Wordsworth's Poetical Works, vol. 1

"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a mood when it was probable that I should write it well.—The character which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small independent income to some village or country town of which he was not a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and by accumulated imagery.

"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly; yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly. The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full effect.

"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words closely connected with The Thorn and many other Poems in these Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers, or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as symbols of the passion, but as things, active and efficient, which are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every nation.

Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.

At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.

Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his Chariot?

(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th.)

See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem.

"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the story."

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A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Then—all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There's not a breeze—no breath of air— Yet here, and there, and every where Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy.	¹ ² / ³	^C ^D	5 10 15 20

stanza	text	variant	footnote	line
I	"There is a Thorn—it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens is it overgrown.	¹ ²		5 10
II	"Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; And all have joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever.	³ ⁴		15 20
III	"High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water—never dry Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air.	⁵	^A	25 30
IV	"And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye.			35 40
V	"Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair.			45 50 55
VI	"Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap So like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'	⁶		60 65
VII	"At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"			70 75
VIII	"Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky, Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry?— O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?"			80 85
IX	"I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But would you gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like an infant's grave, The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door—'tis seldom shut— And, if you see her in her hut— Then to the spot away! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there."	⁷ ⁸		90 95
X	"But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" "Full twenty years are past and gone Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved.	⁹ ¹⁰ ¹¹		100 105 110
XI	"And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And, with this other Maid, to church Unthinking Stephen went— Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest.	¹²		115 120
XII	"They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, And there was often seen. What could she seek?—or wish to hide? Her state to any eye was plain; She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father—would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith!	¹³ ¹⁴ ¹⁵		125 130
XIII	"Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again: And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear.	¹⁶		135 140
XIV	"More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you; For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; Nay—if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell; And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said; But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb.	¹⁷ ¹⁸ ¹⁹ ²⁰		145 150 155
XV	"And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek: For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate'er they say, They had to do with Martha Ray.			160 165
XVI	"But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I will be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height:— A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee.	²¹		170 175
XVII	"'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in sooth, it was A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag,—and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground.	²²		180 185
XVIII	"I did not speak—I saw her face; Her face!—it was enough for me: I turned about and heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And, when the little breezes make The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!'"	²³		190 195
XIX	"But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes The little pond to stir?" "I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree; Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.	²⁴		200 205 210
XX	"I've heard, the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain The baby looks at you again.	²⁵		215 220
XXI	"And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. But instantly the hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass—it shook upon the ground! Yet all do still aver The little Babe lies buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.	²⁶ ²⁷ ²⁸		225 230
XXII	"I cannot tell how this may be But plain it is the Thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss that strive To drag it to the ground; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"			235 240

"A whirl-blast from behind the hill"

Composed March 18, 1798.—Published 1800.

The Thorn

Composed March 19, 1798.—Published 1798.

The Poem

1836
...—every trace Of inward sadness had its charm; "Kilve," said I, ...	1827

1836
My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him,	1798

1827
"My little boy, which like you more," I said and took him by the arm— "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, Or here at Liswyn farm?" "And tell me, had you rather be," I said and held him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?"	1798

1800
At this, my boy, so fair and slim, Hung down his head, nor made reply;	1798

1845.
And five times did I say to him, And five times to the child I said,	1798 1800

1820
You could not lay a hair between:	Inserted in the editions 1800-1815.

1815
And all those leaves, that jump and spring, Were each a joyous, living thing.	1800