"Dear Wordsworth--I received a copy of 'Peter Bell' a week ago, and I hope the author will not be offended if I say I do not much relish it.

The humour, if it is meant for humour, is forced; and then the price!--sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind, I do not mean _your_ 'Peter Bell', but _a Peter Bell_, which preceded it about a week, and is in every bookseller's shop window in London, the type and paper nothing differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the supplementary preface quoting, as the author's words, an extract from the supplementary preface to the 'Lyrical Ballads.' Is there no law against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel whipt at the cart's tail." ('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by A. Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)

Barron Field wrote on the t.i.tle-page of his copy of the edition of 'Peter Bell', 1819,

"And his carcase was cast in the way, and the a.s.s stood by it."

1 Kings xiii. 24.--Ed.]

SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: This stanza, which was deleted from every edition of 'Peter Bell' after the two of 1819, was prefixed by Sh.e.l.ley to his poem of 'Peter Bell the Third', and many of his contemporaries thought that it was an invention of Sh.e.l.ley's. See the note which follows this poem, p. 50. Crabb Robinson wrote in his 'Diary', June 6, 1812:

"Mrs. Basil Montagu told me she had no doubt she had suggested this image to Wordsworth by relating to him an anecdote. A person, walking in a friend's garden, looking in at a window, saw a company of ladies at a table near the window, with countenances _fixed_. In an instant he was aware of their condition, and broke the window. He saved them from incipient suffocation."

Wordsworth subsequently said that he had omitted the stanza only in deference to the "unco guid." Crabb Robinson remonstrated with him against its exclusion.--Ed.]

LINES,[A] COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, JULY 13, 1798 [B]

Composed July 1798.--Published 1798

[July 1798. No poem of mine was composed under circ.u.mstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes, the "Lyrical Ballads," as first published at Bristol by Cottle.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters![C] and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft [1] inland murmur. [D]--Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 That [2] on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. [3] Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 15 Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! [E]

With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me [4]

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 25 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And pa.s.sing even into my purer mind, [5] 30 With tranquil restoration:--feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence [6]

On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts 35 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight 40 Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood 45 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. 50 If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft-- In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 55 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-- How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, [7]

How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 60 With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 65 That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 70 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coa.r.s.er pleasures of my boyish days, 75 And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.--I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a pa.s.sion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 80 Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appet.i.te; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor [8] any interest Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past, 85 And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. [F] Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned 90 To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor [9] harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 95 A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, 100 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, 105 And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, [G]

And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, 110 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more 115 Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read 120 My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes, [H] Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray 125 The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed 130 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 135 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, 140 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, 145 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear 150 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence [B]--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came 155 Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 160 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

... sweet ... 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

Which ... 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

... with their unripe fruits, Among the woods and copses lose themselves, Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb The wild green landscape ... 1798.

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 1802.]

[Variant 4:

1827.

... Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me, 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1798.

... inmost mind, MS.]