O dearest, dearest boy! my heart Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. In edd. 1798 to 1843 the title of this Poem is "Anecdote for Fathers, showing how the practice of lying may be taught."--ED, [Written at Alfoxden. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn which I had often past in calm and bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself," Cannot I by some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently an impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?" I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir George Beaumont painted a picture from it which Wilkie thought his best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal Mount afterwards, he said, "I could make a better, and would like to paint the same subject over again." The sky in this picture is nobly done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however, of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.] 1 1836. I. "THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say Not higher than a two years' child. It stands erect, this aged Thorn; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone No leaves it has, no thorny points. 1798. II. Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown And hung with heavy tufts of moss, Up from the earth these mosses creep, And all have joined in one endeavour 2 III. High on a mountain's highest ridge, Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, Of water-never dry, Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air.3 IV. And, close beside this aged Thorn, All lovely colours there you see, V. Ah me! what lovely tints are there Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. VI. Now would you see this aged Thorn, For oft there sits between the heap And that same pond of which I spoke, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!' VII. At all times of the day and night And there, beside the Thorn, she sits And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" VIII. "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, And why sits she beside the Thorn And wherefore does she cry?— O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?" IX. "I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But would you gladly view the spot, The hillock like an infant's grave,1 I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there." |