The Poem
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| In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,— My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of Thee, sweet Daisy! Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few grey hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee; Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted, Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling, Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!—a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,—when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;—thou not in vain Art Nature's favourite. [Note] [Contents 1802] [Main Contents] | [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] | [B] [C] | 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 |
The extract from Wither was first prefixed to this poem in the edition of 1815. The late Mr. Dykes Campbell was of opinion that Charles Lamb had suggested this motto to Wordsworth, as The Shepherd's Hunting was Lamb's "prime favourite" amongst Wither's poems. It may be as well to note that his quotation was erroneous in two places. His "instruction" should be "invention" (l. 3), and his "the" (in l. 4) should be "her."—Ed.
| 1807 | |
| To gentle sympathies awake, | MS. |
To gentle sympathies awake,
| 1807 | |
| And Nature's love of Thee partake, Her much-loved Daisy! | 1836 |
| Of her sweet Daisy. | C. |
And Nature's love of Thee partake,
Her much-loved Daisy!
Of her sweet Daisy.
The text of 1840 returns to the reading of 1807.
| 1836 | |
| When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs; Spring cannot shun thee; | 1807 |
| When Winter decks his few grey hairs Thee in the scanty wreath he wears; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee; | 1827 |
When soothed a while by milder airs,
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly shades his few grey hairs;
Spring cannot shun thee;
When Winter decks his few grey hairs
Thee in the scanty wreath he wears;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
| 1836 | |
| ... in the lane; If welcome once thou count'st it gain; Thou art not daunted, Nor car'st if thou be set at naught; | 1807 |
| If welcom'd ... | 1815 |
... in the lane;
If welcome once thou count'st it gain;
Thou art not daunted,
Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;
If welcom'd ...
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.
| 1820 | |
| He need ... | 1807 |
He need ...
| 1807 | |
| ... some chance delight; | MS. |
... some chance delight;
| 1807 | |
| Some charm ... | C. |
Some charm ...
| 1807 | |
| And some ... | MS. |
And some ...
| 1836 | |
| When, smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise alert and gay, Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play With kindred motion: | 1807 |
| With kindred gladness: | 1815 |
| Then Daisy! do my spirits play, With cheerful motion. | MS. |
When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise alert and gay,
Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play
With kindred motion:
With kindred gladness:
Then Daisy! do my spirits play,
With cheerful motion.
| 1815 | |
| At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press The ground, as if in thankfulness Without some feeling, more or less, Of true devotion. | 1807 |
| The ground in modest thankfulness | MS. |
At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press
The ground, as if in thankfulness
Without some feeling, more or less,
Of true devotion.
The ground in modest thankfulness
| 1807 | |
| But more than all I number yet O bounteous Flower! another debt Which I to thee wherever met Am daily owing; | MS. |
But more than all I number yet
O bounteous Flower! another debt
Which I to thee wherever met
Am daily owing;
| 1836 | |
| Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy course, bold lover of the sun, And chearful when the day's begun As morning Leveret, Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain; Thou wilt be more belov'd by men In times to come; thou not in vain | 1807 |
| Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Dear shalt thou be to future men As in old time;— | 1815 |
| Dear thou shalt be | 1820 |
Child of the Year! that round dost run
Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
And chearful when the day's begun
As morning Leveret,
Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain;
Thou wilt be more belov'd by men
In times to come; thou not in vain
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Dear shalt thou be to future men
As in old time;—
Dear thou shalt be
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1815.
His Muse.—W. W. 1815.
The extract is from The Shepherds Hunting, eclogue fourth, ll. 368-80.—Ed.
See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.—W. W. 1815.
This Poem, and two others to the same Flower, which the Reader will find in the second Volume, were written in the year 1802; which is mentioned, because in some of the ideas, though not in the manner in which those ideas are connected, and likewise even in some of the expressions, they bear a striking resemblance to a Poem (lately published) of Mr. Montgomery, entitled,
A Field Flower
. This being said, Mr. Montgomery will not think any apology due to him; I cannot however help addressing him in the words of the Father of English Poets:
'Though it happe me to rehersin—
That ye han in your freshe songis saied,
Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied,
Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour
Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour.'
W. W. 1807.
In the edition of 1836, the following variation of the text of this note occurs: "There is a resemblance to passages in a Poem."—Ed.
Note:
For illustration of the last stanza, see Chaucer's Prologue to The Legend of Good Women.
'As I seyde erst, whanne comen is the May,
That in my bed ther daweth me no day,
That I nam uppe and walkyng in the mede,
To seen this floure agein the sonne sprede,
Whan it up rysith erly by the morwe;
That blisful sight softneth al my sorwe,
So glad am I, whan that I have presence
Of it, to doon it alle reverence,
As she that is of alle floures flour.'
...
To seen this flour so yong, so fresshe of hewe,
Constreynde me with so gredy desire,
That in myn herte I feele yet the fire,
That made me to ryse er yt wer day,
And this was now the firste morwe of May,
With dredful hert, and glad devocioun
For to ben at the resurreccion
Of this flour, whan that yt shulde unclose
Agayne the sonne, that roos as rede as rose
...
And doune on knes anoon ryght I me sette,
And as I koude, this fresshe flour I grette,
Knelying alwey, til it unclosed was,
Upon the smale, softe, swote gras.
Again, in The
Cuckoo and the Nightingale
, after a wakeful night, the Poet rises at dawn, and wandering forth, reaches a "laund of white and green."
'So feire oon had I nevere in bene,
The grounde was grene, y poudred with daysé,
The floures and the gras ilike al hie,
Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.'
Ed.
[Contents 1802]
[Main Contents]