Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 3

One for me, too, as is meet.

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1815
... or ...	1807

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Variant 6:

... busy ...

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Variant 7:

1836
Hung with head towards the ground,	1807

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Variant 8:

date
... and ...	MS.

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Variant 9:

1836
... glitters ...	1807

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Variant 10:

1849
Laura's^a	1807

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Variant 11:

Additional lines:
But I'll take a hint from you, And to pleasure will be true,	MS.

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Variant 12:

Be it songs of endless Spring
Which the frolic Muses sing,
Jest, and Mirth's unruly brood
Dancing to the Phrygian mood;
Be it love, or be it wine,
Myrtle wreath, or ivy twine,
Or a garland made of both;
Whether then Philosophy
That would fill us full of glee
Seeing that our breath we draw
Under an unbending law,
That our years are halting never;
Quickly gone, and gone for ever,
And would teach us thence to brave
The conclusion in the grave;
Whether it be these that give
Strength and spirit so to live,
Or the conquest best be made,
By a sober course and staid,
I would walk in such a way,

MS.

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Variant 13:

... joyousness.

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Variant 14:

date
From the things by ...	MS.

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Footnote A: In the editions of 1807-1832 the title was The Kitten and the Falling Leaves.—Ed.
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Sub-Footnote a: Dora Wordsworth died in July 1847. Probably the change of text in 1849—one of the latest which the poet made—was due to the wish to connect this poem with memories of his dead daughter's childhood, and her "laughing eye."—Ed.
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The Small Celandine ^A

Composed 1804.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Grasmere, Town-end. It is remarkable that this flower coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it, is its habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air. —I. F.]

In pencil on opposite page "Has not Chaucer noticed it?"—W. W.

This was classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."-Ed.

The Poem

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There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; And, the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again! When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest. But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed And recognised it, though an altered form, Now standing forth an offering to the blast, And buffeted at will by rain and storm. I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old. "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay; Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. To be a Prodigal's Favourite—then, worse truth, A Miser's Pensioner—behold our lot! O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not! Note Contents 1804 Main Contents	1 2		5 10 15 20

Variant 1:

1837
... itself, ...	1807

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Variant 2:

1827
... bless ...	1807

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Footnote A: Common Pilewort.—W. W. 1807.
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Note: With the last stanza compare one from [Volume 2 link: The Fountain], vol. ii. p. 93:

'Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.'

Compare also the other two poems [Volume 2 links: To the Celandine and To the Same Flower] on the Celandine, vol. ii. pp. 300, 303, written in a previous year.—Ed.]

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At Applethwaite, near Keswick

1804

Composed 1804.—Published 1842

The Poem

[This was presented to me by Sir George Beaumont, with a view to the erection of a house upon it, for the sake of being near to Coleridge, then living, and likely to remain, at Greta Hall, near Keswick. The severe necessities that prevented this arose from his domestic situation. This little property, with a considerable addition that still leaves it very small, lies beautifully upon the banks of a rill that gurgles down the side of Skiddaw; and the orchard and other parts of the grounds command a magnificent prospect of Derwent Water, the mountains of Borrowdale and Newlands. Not many years ago I gave the place to my daughter.—I. F.]

In pencil on the opposite page in Dora Wordsworth's (Mrs. Quillinan's) handwriting—"Many years ago, Sir; for it was given when she was a frail feeble monthling."

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

The Poem

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Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell In neighbourhood with One to me most dear, That undivided we from year to year Might work in our high Calling—a bright hope To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope Till checked by some necessities severe. And should these slacken, honoured Beaumont! still Even then we may perhaps in vain implore Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. Whether this boon be granted us or not, Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot With pride, the Muses love it evermore. Note Contents 1804 Main Contents	1 2	A	5 10

Variant 1:

... pleasure ...

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Variant 2:

... will be proud, and that same spot
Be dear unto the Muses evermore.

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Footnote A: In the edition of 1842 the following footnote is given by Wordsworth,

"This biographical Sonnet, if so it may be called, together with the Epistle that follows, have been long suppressed from feelings of personal delicacy."

The "Epistle" was that addressed to Sir George Beaumont in 1811.—Ed.
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Note: This little property at Applethwaite now belongs to Mr. Gordon Wordsworth, the grandson of the poet. It is a "sunny dell" only in its upper reaches, above the spot where the cottage —which still bears Wordsworth's name—is built. This sonnet, and Sir George Beaumont's wish that Wordsworth and Coleridge should live so near each other, as to be able to carry on joint literary labour, recall the somewhat similar wish and proposal on the part of W. Calvert, unfolded in a letter from Coleridge to Sir Humphry Davy.—Ed.

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Vaudracour and Julia

Composed 1804.—Published 1820

The Poem

The following Tale was written as an Episode, in a work from which its length may perhaps exclude it.^A The facts are true; no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed.—W. W. 1820.

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Faithfully narrated, though with the omission of many pathetic circumstances, from the mouth of a French lady,^B who had been an eye-and-ear witness of all that was done and said. Many long years after, I was told that Dupligne was then a monk in the Convent of La Trappe.—I. F.]

