The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth
Chapter 41 : [Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have a.s.signed this poem to the dates 179

[Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have a.s.signed this poem to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole.

It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the mind, or in unity, which is effected by the ident.i.ty of moral interest that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this day. From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the verses,--'Five years have pa.s.sed,' etc.--I. F.]

The foregoing is the Fenwick note to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The note to 'The Female Vagrant',--which was the t.i.tle under which one-third of the longer poem appeared in all the complete editions prior to 1845--is as follows.--Ed.

[I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by mistake, to what I have a.s.serted in 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The correct date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life.--I.

F.]

In 1798 there were thirty stanzas in this poem; in 1802, twenty-six; in 1815, fourteen; in 1820, twenty-five. Stanzas I. to XXII., x.x.xV. to x.x.xVII., and LI. to LXXIV. occur only in the collected edition of 1842, vol. vii. (also published as "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years"), and in subsequent editions. Wordsworth placed 'The Female Vagrant' among his "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 to 1832. In 1836, he included it along with 'Descriptive Sketches' in his Table of Contents; [B] but as he numbered it IV. in the text--the other poems belonging to the "Juvenile Pieces" being numbered I. II. and III.--it is clear that he meant it to remain in that cla.s.s. The "Poems written in Youth," of the edition of 1845, include many others in addition to the "Juvenile Pieces" of editions 1815 to 1836.--Ed.

I

A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 5 Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred.

II

While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 10 He saw and pa.s.sed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none.

No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" 15 The pendent grapes glittered above the door;-- On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.

III

The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 20 That inn he long had pa.s.sed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky.

Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, 25 Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.

IV

No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 30 But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer.

Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout--in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 35 Or whistling thro' thin gra.s.s along the unfurrowed plain.

V

Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 40 Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to s.h.i.+eld his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. 45

VI

And be it so--for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long [1] endured in hope of just reward, 50 He to an armed fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in _his_ heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.

VII

For years the work of carnage did not cease. 55 And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 60 Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.

VIII

Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned.

The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 65 Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food.

His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run, He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; 70 And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun.

IX

From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. 75 Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons sw.a.n.g, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 80 And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. [C]

X

It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train 85 Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain.

The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued [2] his way. 90

XI

As one whose brain habitual [3] frensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 95 Left his mind still as a deep evening stream.

Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme.

XII

Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 100 Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 105 A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.

XIII

All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye--which, wheresoe'er it strays, 110 Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms--at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; h.o.a.ry and naked are its walls, and raise 115 Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.

XIV