |
| 1827 | |
|
1800 |
|
1802 |
The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on
whose banks the events here related took place.—W. W. 1800.
Note:
No Scottish ballad is superior in pathos to Helen of Kirkconnell.
It is based on a traditionary tale—the date of the event being
lost—but the locality, in the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming in
Dumfriesshire, is known; and there the graves of "Burd Helen" and her
lover are still pointed out.
The following is Sir Walter Scott's account of the story:
The following is Sir Walter Scott's account of the story:
"A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged he was a Bell of Blackel-house. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the Churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of their private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces."
See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii. p. 317.
The original ballad—well known though it is—may be quoted as an admirable illustration of the different types of poetic genius in dealing with the same, or a kindred, theme.
The original ballad—well known though it is—may be quoted as an admirable illustration of the different types of poetic genius in dealing with the same, or a kindred, theme.
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee!
Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!
Oh think ye na my heart was sair,
When my love dropt down and spake nae mair!
There did she swoon wi' meikle care,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.
As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lee—
I lighted down, my sword did draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.
Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll weave a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!
Oh that I were where Helen lies!
Day and night on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en,
And I in Helen's arms lying
On fair Kirkconnell lee.
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me!
Ed.
Hart-Leap Well
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from
Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from
Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chace, the
memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second
Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there
described them.—W. W. 1800.
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas were composed
extempore one winter evening in the cottage, when, after having tired
myself with labouring at an awkward passage in The Brothers, I
started with a sudden impulse to this to get rid of the other, and
finished it in a day or two. My sister and I had passed the place a few
weeks before in our wild winter journey from Sockburn on the banks of
the Tees to Grasmere. A peasant whom we met near the spot told us the
story so far as concerned the name of the Well, and the Hart, and
pointed out the Stones. Both the stones and the well are objects that
may easily be missed. The tradition by this time may be extinct in the
neighbourhood. The man who related it to us was very old.—I. F.]
Included among the "Poems of the Imagination,"—Ed.
The Poem
Part the First
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud And now, as he approached a vassal's door, "Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud. "Another horse!"—That shout the vassal heard And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day. Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; The horse and horseman are a happy pair; But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air. A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, That as they galloped made the echoes roar; But horse and man are vanished, one and all; Such race, I think, was never seen before. Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain: Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? The bugles that so joyfully were blown? —This chase it looks not like an earthly chase; Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side; I will not stop to tell how far he fled, Nor will I mention by what death he died; But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched: His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched The waters of the spring were trembling still. And now, too happy for repose or rest, (Never had living man such joyful lot!) Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. And climbing up the hill—(it was at least Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now Such sight was never seen by human eyes: Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies. "I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, And a small arbour, made for rural joy; 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, A place of love for damsels that are coy. "A cunning artist will I have to frame A basin for that fountain in the dell! And they who do make mention of the same, From this day forth, shall call it Hart-Leap Well. "And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known, Another monument shall here be raised; Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. "And, in the summer-time when days are long, I will come hither with my Paramour; And with the dancers and the minstrel's song We will make merry in that pleasant bower. "Till the foundations of the mountains fail My mansion with its arbour shall endure;— The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!" Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. —Soon did the Knight perform what he had said; And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, A cup of stone received the living well; Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, And built a house of pleasure in the dell. And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,— Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. And thither, when the summer days were long Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; And with the dancers and the minstrel's song Made merriment within that pleasant bower. The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, And his bones lie in his paternal vale.— But there is matter for a second rhyme, And I to this would add another tale. |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 |