This was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.

The Poem

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O happy time of youthful lovers (thus My story may begin) O balmy time, In which a love-knot on a lady's brow Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven! To such inheritance of blessed fancy (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds Than ever fortune hath been known to do) The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years Whose progress had a little overstepped His stripling prime. A town of small repute, Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock, Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock, From which her graces and her honours sprung: And hence the father of the enamoured Youth, With haughty indignation, spurned the thought Of such alliance.—From their cradles up, With but a step between their several homes, Twins had they been in pleasure; after strife And petty quarrels, had grown fond again; Each other's advocate, each other's stay; And, in their happiest moments, not content, If more divided than a sportive pair Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering Within the eddy of a common blast, Or hidden only by the concave depth Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight. Thus, not without concurrence of an age Unknown to memory, was an earnest given By ready nature for a life of love, For endless constancy, and placid truth; But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay Reserved, had fate permitted, for support Of their maturer years, his present mind Was under fascination;—he beheld A vision, and adored the thing he saw. Arabian fiction never filled the world With half the wonders that were wrought for him. Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring; Life turned the meanest of her implements, Before his eyes, to price above all gold; The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine; Her chamber-window did surpass in glory The portals of the dawn; all paradise Could, by the simple opening of a door, Let itself in upon him:—pathways, walks, Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank, Surcharged, within him, overblest to move Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world To its dull round of ordinary cares; A man too happy for mortality! So passed the time, till whether through effect Of some unguarded moment that dissolved Virtuous restraint—ah, speak it, think it, not! Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw So many bars between his present state And the dear haven where he wished to be In honourable wedlock with his Love, Was in his judgment tempted to decline To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause To nature for a happy end of all; Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed, And bear with their transgression, when I add That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife, Carried about her for a secret grief The promise of a mother. To conceal The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid Found means to hurry her away by night, And unforewarned, that in some distant spot She might remain shrouded in privacy, Until the babe was born. When morning came, The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, And all uncertain whither he should turn, Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon Discovering traces of the fugitives, Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat. Easily may the sequel be divined— Walks to and fro—watchings at every hour; And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may, Is busy at her casement as the swallow Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach, About the pendent nest, did thus espy Her Lover!—thence a stolen interview, Accomplished under friendly shade of night. I pass the raptures of the pair;—such theme Is, by innumerable poets, touched In more delightful verse than skill of mine Could fashion; chiefly by that darling bard Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, And of the lark's note heard before its time, And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds In the unrelenting east.—Through all her courts The vacant city slept; the busy winds, That keep no certain intervals of rest, Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat Aloft;—momentous but uneasy bliss! To their full hearts the universe seemed hung On that brief meeting's slender filament! They parted; and the generous Vaudracour Reached speedily the native threshold, bent On making (so the Lovers had agreed) A sacrifice of birthright to attain A final portion from his father's hand; Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then would flee To some remote and solitary place, Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, Where they may live, with no one to behold Their happiness, or to disturb their love. But now of this no whisper; not the less, If ever an obtrusive word were dropped Touching the matter of his passion, still, In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour Persisted openly that death alone Should abrogate his human privilege Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved. "You shall be baffled in your mad intent If there be justice in the court of France," Muttered the Father.—From these words the Youth Conceived a terror; and, by night or day, Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full soon Found dreadful provocation: for at night When to his chamber he retired, attempt Was made to seize him by three armèd men, Acting, in furtherance of the father's will, Under a private signet of the State. One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand Slew, and as quickly to a second gave A perilous wound—he shuddered to behold The breathless corse; then peacefully resigned His person to the law, was lodged in prison, And wore the fetters of a criminal. Have you observed a tuft of wingèd seed That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use Its natural gifts for purposes of rest, Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro Through the wide element? or have you marked The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, Within the vortex of a foaming flood, Tormented? by such aid you may conceive The perturbation that ensued; —ah, no! Desperate the Maid—the Youth is stained with blood; Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet! Yet as the troubled seed and tortured bough Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. For him, by private influence with the Court, Was pardon gained, and liberty procured; But not without exaction of a pledge, Which liberty and love dispersed in air. He flew to her from whom they would divide him— He clove to her who could not give him peace— Yea, his first word of greeting was,—"All right Is gone from me; my lately-towering hopes, To the least fibre of their lowest root, Are withered; thou no longer canst be mine, I thine—the conscience-stricken must not woo The unruffled Innocent,—I see thy face, Behold thee, and my misery is complete!" "One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden—"One, For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?" Then with the father's name she coupled words Of vehement indignation; but the Youth Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er Find place within his bosom.—Once again The persevering wedge of tyranny Achieved their separation: and once more Were they united,—to be yet again Disparted, pitiable lot! But here A portion of the tale may well be left In silence, though my memory could add Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time, Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughts That occupied his days in solitude Under privation and restraint; and what, Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come, And what, through strong compunction for the past, He suffered—breaking down in heart and mind! Doomed to a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. "You shall return, Julia," said he, "and to your father's house Go with the child.—You have been wretched; yet The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs Too heavily upon the lily's head, Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. Malice, beholding you, will melt away. Go!—'tis a town where both of us were born; None will reproach you, for our truth is known; And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. With ornaments—the prettiest, nature yields Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy, And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks Till no one can resist him.—Now, even now, I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; My father from the window sees him too; Startled, as if some new-created thing Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods Bounded before him;—but the unweeting Child Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily, as they began!" These gleams Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus His head upon one breast, while from the other The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. —That pillow is no longer to be thine, Fond Youth! that mournful solace now must pass Into the list of things that cannot be! Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced, That dooms her to a convent.—Who shall tell, Who dares report, the tidings to the lord Of her affections? so they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down: The word, by others dreaded, he can hear Composed and silent, without visible sign Of even the least emotion. Noting this, When the impatient object of his love Upbraided him with slackness, he returned No answer, only took the mother's hand And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain, Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed Was a dependant on the obdurate heart Of one who came to disunite their lives For ever—sad alternative! preferred, By the unbending Parents of the Maid, To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. —So be it! In the city he remained A season after Julia had withdrawn To those religious walls. He, too, departs— Who with him?—even the senseless Little-one. With that sole charge he passed the city-gates, For the last time, attendant by the side Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, In which the Babe was carried. To a hill, That rose a brief league distant from the town, The dwellers in that house where he had lodged Accompanied his steps, by anxious love Impelled;—they parted from him there, and stood Watching below till he had disappeared On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took, Throughout that journey, from the vehicle (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes!) that veiled The tender infant: and at every inn, And under every hospitable tree At which the bearers halted or reposed, Laid him with timid care upon his knees, And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, Upon the nursling which his arms embraced. This was the manner in which Vaudracour Departed with his infant; and thus reached His father's house, where to the innocent child Admittance was denied. The young man spake No word of indignation or reproof, But of his father begged, a last request, That a retreat might be assigned to him Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, With such allowance as his wants required; For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew; And thither took with him his motherless Babe, And one domestic for their common needs, An aged woman. It consoled him here To attend upon the orphan, and perform Obsequious service to the precious child, Which, after a short time, by some mistake Or indiscretion of the Father, died.— The Tale I follow to its last recess Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine! From this time forth he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An Inhabitant Of that same town, in which the pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs, By chance of business, coming within reach Of his retirement, to the forest lodge Repaired, but only found the matron there, Who told him that his pains were thrown away, For that her Master never uttered word To living thing—not even to her.—Behold! While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached; But, seeing some one near, as on the latch Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk— And, like a shadow, glided out of view. Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place The visitor retired. Thus lived the Youth Cut off from all intelligence with man, And shunning even the light of common day; Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France Full speedily resounded, public hope, Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs, Rouse him: but in those solitary shades His days he wasted, an imbecile mind! Note Contents 1804 Main Contents	1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17		5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 255 260 265 270 275 280 285 290 295 300 305

