LINENOTES:
Title] Fears &c. Written, April 1798, during the Alarms of an
Invasion MS. W., 4o: Fears &c. Written April 1798, &c. P.
R.
[19] that] which 4o, P. R.
[33]
It is indeed a melancholy thing
And weighs upon the heart
4o, P. R., S. L.
[40] groans] screams 4o, P. R.
[43] And have been tyrannous 4o, P. R.
[44-60]
The groan of accusation pleads against us.
* * * * *
Desunt aliqua
. . . Meanwhile at home
We have been drinking with a riotous thirst
Pollutions, &c.
MS. D.
[53-9]
Meanwhile at home
We have been drinking with a riotous thirst.
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth
A selfish, lewd, effeminated race.
MS. W., 4o, P. R.
[Lines 54-8 of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.]
[69] know] know MS. W., 4o, P. R.
[112] defeats] deceit S. L. [Probably a misprint].
[121] translated] translated 4o, P. R.
[133] that] who 1802, 1809.
[134] Laugh'd at the bosom! Husbands, fathers, all 1802:
Smil'd at the bosom! Husbands, Brothers, all The Friend, 1809.
[138-9]
Without the Infidel's scorn, stand forth, be men,
Make yourselves strong, repel an impious foe
1802.
[141] Who] That 4o, P. R., 1802, 1809.
[149] sea-weed] sea-weeds MS. W., 4o, 1802. some] the
1809.
[150] Swept] Sweeps 1809.
[151-3]
Not in a drunken triumph, but with awe
Repentant of the wrongs, with which we stung
So fierce a race to Frenzy.
1809.
[154] O men of England! Brothers! I have told 1809.
[155] truth] truths 1802, 1809.
[156] factious] factitious 1809.
[157] courage] freedom 1802.
[159-61] At their own vices. Fondly some expect [We have been
. . . enmity om.] 1802.
[161-4]
Restless in enmity have thought all change
Involv'd in change of constituted power.
As if a Government were but a robe
On which our vice and wretchedness were sewn.
1809.
[162] constituted] delegated 1802.
[163] had been] were but 1809.
[163-75]
As if a government were but a robe
To which our crimes and miseries were affix'd,
Like fringe, or epaulet, and with the robe
Pull'd off at pleasure. Others, the meantime,
Doat with a mad idolatry, and all
Who will not bow their heads, and close their eyes,
And worship blindly—these are enemies
Even of their country. Such have they deemed me.
1802.
[166-71] Fondly . . . nursed them om. 1809.
[171] nursed] nurse 4o, S. L. meanwhile] meantime 1809.
[175] Such have I been deemed 1809.
[177] prove] be 1802, 1809.
[179] father] parent 1809.
[180] All natural bonds of 1802.
[181] limits] circle 1802, 1809.
[183] couldst thou be 1802: shouldst thou be 1809.
[184-5]
To me who from thy brooks and mountain-hills,
Thy quiet fields, thy clouds, thy rocks, thy seas
1802.
To me who from thy seas and rocky shores
Thy quiet fields thy streams and wooded hills
1809.
[207] Aslant the ivied] On the long-ivied MS. W., 4o.
[214] nook] scene MS. W., 4o, P. R.
THE NIGHTINGALE[264:1]
A CONVERSATION POEM, APRIL, 1798
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 5
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently,
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 10
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
'Most musical, most melancholy' bird![264:2]
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 15
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 20
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretched his limbs 25
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame 30
Should share in Nature's immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical, 35
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt 40
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 45
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!
And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 50
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 55
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's song,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 60
And one low piping sound more sweet than all—
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed. 65
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle Maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, 75
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 80
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched
Many a nightingale perch giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song 85
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.—That strain again! 90
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up, 95
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream—) 100
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!— 105
It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy.—Once more, farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell. 110
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
Note. In the Table of Contents of 1828 and 1829 'The
Nightingale' is omitted.
Title] The Nightingale; a Conversational
Poem, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1798: The Nightingale, written in
April, 1798 L. B. 1800: The Nightingale A Conversation Poem, written
in April, 1798 S. L., 1828, 1829.
[21] sorrow] sorrows L. B. 1798, 1800.
[40] My Friend, and my Friend's sister L. B. 1798, 1800.
[58] song] songs L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.
[61] And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all—S. L.
1817: (punctuate thus, reading Sound for sounds:—And one low
piping Sound more sweet than all—Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).
[62] a] an all editions to 1884.
[64-9] On moonlight . . . her love-torch om. L. B. 1800.
[79] those] these S. L. 1817.
