The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth
Chapter 92 : It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my hea

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; 35 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. 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, 45 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. 50

VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion will I be; [2]

And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55 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. 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! 65 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. 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, 75 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. 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? 85 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. 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; 95 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] 100

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1.

1820.

... b.r.e.a.s.t.s ... 1798.]

[Variant 2.

1832.

... I will be; 1798.]

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[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 mora.s.ses of human depravity since the loss of Paradise."

(S. T. C. to W. G.o.dwin, 9th December 1800.) See 'William G.o.dwin: his Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14.--Ed.]

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 cla.s.sed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.

THE POEM

In the sweet s.h.i.+re of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old Man dwells, a little man,-- 'Tis said [1] he once was tall.

[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5 A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]

No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee: 10 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 15 The sleepers of the village. [5]

He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase [6] was done, He reeled, and was stone blind. 20 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! [A]--bereft 25 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]