And what, through strong compunction for the past, He suffered-breaking down in heart and mind!
Doomed to a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve
Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. "You shall return, Julia," said he, " and to your father's house Go with the child.-You have been wretched; yet The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs Too heavily upon the lily's head,
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
Go'tis a town where both of us were born; None will reproach you, for our truth is known; And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate Remain unpitied, pity is not in man.
With ornaments-the prettiest nature yields Or art can fashion-shall you deck our boy,
And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks Till no one can resist him. Now, even now,
I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; My father from the window sees him too; Startled, as if some new-created thing Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods Bounded before him;-but the unweeting Child Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart So that it shall be softened, and our loves
End happily, as they began!"
Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen.
Propping a pale and melancholy face
Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus
His head upon one breast, while from the other
The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. -That pillow is no longer to be thine,
Fond Youth that mournful solace now must pass Into the list of things that cannot be ! Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears
The sentence, by her mother's lips pronounced, That dooms her to a convent.-Who shall tell, Who dares report, the tidings to the lord Of her affections? so they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down: The word, by others dreaded, he can hear Composed and silent, without visible sign Of even the least emotion. Noting this, When the impatient object of his love Upbraided him with slackness, he returned No answer, only took the mother's hand And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain, Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed Was a dependant on1 the obdurate heart Of one who came to disunite their lives For ever-sad alternative! preferred, By the unbending Parents of the Maid, To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. -So be it!
In the city he remained.
A season after Julia had withdrawn
To those religious walls. He, too, departs— Who with him ?-even the senseless Little-one. With that sole charge he passed the city-gates,
For the last time, attendant by the side Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,
In which the Babe was carried.
That rose a brief league distant from the town, The dwellers in that house where he had lodged Accompanied his steps, by anxious love
Impelled; they parted from him there, and stood Watching below till he had disappeared On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took, Throughout that journey, from the vehicle. (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes !) that veiled The tender infant: and at every inn,
And under every hospitable tree
At which the bearers halted or reposed, Laid him with timid care upon his knees,
And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, Upon the nursling which his arms embraced.
This was the manner in which Vaudracour Departed with his infant; and thus reached His father's house, where to the innocent child Admittance was denied. The young man spake No word of indignation or reproof,1 But of his father begged, a last request, That a retreat might be assigned to him Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, With such allowance as his wants required; For wishes he had none. To a Lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew; And thither took with him his motherless Babe,2
And one domestic for their common needs, An aged woman. It consoled him here To attend upon the orphan, and perform Obsequious service to the precious child, Which, after a short time, by some mistake Or indiscretion of the Father, died.—
The Tale I follow to its last recess
Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!
From this time forth he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An Inhabitant
Of that same town, in which the pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs, By chance of business, coming within reach. Of his retirement, to the forest lodge
Repaired, but only found the matron there,1 Who told him that his pains were thrown away, For that her Master never uttered word
To living thing-not even to her.—Behold! While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached; But, seeing some one near, as on the latch
Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk—2 And, like a shadow, glided out of view.
Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place The visitor retired.
Cut off from all intelligence with man,
With an intent to visit him. He reached The house, and only found the Matron there.
But seeing some one near, even as his hand Was stretched towards the garden gate, he shrunk— 1820.
And shunning even the light of common day;
Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France Full speedily resounded, public hope,
Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs, Rouse him but in those solitary shades
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind!
The 'work' referred to in the Fenwick note to this poem is The Prelude (see p. 325 of this volume). Vaudracour and Julia was classed by Wordsworth amongst the "Poems founded on the Affections."-ED.
THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.
[Suggested to her, while beside my sleeping children.]
THE days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty Love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light; "Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain: Then, little Darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.
This poem underwent no change in successive editions. The title in all the earlier ones (1815 to 1842) was "The Cottager to her Infant, by a Female Friend;" and in the preface to the edition of 1815, Wordsworth wrote, "Three short pieces (now first published) are the work of
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