[81] As if one quick and sudden gale had swept L. B. 1798,
1800, S. L. 1817.
[82] A] An all editions to 1834.
[84] blossomy] blosmy L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.
[102] beheld] beholds L. B. 1798, 1800.
THE THREE GRAVES[267:1]
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE
'The Author has published the following humble fragment,
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one of
our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to
be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator; and the metre
corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore
presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common
Ballad-tale.[268:1] Whether this is sufficient to justify the
adoption of such a style, in any metrical composition not
professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At
all events, it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no way
connected with the Author's judgment concerning poetic
diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological.
The story which must be supposed to have been narrated in the
first and second parts is as follows:—
'Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her
bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends
in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of
their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and
intentions to Mary's mother, a widow-woman bordering on her
fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a
competent property, and from having had no other children but
Mary and another daughter (the father died in their infancy),
retaining for the greater part her personal attractions and
comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and
violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to
Edward's application was remarkable—"Well, Edward! you are a
handsome young fellow, and you shall have my daughter." From
this time all their wooing passed under the mother's eye; and,
in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future
son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of
calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to
herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of
no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered
the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the
characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.)
Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detractions
from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of
his own heart still mistook[268:2] her increasing fondness for
motherly affection; she at length, overcome by her miserable
passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral
tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion—"O Edward! indeed,
indeed, she is not fit for you—she has not a heart to love
you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward!
and I will this very day settle all my property on you." The
Lover's eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise,
whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as
it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the
first moment he lost the sense of the guilt of the proposal in
the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her
from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this
almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud
voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a curse both
on him and on her own child. Mary happened to be in the room
directly above them, heard Edward's laugh, and her mother's
blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall,
ran upstairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to
Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part
toward a reconciliation with her mother, she was married to
him.—And here the third part of the Tale begins.
'I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to
tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that
I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I
was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from
finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the
imagination, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on
it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effects
of the Oby witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and
Hearne's deeply interesting anecdotes of similar workings on
the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who
have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of
referring to those works for the passages alluded to); and I
conceived the design of shewing that instances of this kind
are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of
illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these
cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on
the fancy from the beginning.
'The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a
country church-yard, to a traveller whose curiosity had been
awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each
other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the
first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the
second, no name, but only a date, and the words, "The Mercy of
God is infinite.[269:1]"' S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.
Beneath this thorn when I was young,
This thorn that blooms so sweet,
We loved to stretch our lazy limbs
In summer's noon-tide heat.
And hither too the old man came, 5
The maiden and her feer,
'Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why
The toad has harbour here.
'The Thorn is neither dry nor dead,
But still it blossoms sweet; 10
Then tell me why all round its roots
The dock and nettle meet.
'Why here the hemlock, &c. [sic in MS.]
'Why these three graves all side by side,
Beneath the flow'ry thorn, 15
Stretch out so green and dark a length,
By any foot unworn.'
There, there a ruthless mother lies
Beneath the flowery thorn;
And there a barren wife is laid, 20
And there a maid forlorn.
The barren wife and maid forlorn
Did love each other dear;
The ruthless mother wrought the woe,
And cost them many a tear. 25
Fair Ellen was of serious mind,
Her temper mild and even,
And Mary, graceful as the fir
That points the spire to heaven.
Young Edward he to Mary said, 30
'I would you were my bride,'
And she was scarlet as he spoke,
And turned her face to hide.
'You know my mother she is rich,
And you have little gear; 35
And go and if she say not Nay,
Then I will be your fere.'
Young Edward to the mother went.
To him the mother said:
'In truth you are a comely man; 40
You shall my daughter wed.'
[271:1][In Mary's joy fair Eleanor
Did bear a sister's part;
For why, though not akin in blood,
They sisters were in heart.] 45
Small need to tell to any man
That ever shed a tear
What passed within the lover's heart
The happy day so near.
The mother, more than mothers use, 50
Rejoiced when they were by;
And all the 'course of wooing' passed[271:2]
Beneath the mother's eye.
And here within the flowering thorn
How deep they drank of joy: 55
The mother fed upon the sight,
Nor . . . [sic in MS.]
And now the wedding day was fix'd,
The wedding-ring was bought;
The wedding-cake with her own hand 60
The ruthless mother brought.
'And when to-morrow's sun shines forth
The maid shall be a bride';
Thus Edward to the mother spake
While she sate by his side. 65
Alone they sate within the bower:
The mother's colour fled,
For Mary's foot was heard above—
She decked the bridal bed.
And when her foot was on the stairs 70
To meet her at the door,
With steady step the mother rose,
And silent left the bower.
