Lyrical Ballads, With Other Poems, 1800, Vol. I.

W >> William Wordsworth >> Lyrical Ballads, With Other Poems, 1800, Vol. I.

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If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the theory upon which
these poems are written, it would have been my duty to develope the
various causes upon which the pleasure received from metrical
language depends. Among the chief of these causes is to be reckoned
a principle which must be well known to those who have made any of
the Arts the object of accurate reflection; I mean the pleasure
which the mind derives from the perception of similitude in
dissimilitude. This principle is the great spring of the activity of
our minds and their chief feeder. From this principle the direction
of the sexual appetite, and all the passions connected with it take
their origin: It is the life of our ordinary conversation; and upon
the accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, and
dissimilitude in similitude are perceived, depend our taste and our
moral feelings. It would not have been a useless employment to have
applied this principle to the consideration of metre, and to have
shewn that metre is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, and to
have pointed out in what manner that pleasure is produced. But my
limits will not permit me to enter upon this subject, and I must
content myself with a general summary.

I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful
feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in
tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till by a species of
reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion,
similar to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is
gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. In
this mood successful composition generally begins, and in a mood
similar to this it is carried on; but the emotion, of whatever kind
and in whatever degree, from various causes is qualified by various
pleasures, so that in describing any passions whatsoever, which are
voluntarily described, the mind will upon the whole be in a state of
enjoyment. Now if Nature be thus cautious in preserving in a state
of enjoyment a being thus employed, the Poet ought to profit by the
lesson thus held forth to him, and ought especially to take care,
that whatever passions he communicates to his Reader, those passions,
if his Reader's mind be sound and vigorous, should always be
accompanied with an overbalance of pleasure. Now the music of
harmonious metrical language, the sense of difficulty overcome, and
the blind association of pleasure which has been previously received
from works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar construction,
all these imperceptibly make up a complex feeling of delight, which
is of the most important use in tempering the painful feeling which
will always be found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the
deeper passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic and
impassioned poetry; while in lighter compositions the ease and
gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers are themselves
confessedly a principal source of the gratification of the Reader. I
might perhaps include all which it is _necessary_ to say upon this
subject by affirming what few persons will deny, that of two
descriptions either of passions, manners, or characters, each of
them equally well executed, the one in prose and the other in verse,
the verse will be read a hundred times where the prose is read once.
We see that Pope by the power of verse alone, has contrived to
render the plainest common sense interesting, and even frequently to
invest it with the appearance of passion. In consequence of these
convictions I related in metre the Tale of GOODY BLAKE and HARRY GILL,
which is one of the rudest of this collection. I wished to draw
attention to the truth that the power of the human imagination is
sufficient to produce such changes even in our physical nature as
might almost appear miraculous. The truth is an important one; the
fact (for it is a _fact_) is a valuable illustration of it. And I
have the satisfaction of knowing that it has been communicated to
many hundreds of people who would never have heard of it, had it not
been narrated as a Ballad, and in a more impressive metre than is
usual in Ballads.

Having thus adverted to a few of the reasons why I have written in
verse, and why I have chosen subjects from common life, and
endeavoured to bring my language near to the real language of men,
if I have been too minute in pleading my own cause, I have at the
same time been treating a subject of general interest; and it is for
this reason that I request the Reader's permission to add a few
words with reference solely to these particular poems, and to some
defects which will probably be found in them. I am sensible that my
associations must have sometimes been particular instead of general,
and that, consequently, giving to things a false importance,
sometimes from diseased impulses I may have written upon unworthy
subject; but I am less apprehensive on this account, than that my
language may frequently have suffered from those arbitrary
connections of feelings and ideas with particular words, from which
no man can altogether protect himself. Hence I have no doubt that in
some instances feelings even of the ludicrous may be given to my
Readers by expressions which appeared to me tender and pathetic.
Such faulty expressions, were I convinced they were faulty at present,
and that they must necessarily continue to be so, I would willingly
take all reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to make
these alterations on the simple authority of a few individuals, or
even of certain classes of men; for where the understanding of an
Author is not convinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be
done without great injury to himself: for his own feelings are his
stay and support, and if he sets them aside in one instance, he may
be induced to repeat this act till his mind loses all confidence in
itself and becomes utterly debilitated. To this it may be added,
that the Reader ought never to forget that he is himself exposed to
the same errors as the Poet, and perhaps in a much greater degree:
for there can be no presumption in saying that it is not probable he
will be so well acquainted with the various stages of meaning
through which words have passed, or with the fickleness or stability
of the relations of particular ideas to each other; and above all,
since he is so much less interested in the subject, he may decide
lightly and carelessly.

Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he will permit me to
caution him against a mode of false criticism which has been applied
to Poetry in which the language closely resembles that of life and
nature. Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies of which
Dr. Johnson's Stanza is a fair specimen.

"I put my hat upon my head,
And walk'd into the Strand,
And there I met another man
Whose hat was in his hand."

Immediately under these lines I will place one of the most justly
admired stanzas of the "_Babes_ in the Wood."

"These pretty Babes with hand in hand
Went wandering up and down;
But never more they saw the Man
Approaching from the Town."

In both of these stanzas the words, and the order of the words, in
no respect differ from the most unimpassioned conversation. There
are words in both, for example, "the Strand," and "the Town,"
connected with none but the most familiar ideas; yet the one stanza
we admit as admirable, and the other as a fair example of the
superlatively contemptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from
the metre, not from the language, not from the order of the words;
but the _matter_ expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible.
The proper method of treating trivial and simple verses to which
Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a fair parallelism is not to say this
is a bad kind of poetry, or this is not poetry, but this wants sense;
it is neither interesting in itself, nor can _lead_ to any thing
interesting; the images neither originate in that sane state of
feeling which arises out of thought, nor can excite thought or
feeling in the Reader. This is the only sensible manner of dealing
with such verses: Why trouble yourself about the species till you
have previously decided upon the genus? Why take pains to prove that
an Ape is not a Newton when it is self-evident that he is not a man.

I have one request to make of my Reader, which is, that in judging
these Poems he would decide by his own feelings genuinely, and not
by reflection upon what will probably be the judgment of others. How
common is it to hear a person say, "I myself do not object to this
style of composition or this or that expression, but to such and
such classes of people it will appear mean or ludicrous." This mode
of criticism so destructive of all sound unadulterated judgment is
almost universal: I have therefore to request that the Reader would
abide independently by his own feelings, and that if he finds
himself affected he would not suffer such conjectures to interfere
with his pleasure.

If an Author by any single composition has impressed us with respect
for his talents, it is useful to consider this as affording a
presumption, that, on other occasions where we have been displeased,
he nevertheless may not have written ill or absurdly; and, further,
to give him so much credit for this one composition as may induce us
to review what has displeased us with more care than we should
otherwise have bestowed upon it. This is not only an act of justice,
but in our decisions upon poetry especially, may conduce in a high
degree to the improvement of our own taste: for an _accurate_ taste
in Poetry and in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has
observed, is an _acquired_ talent, which can only be produced by
thought and a long continued intercourse with the best models of
composition. This is mentioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as
to prevent the most inexperienced Reader from judging for himself,
(I have already said that I wish him to judge for himself;) but
merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if
Poetry be a subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the
judgment may be erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily
will be so.

I know that nothing would have so effectually contributed to further
the end which I have in view as to have shewn of what kind the
pleasure is, and how the pleasure is produced which is confessedly
produced by metrical composition essentially different from what I
have here endeavoured to recommend; for the Reader will say that he
has been pleased by such composition and what can I do more for him?
The power of any art is limited and he will suspect that if I propose
to furnish him with new friends it is only upon condition of his
abandoning his old friends. Besides, as I have said, the Reader is
himself conscious of the pleasure which he has received from such
composition, composition to which he has peculiarly attached the
endearing name of Poetry; and all men feel an habitual gratitude,
and something of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have
long continued to please them: we not only wish to be pleased, but
to be pleased in that particular way in which we have been
accustomed to be pleased. There is a host of arguments in these
feelings; and I should be the less able to combat them successfully,
as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to enjoy the
Poetry which I am recommending, it would be necessary to give up
much of what is ordinarily enjoyed. But would my limits have
permitted me to point out how this pleasure is produced, I might
have removed many obstacles, and assisted my Reader in perceiving
that the powers of language are not so limited as he may suppose; and
that it is possible that poetry may give other enjoyments, of a purer,
more lasting, and more exquisite nature. But this part of my subject
I have been obliged altogether to omit: as it has been less my
present aim to prove that the interest excited by some other kinds
of poetry is less vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the
mind, than to offer reasons for presuming, that, if the object which
I have proposed to myself were adequately attained, a species of
poetry would be produced, which is genuine poetry; in its nature
well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and likewise important
in the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations. From what
has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, the Reader will be
able clearly to perceive the object which I have proposed to myself:
he will determine how far I have attained this object; and, what is
a much more important question, whether it be worth attaining; and
upon the decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the
approbation of the public.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?"

