We were his guides. I on that night resolved
That he should wait thy coming till the day

Of resurrection.

Idon.

Miserable Woman,

Too quickly moved, too easily giving way,
I put denial on thy suit, and hence,
With the disastrous issue of last night,
Thy perturbation, and these frantic words.
Be calm, I pray thee!

Mar.

Idon.

Oswald

Name him not.

Enter female Beggar.

Beg. And he is dead!-that Moor-how shall I cross it? By night, by day, never shall I be able

To travel half a mile alone.-Good Lady!

Forgive me!-Saints forgive me.

It would have come to this!

Idon.

Had I thought

What brings you hither? speak!

Beg. (pointing to MARMADUKE). This innocent gentleman.
Sweet heavens! I told him

Such tales of your dead father!-God is my judge,
I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man,
He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce.
Mercy! I said I know not what-oh pity me
I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter-
Pity me, I am haunted;-thrice this day

My conscience made me wish to be struck blind;
And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.

Idon. (to MARMADUKE). Was it my Father?-no, no, no,

for he

Was meek and patient, feeble, old, and blind,

Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life.

-But hear me. For one question I have a heart

That will sustain me. Did you murder him?

Mar. No, not by stroke of arm.

But learn the process:

Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt

Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt,

Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth
And innocence, embodied in his looks,

His words and tones and gestures, did but serve
With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped
Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded.
Then pity crossed the path of my resolve:
Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast
Idonea thy blind Father, on the Ordeal
Of the bleak Waste-left him-and so he died!-

[IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar, ELEANOR, &c.,
crowd round and bear her off.

Why may we speak these things, and do no more;
Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power,
And words that tell these things be heard in vain?
She is not dead. Why!-if I loved this Woman,
I would take care she never woke again;
But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me,
And say no blame was mine-and so, poor fool,
Will waste her curses on another name.

[He walks about distractedly.

Enter OSWALD.

Oswald (to himself). Strong to o'erturn, strong also to

build up.

The starts and sallies of our last encounter

[To MARMADUKE.

Were natural enough; but that, I trust,
Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains
That fettered your nobility of mind—

Delivered heart and head?

Let us to Palestine:

This is a paltry field for enterprise.

Mar. Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue-
'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness,
And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!--
Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient, (ironically).
Start not! Here is another face hard by;
Come, let us take a peep at both together,

And, with a voice at which the deaf will quake,
Resound the praise of your morality—

Of this too much.

[Drawing OSWALD towards the Cottagestops short at the door.

Men are there, millions, Oswald,

Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart
And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised
Above, or sunk below, all further sense
Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight
Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart,
Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine.

Coward I have been; know, there lies not now
Within the compass of a mortal thought,

A deed that I would shrink from;-but to endure,
That is my destiny. May it be thine:
Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth
To feed remorse, to welcome every sting

Of penitential anguish, yea with tears.

When seas and continents shall lie between us-
The wider space the better-we may find
In such a course fit links of sympathy,
An incommunicable rivalship

Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view.

[Confused voices-several of the band enter -rush upon OSWALD and seize him.

One of them. I would have dogged him to the jaws of

hell

Osw. Ha! is it so!-That vagrant Hag!-this comes Of having left a thing like her alive!

Several voices. Despatch him!

Osw.

If I pass beneath a rock

And shout, and, with the echo of my voice,

Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me,

I die without dishonour. Famished, starved,

A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!

[Aside.

[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE.

Wal. "Tis done! (stabs him).

Another of the band. The ruthless traitor!

Mar.

A rash deed!

With that reproof I do resign a station

Of which I have been proud.

Wil. (approaching MARMADUKE). O my poor master!
Mar. Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred,

Why art thou here?

[Turning to WALLACE.

Wallace, upon these Borders,
Many there be whose eyes will not want cause
To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms!
Raise on that weary Waste a monument
That may record my story: nor let words

Few must they be, and delicate in their touch
As light itself-be there withheld from Her
Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan
By One who would have died a thousand times,
To shield her from a moment's harm.
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her

To you,

In all things worthier of that noble birth,

Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve
Of restoration with your tenderest care
Watch over her, I pray-sustain her-

Several of the band (eagerly).

Captain!

Mar. No more of that; in silence hear A hermitage has furnished fit relief

To some offenders; other penitents,

Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer must I go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on-

A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life-till anger is appeased

In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

Comp. 1797.

Pub. 1800.

[Written 1801 or 1802. This arose out of my observations of the affecting music of these birds, hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning.]

The preceding Fenwick note to this poem is manifestly inaccurate as to date, since the poem is printed in the Lyrical Ballads of 1800. In the edition of 1836 the date of composition is given as 1797, and this date is followed by Mr Carter, the editor of 1857. Miss Wordsworth's journal gives no date; and, as the Fenwick note is certainly incorrect— and the poem must have been written before the edition of 1800 came out-it seems best to trust to the date sanctioned by Wordsworth himself in 1836, and followed by his literary executor in 1857.-ED.

AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has hung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.