She stood, her back against the door,
And when her child drew near— 75
'Away! away!' the mother cried,
'Ye shall not enter here.
'Would ye come here, ye maiden vile,
And rob me of my mate?'
And on her child the mother scowled 80
A deadly leer of hate.
Fast rooted to the spot, you guess,
The wretched maiden stood,
As pale as any ghost of night
That wanteth flesh and blood. 85
She did not groan, she did not fall,
She did not shed a tear,
Nor did she cry, 'Oh! mother, why
May I not enter here?'
But wildly up the stairs she ran, 90
As if her sense was fled,
And then her trembling limbs she threw
Upon the bridal bed.
The mother she to Edward went
Where he sate in the bower, 95
And said, 'That woman is not fit
To be your paramour.
'She is my child—it makes my heart
With grief and trouble swell;
I rue the hour that gave her birth, 100
For never worse befel.
'For she is fierce and she is proud,
And of an envious mind;
A wily hypocrite she is,
And giddy as the wind. 105
'And if you go to church with her,
You'll rue the bitter smart;
For she will wrong your marriage-bed,
And she will break your heart.
'Oh God, to think that I have shared 110
Her deadly sin so long;
She is my child, and therefore I
As mother held my tongue.
'She is my child, I've risked for her
My living soul's estate: 115
I cannot say my daily prayers,
The burthen is so great.
'And she would scatter gold about
Until her back was bare;
And should you swing for lust of hers 120
In truth she'd little care.'
Then in a softer tone she said,
And took him by the hand:
'Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's
I'd give my house and land. 125
'And if you'll go to church with me,
And take me for your bride,
I'll make you heir of all I have—
Nothing shall be denied.'
Then Edward started from his seat, 130
And he laughed loud and long—
'In truth, good mother, you are mad,
Or drunk with liquor strong.'
To him no word the mother said,
But on her knees she fell, 135
And fetched her breath while thrice your hand
Might toll the passing-bell.
'Thou daughter now above my head,
Whom in my womb I bore,
May every drop of thy heart's blood 140
Be curst for ever more.
'And curséd be the hour when first
I heard thee wawl and cry;
And in the Church-yard curséd be
The grave where thou shalt lie!' 145
And Mary on the bridal-bed
Her mother's curse had heard;
And while the cruel mother spake
The bed beneath her stirred.
In wrath young Edward left the hall, 150
And turning round he sees
The mother looking up to God
And still upon her knees.
Young Edward he to Mary went
When on the bed she lay: 155
'Sweet love, this is a wicked house—
Sweet love, we must away.'
He raised her from the bridal-bed,
All pale and wan with fear;
'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine, 160
No Dog would kennel here.'
He led her from the bridal-bed,
He led her from the stairs.
[Had sense been hers she had not dar'd
To venture on her prayers. MS. erased.]
The mother still was in the bower,
And with a greedy heart 165
She drank perdition on her knees,
Which never may depart.
But when their steps were heard below
On God she did not call;
She did forget the God of Heaven, 170
For they were in the hall.
She started up—the servant maid
Did see her when she rose;
And she has oft declared to me
The blood within her froze. 175
As Edward led his bride away
And hurried to the door,
The ruthless mother springing forth
Stopped midway on the floor.
What did she mean? What did she mean? 180
For with a smile she cried:
'Unblest ye shall not pass my door,
The bride-groom and his bride.
'Be blithe as lambs in April are,
As flies when fruits are red; 185
May God forbid that thought of me
Should haunt your marriage-bed.
'And let the night be given to bliss,
The day be given to glee:
I am a woman weak and old, 190
Why turn a thought on me?
'What can an agéd mother do,
And what have ye to dread?
A curse is wind, it hath no shape
To haunt your marriage-bed.' 195
When they were gone and out of sight
She rent her hoary hair,
And foamed like any Dog of June
When sultry sun-beams glare.
* * * * *
Now ask you why the barren wife, 200
And why the maid forlorn,
And why the ruthless mother lies
Beneath the flowery thorn?
Three times, three times this spade of mine,
In spite of bolt or bar, 205
Did from beneath the belfry come,
When spirits wandering are.
And when the mother's soul to Hell
By howling fiends was borne,
This spade was seen to mark her grave 210
Beneath the flowery thorn.
And when the death-knock at the door
Called home the maid forlorn,
This spade was seen to mark her grave
Beneath the flowery thorn. 215
And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree;
The ghosts that round it meet,
'Tis they that cut the rind at night,
Yet still it blossoms sweet.
* * * * *
[End of MS.]