"Where are your books? that light bequeath'd
To beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath'd
From dead men to their kind."

"You look round on your mother earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply.

"The eye it cannot chuse but see,
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against, or with our will."

"Nor less I deem that there are powers
Which of themselves our minds impress,
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness."

"Think you, mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?"

"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away."

THE TABLES TURNED;

_An Evening Scene, on the same Subject_,

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double.

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis dull and endless strife,
Come, here the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music; on my life
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
And he is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by chearfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man;
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mishapes the beauteous forms of things;
--We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

_ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY & DECAY_

_A SKETCH_.

The little hedge-row birds
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought--He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten, one to whom
Long patience has such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing, of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy, what the old man hardly feels.
--I asked him whither he was bound, and what
The object of his journey; he replied
That he was going many miles to take
A last leave of his son, a mariner,
Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth,
And there was lying in an hospital.

THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN.

[_When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his
journey with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with
Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the
situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track
which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow,
or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desart; unless he should
have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians.
It is unnecessary to add that the females are equally, or still more,
exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work_, Hearne's
Journey _from_ Hudson's Bay _to the_ Northern Ocean. _In the high
Northern Latititudes, as the same writer informs us, when the
Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling
and a crackling noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first
stanza of the following poem._]

THE COMPLAINT, etc.

Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars they were among my dreams;
In sleep did I behold the skies,
I saw the crackling flashes drive;
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive.
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!

My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain.
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live,
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie;
Alone I cannot fear to die.

Alas! you might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon despair o'er me prevailed;
Too soon my heartless spirit failed;
When you were gone my limbs were stronger,
And Oh how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
My friends, when you were gone away.

My child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran,
A most strange something did I see;
--As if he strove to be a man,
That he might pull the sledge for me.
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a little child.

My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
Oh wind that o'er my head art flying,
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send.
Too soon, my friends, you went away;
For I had many things to say.

I'll follow you across the snow,
You travel heavily and slow:
In spite of all my weary pain,
I'll look upon your tents again.
My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water which beside it stood;
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I,
Then wherefore should I fear to die?

My journey will be shortly run,
I shall not see another sun,
I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken child! if I
For once could have thee close to me,
With happy heart I then should die,
And my last thoughts would happy be.
I feel my body die away,
I shall not see another day.

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

In distant countries I have been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad high-way, I met;
Along the broad high-way he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet.
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
Then with his coat he made essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I follow'd him, and said, "My friend
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
--"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock."

When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran.
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see,
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increas'd my store.

Year after year my stock it grew,
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As sweet a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the mountain did they feed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive.
--This lusty lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.

Six children, Sir! had I to feed,
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief,
I of the parish ask'd relief.
They said I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the mountain fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread:
"Do this; how can we give to you,"
They cried, "what to the poor is due?"

I sold a sheep as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away!
For me it was a woeful day.

Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopp'd,
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.
Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
And I may say that many a time
I wished they all were gone:
They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day.

To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies cross'd my mind,
And every man I chanc'd to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without,
And crazily, and wearily
I went my work about.
Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day.

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore distress,
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock, it seemed to melt away.

They dwindled. Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;
And then at last, from three to two;
And of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one,
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock.

LINES

_Left upon a seat in a YEW-TREE, which stands near the
Lake of ESTHWAITE, on a desolate part of the shore,
yet commanding a beautiful prospect_.

--Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

--Who he was
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
First covered o'er and taught this aged tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember.--He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed
And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth,
A favored being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow, 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate
And scorn, against all enemies prepared.
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service: he was like a plant
Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds,
But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by,
Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once,
With indignation did he turn away
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis
Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time
When Nature had subdued him to herself
Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died, this seat his only monument.

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