Variant 5:
 
1836
And ...
 1798
return



Variant 6:
 
1827
The bye-road ...
1798
return




Footnote A:
 Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal.—Ed.

return to footnote mark


Contents



Her Eyes are Wild

Composed 1798.—Published 1798.

Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of Bristol, who had seen the poor creature.—I. F.
From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of The Mad Mother.

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination." In 1836 and afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.




stanza text variant footnote line number
I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.



5




10
II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.



15




20
III "A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me;
But then there came a sight of joy;
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he.


1



25




30
IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me.



35




40
V Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.



45




50
VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be;
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shall sing
As merry as the birds in spring.
2



55




60
VII "Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own!—and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be.



65




70
VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away.



75




80
IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
—Where art thou gone, my own dear child?
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad.



85




90
X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am:
My love for thee has well been tried:
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade;
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye."








A



95




100




Variant 1:
 
1820
... breasts ...
 1798
return to variant mark



Variant 2:
 
1832
... I will be;
 1798
return




Footnote A:
 
"For myself, I would rather have written The Mad Mother than all the works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors, that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the loss of Paradise."
(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800.) See
William Godwin: his Friends and Contemporaries
, vol. ii. p. l4.—Ed.

return to footnote mark


Contents



Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman

with an incident in which he was concerned.


Composed 1798.—Published 1798.

This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love their voice,' was word for word from his own lips.—I. F.
This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.




text variant footnote line number
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,—
'Tis said he once was tall.
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee:
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind.
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change!—bereft
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,—and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little—all
That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell.
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must kindly take it:
It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
—I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.


1
2 / 3


4








5



6







7





8

9






10








11



12




13




14


15







16
17




18






















19


























A













































B
































C



5





10




15





20





25




30





35




40





45





50




55





60





65




70





75




80





85





90




95




Variant 1:
 
1827
I've heard ...
1798
return to variant mark



Variant 2:
  In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.
return



Variant 3:
 
1827
... five and twenty ...
1798
return



Variant 4:
 
1845
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry.

And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry.

1798


1820
return



Variant 5:
 
1827
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

Worn out by hunting feats—bereft
By time of friends and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead, ...







1798





1827
The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the second stanza being third in 1827.

return



Variant 6:
 
1827
... race ...
1798
return



Variant 7:
 
Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.
In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828.

return



Variant 8:
 
1832
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common.

His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see,
And Simon to the world is left,
In liveried poverty.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now is forced to work, though weak,
—The weakest in the village.







1798








1820
return



Variant 9:
 
1798
But ...
1820
The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798.

return



Variant 10:
 
1827
His little body's half awry,
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
—The weakest in the village.

His dwindled body's half awry,

His ancles, too, are swoln and thick;

And now is forced to work,

His dwindled body half awry,
Rests upon ancles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child,
His Wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.






1798

1800

1815

1815







1820
return



Variant 11:
 
1845
But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer?

"But what," saith he, "avails the land,
Which I can till no longer?"

But what avails it now, the land
Which he can till no longer?

'Tis his, but what avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

The time, alas! is come when he
Can till the land no longer.

The time is also come when he
Can till the land no longer.

1798


1827


1832


1837


1840


C.
return



Variant 12:
 
1827
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb,


1798
return



Variant 13:
 
1840
Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can ...

That they can ...

1798

1837
return



Variant 14:
 
1815
His poor old ancles swell.
1798
return



Variant 15:
 
1820
And I'm afraid ...
1798
return



Variant 16:
 
1820
I hope you'll ...
 1798
return



Variant 17:
 
1798
... think,
 In the editions 1832 to 1843.
return



Variant 18:
 
1815
About the root ...
1798
return



Variant 19:
 
1820
Has oftner ...

Has oftener ...
1798

1805
return




Footnote A:
  Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in Milton's
Lycidas
. (Professor Dowden.) See
Lycidas
, l. 37.—Ed.

return to footnote mark



Footnote B:
 Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx.:
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past;
and in Spenser's
An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing.
Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.
Ed.

return