The Poem
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| The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out; He stopped his horses at the word, But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard. The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; But, hearing soon upon the blast The cry, I bade him halt again. Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. "My cloak!" no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; And down from off her seat she leapt. "What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, A miserable rag indeed! "And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild— "Then come with me into the chaise." Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end. "My child, in Durham do you dwell?" She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless. "And I to Durham, Sir, belong." Again, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tattered cloak! The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she had lost her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified. Up to the tavern-door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, To buy a new cloak for the old. "And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell! [Note] [Contents 1802] [Main Contents] | [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] | 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1845 | |
| When suddenly I seem'd to hear A moan, a lamentable sound. | 1807 |
When suddenly I seem'd to hear
A moan, a lamentable sound.
| 1845 | |
| And soon I heard upon the blast The voice, and bade .... | 1807 |
And soon I heard upon the blast
The voice, and bade ....
| 1845 | |
| Said I, alighting on the ground, "What can it be, this piteous moan?" | 1807 |
| Forthwith alighted on the ground To learn what voice the piteous moan Had made, a little girl I found, | C. |
Said I, alighting on the ground,
"What can it be, this piteous moan?"
Forthwith alighted on the ground
To learn what voice the piteous moan
Had made, a little girl I found,
| 1836 | |
| "My Cloak!" the word was last and first, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst; | 1807 |
| "My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake No other word, but loudly wept, | C. |
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first,
And loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her very heart would burst;
"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake
No other word, but loudly wept,
| 1815 | |
| ... off the Chaise ... | 1807 |
... off the Chaise ...
| 1845 | |
| 'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the Cloak; | 1807 |
| ... between ... | 1840 |
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the Cloak;
... between ...
| 1836 | |
| A wretched, wretched rag indeed! | 1807 |
A wretched, wretched rag indeed!
| 1845 | |
| She sate like one past all relief; Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief | 1807 |
She sate like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief
| 1836 | |
| And then, ... | 1807 |
And then, ...
| 1836 | |
| ... she'd lost ... | 1807 |
... she'd lost ...
There was no sub-title in the edition of 1807.—Ed.
Note:
Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, referring to the revisions of this and other poems:
"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."
See Letters of Charles Lamb (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.—Ed.
[Contents 1802]
[Main Contents]