Variant 1:

1836
And strangers to content if long apart, Or more divided ...	1820

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Variant 2:

1827
Was inwardly prepared to turn aside From law and custom, ...	1820

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Variant 3:

1836
The sequel may be easily divined,—	1820

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Variant 4:

1827
... From this time the Youth	1820

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Variant 5:

1827
Stirred no where without arms. To their rural seat, Meanwhile, his Parents artfully withdrew, Upon some feigned occasion, and the Son Remained with one attendant. At midnight	1820

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Variant 6:

1836
One, did the Youth's ungovernable hand Assault and slay;—and to a second gave	1820

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Variant 7:

1836
... beheld ...	1820

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Variant 8:

1836
The perturbation of each mind;— ...	1820

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Variant 9: This line was added in 1836.
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Variant 10:

1836
But ...	1820

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Variant 11:

1845
... for no thought Uncharitable, no presumptuous rising Of hasty censure, modelled in the eclipse	1820
... for no thought Undutifully harsh dwelt in his mind, No proud resentment cherished in the eclipse	C.

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1840
... your ...	1820

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Variant 13:

1827
... upon ...	1820

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Variant 14:

1836
No words ...	1820

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Variant 15:

1836
... infant Babe,	1820

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Variant 16:

1827
... to the spot repaired With an intent to visit him. He reached The house, and only found the Matron there,	1820

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Variant 17:

1836
But, seeing some one near, even as his hand Was stretched towards the garden gate, he shrunk—	1820

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Footnote A: The work was The Prelude. See book ix., p. 310 of this volume.—Ed.
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Footnote B: Compare The Prelude, book ix. l. 548, p. 310, where Wordsworth says it was told him "by my Patriot friend."—Ed.
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Note: In the preface to his volume, "Poems of Wordsworth chosen and edited by Matthew Arnold," that distinguished poet and critic has said (p. xxv.),

"I can read with pleasure and edification ... everything of Wordsworth, I think, except Vaudracour and Julia."

Ed.

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Skelwith Bridge