The tears into his eyes were brought, So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. Comp. 1798. Pub. 1798. [Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the Comb, in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The brook ran down a sloping rock so as to make a waterfall considerable for that county, and across the pool below had fallen a tree, an ash if I rightly remember, from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, after an interval of more than forty years, this interesting feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep along without difficulty.] I HEARD a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,1 And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and played, The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge thus describes it, in Lines addressed to Charles Lamb The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep, Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock Flings arching-like a bridge ;-that branchless ash, Fanned by the waterfall! This grove is, of all the localities around Alfoxden, the one chiefly associated with Wordsworth. There is as yet no path to the waterfall, as suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place; but, in 1880, I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored—an ash tree having fallen across the glen, and reproduced the scene described in the Fenwick note.--ED. [Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil like those of the banyan tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed.] It is the first mild day of March : The redbreast sings from the tall larch There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Edward will come with you-and, pray, No joyless forms shall regulate We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: -It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason:1 Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make,2 Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, And bring no book: for this one day In editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, "Lines written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they were addressed." From 1820 to 1843 the title was, "To my Sister; written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my little boy." After 1845 it was simply "To my Sister." The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be identified.-ED. [Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were written in the spring of 1799. I had the pleasure of again seeing, with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years after.] 1 A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 1820. I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. You could not lay a hair between, 1800. |