On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis Would he forget those Beings to whose minds The world, and human life, appeared a scene 2 On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died, this seat his holy monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger henceforth be warned; and know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, The world, and man himself appeared a scene. 1798. With mournful joy, to think that others felt. 1798 Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart. The place where this Yew-tree stood may be found without difficulty. It was about three-quarters of a mile from Hawkshead, on the eastern shore of the lake, a little to the left above the present highway, as you go towards Sawrey. Mr Bowman, the son of Wordsworth's last teacher at the grammar-school of Hawkshead, told me that it stood about forty yards nearer the village than the yew which now stands on the roadside, and is sometimes called "Wordsworth's Yew." In his school-days the road passed right through the unenclosed common, and the tree was a conspicuous object. It was removed, he says, owing to the popular belief that its leaves were poisonous, and might injure the cattle grazing in the common. The present tree is erroneously called Wordsworth's yew, its proximity to the place where the tree of the poem stood having given rise to the tradition.—ED. [Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood relatively to each other, that the reader (for I thought of the stage at the time it was written) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read "Redpath's History of the Borders," but found there nothing to my purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of "Remorse ;" and it happened soon after that, through one of the Mr Pooles', Mr Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays, and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and (I believe, with Coleridge's) was offered to Mr Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself, I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no disappointment when the piece was judiciously returned as not calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr C.'s play was, as is well known, brought forward several years after, through the kindness of Mr Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the apparently motiveless actions of bad men intelligible to careful observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of the changes through which the French Revolution passed.] The following is the "short printed note" mentioned in the above:This Dramatic Piece, as noticed in its title-page, was composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within, two or three months, unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the trial to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent oppor tunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it was while this knowledge was fresh upon my memory that the Tragedy of the Borderers was composed. SCENE-Borders of England and Scotland. TIME-The Reign of Henry III. Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper, however, to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this Tragedy. February 28, 1842. ACT I. SCENE, Road in a Wood. WALLACE and LACY. Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let us hie Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. -Pity that our young Chief will have no part In this good service. Wal. Rather let us grieve That, in the undertaking which has caused To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. Lacy. True; and, remembering how the Band have proved That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, Well may we wonder he has gained such power Wal. I have heard Of some dark deed to which in early life You knew his bearing In Palestine? Lacy. Where he despised alike Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; Let us begone-the Band may else be foiled. [Exeunt. Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED. Wil. Be cautious, my dear Master! Mar. I perceive That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle About their love, as if to keep it warm. Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, For such he is Mar. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him? Wil. You know that you have saved his life. I know it. Wil. And that he hates you!-Pardon me, perhaps That word was hasty. Mar. Fy! no more of it. Wil. Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden To a proud Soul.-Nobody loves this Oswald— Yourself, you do not love him. Mar. I honour him. I do more, Strong feelings to his heart Are natural; and from no one can be learnt More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience |