The Poem
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| Now we are tired of boisterous joy, Have romped enough, my little Boy! Jane hangs her head upon my breast, And you shall bring your stool and rest; This corner is your own. There! take your seat, and let me see That you can listen quietly: And, as I promised, I will tell That strange adventure which befel A poor blind Highland Boy. A Highland Boy!—why call him so? Because, my Darlings, ye must know That, under hills which rise like towers, Far higher hills than these of ours! He from his birth had lived. He ne'er had seen one earthly sight The sun, the day; the stars, the night; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, Or woman, man, or child. And yet he neither drooped nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind; For God took pity on the Boy, And was his friend; and gave him joy Of which we nothing know. His Mother, too, no doubt, above Her other children him did love: For, was she here, or was she there, She thought of him with constant care, And more than mother's love. And proud she was of heart, when clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, And bonnet with a feather gay, To Kirk he on the sabbath day Went hand in hand with her. A dog too, had he; not for need, But one to play with and to feed; Which would have led him, if bereft Of company or friends, and left Without a better guide. And then the bagpipes he could blow— And thus from house to house would go; And all were pleased to hear and see, For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind Boy. Yet he had many a restless dream; Both when he heard the eagles scream, And when he heard the torrents roar, And heard the water beat the shore Near which their cottage stood. Beside a lake their cottage stood, Not small like ours, a peaceful flood; But one of mighty size, and strange; That, rough or smooth, is full of change, And stirring in its bed. For to this lake, by night and day, The great Sea-water finds its way Through long, long windings of the hills And drinks up all the pretty rills And rivers large and strong: Then hurries back the road it came— Returns, on errand still the same; This did it when the earth was new; And this for evermore will do, As long as earth shall last. And, with the coming of the tide, Come boats and ships that safely ride Between the woods and lofty rocks; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of distant lands. And of those tales, whate'er they were, The blind Boy always had his share; Whether of mighty towns, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales, Or wonders of the Deep. Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, When from the water-side he heard The shouting, and the jolly cheers; The bustle of the mariners In stillness or in storm. But what do his desires avail? For He must never handle sail; Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, Upon the rocking waves. His Mother often thought, and said, What sin would be upon her head If she should suffer this: "My Son, Whate'er you do, leave this undone; The danger is so great." Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance, Without a shadow of mischance, Till he was ten years old. When one day (and now mark me well, Ye soon shall know how this befell) He in a vessel of his own, On the swift flood is hurrying down, Down to the mighty Sea. In such a vessel never more May human creature leave the Shore! If this or that way he should stir, Woe to the poor blind Mariner! For death will be his doom. But say what bears him?—Ye have seen The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright; Gifts which, for wonder or delight, Are brought in ships from far. Such gifts had those seafaring men Spread round that haven in the glen; Each hut, perchance, might have its own; And to the Boy they all were known— He knew and prized them all. The rarest was a Turtle-shell Which he, poor Child, had studied well; A shell of ample size, and light As the pearly car of Amphitrite, That sportive dolphins drew. And, as a Coracle that braves On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, This shell upon the deep would swim, And gaily lift its fearless brim Above the tossing surge. And this the little blind Boy knew: And he a story strange yet true Had heard, how in a shell like this An English Boy, O thought of bliss! Had stoutly launched from shore; Launched from the margin of a bay Among the Indian isles, where lay His father's ship, and had sailed far— To join that gallant ship of war, In his delightful shell. Our Highland Boy oft visited 'The house that held this prize; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one was at home, And found the door unbarred. While there he sate, alone and blind, That story flashed upon his mind;— A bold thought roused him, and he took The shell from out its secret nook, And bore it on his head. He launched his vessel,—and in pride Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side, Stepped into it—his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee Sang through the adventurer's hair. A while he stood upon his feet; He felt the motion—took his seat; Still better pleased as more and more The tide retreated from the shore, And sucked, and sucked him in. And there he is in face of Heaven. How rapidly the Child is driven! The fourth part of a mile, I ween, He thus had gone, ere he was seen By any human eye. But when he was first seen, oh me What shrieking and what misery! For many saw; among the rest His Mother, she who loved him best, She saw her poor blind Boy. But for the child, the sightless Boy, It is the triumph of his joy! The bravest traveller in balloon, Mounting as if to reach the moon, Was never half so blessed. And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent, and gay! For, if good Angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate, This Child will take no harm. But now the passionate lament, Which from the crowd on shore was sent, The cries which broke from old and young In Gaelic, or the English tongue, Are stifled—all is still. And quickly with a silent crew A boat is ready to pursue; And from the shore their course they take, And swiftly down the running lake They follow the blind Boy. But soon they move with softer pace; So have ye seen the fowler chase On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast A youngling of the wild-duck's nest With deftly-lifted oar; Or as the wily sailors crept To seize (while on the Deep it slept) The hapless creature which did dwell Erewhile within the dancing shell, They steal upon their prey. With sound the least that can be made, They follow, more and more afraid, More cautious as they draw more near; But in his darkness he can hear, And guesses their intent. "Lei-gha—Lei-gha"—he then cried out, "Lei-gha—Lei-gha"—with eager shout; Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, And what he meant was, "Keep away, And leave me to myself!" Alas! and when he felt their hands— You've often heard of magic wands, That with a motion overthrow A palace of the proudest show, Or melt it into air: So all his dreams—that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright— All vanished;—'twas a heartfelt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss, As he had ever known. But hark! a gratulating voice, With which the very hills rejoice: 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly Have watched the event, and now can see That he is safe at last. And then, when he was brought to land, Full sure they were a happy band, Which, gathering round, did on the banks Of that great Water give God thanks, And welcomed the poor Child. And in the general joy of heart The blind Boy's little dog took part; He leapt about, and oft did kiss His master's hands in sign of bliss, With sound like lamentation. But most of all, his Mother dear, She who had fainted with her fear, Rejoiced when waking she espies The Child; when she can trust her eyes, And touches the blind Boy. She led him home, and wept amain, When he was in the house again: Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes; She kissed him—how could she chastise? She was too happy far. Thus, after he had fondly braved The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved; And, though his fancies had been wild, Yet he was pleased and reconciled To live in peace on shore. And in the lonely Highland dell Still do they keep the Turtle-shell; And long the story will repeat Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, And how he was preserved. [Note] [Contents 1803] [Main Contents] | [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] | [B] [C] [D] [E] | 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 |
| 1827 | |
| We've ... | 1807 |
We've ...
| 1807 | |
| How ... | MS. |
How ...
| 1807 | |
| Aye, willingly, and what is more One which you never heard before, True story this which I shall tell | MS. |
Aye, willingly, and what is more
One which you never heard before,
True story this which I shall tell
| 1837 | |
| In land where many a mountain towers, | 1807 |
In land where many a mountain towers,
| 1807 | |
| ... could ... | MS. |
... could ...
| 1827 | |
| ... sweetly ... | 1807 |
... sweetly ...
| 1815 | |
| You ... | 1807 |
You ...
| 1837 | |
| He's in a vessel of his own, On the swift water hurrying down Towards the mighty Sea. | 1807 |
| He in a vessel of his own, On the swift flood is hurrying down | 1827 |
| Towards the great, great Sea. | MS. |
He's in a vessel of his own,
On the swift water hurrying down
Towards the mighty Sea.
He in a vessel of his own,
On the swift flood is hurrying down
Towards the great, great Sea.
| 1815 | |
| ... ne'er before Did human Creature ... | 1807 |
... ne'er before
Did human Creature ...
| The following stanza was only in the edition of 1807: | |
|
Strong is the current; but be mild,
Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!
If ye in anger fret or chafe,
A Bee-hive would be ship as safe
As that in which he sails.
| 1815 | |
| But say, what was it? Thought of fear! Well may ye tremble when ye hear! —A Household Tub, like one of those, Which women use to wash their clothes, This carried the blind Boy. | 1807 |
But say, what was it? Thought of fear!
Well may ye tremble when ye hear!
—A Household Tub, like one of those,
Which women use to wash their clothes,
This carried the blind Boy.
| 1820 | |
| And one, the rarest, was a Shell Which he, poor Child, had studied well; The Shell of a green Turtle, thin And hollow;—you might sit therein. It was so wide and deep. | 1815 |
And one, the rarest, was a Shell
Which he, poor Child, had studied well;
The Shell of a green Turtle, thin
And hollow;—you might sit therein.
It was so wide and deep.
| 1820 | |
| 'Twas even the largest of its kind, Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind; So light a Shell that it would swim, And gaily lift its fearless brim Above the tossing waves. | 1815 |
'Twas even the largest of its kind,
Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind;
So light a Shell that it would swim,
And gaily lift its fearless brim
Above the tossing waves.
| 1837 | |
| ... which ... | 1815 |
... which ...
| 1827 | |
| ... in his arms. | 1815 |
... in his arms.
| 1827 | |
| Close to the water he had found This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground, Went into it; and, without dread, Following the fancies in his head, He paddled up and down. | 1807 |
| And with the happy burthen hied, And pushed it from Loch Levin's side,— Stepped into it; and, without dread, | 1815 |
Close to the water he had found
This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,
Went into it; and, without dread,
Following the fancies in his head,
He paddled up and down.
And with the happy burthen hied,
And pushed it from Loch Levin's side,—
Stepped into it; and, without dread,
| 1827 | |
| And dallied thus, till from the shore The tide retreating more and more Had suck'd, and suck'd him in. | 1807 |
And dallied thus, till from the shore
The tide retreating more and more
Had suck'd, and suck'd him in.
The two previous stanzas were added in the edition of 1815.
| 1837 | |
| ... then did he cry ... most eagerly; | 1807 |
... then did he cry
... most eagerly;
| 1807 | |
| ... read ... | MS. |
... read ...
| 1837 | |
| Had ... | 1807 |
Had ...
| 1832 | |
| She could not blame him, or chastise; | 1807 |
She could not blame him, or chastise;
This stanza was added in the edition of 1815.
The title in the editions of 1807 to 1820 was
The Blind Highland Boy. (A Tale told by the Fireside.)
This poem gave its title to a separate division in the second volume of the edition of 1807, viz. "The Blind Highland Boy; with other Poems."—Ed.
This reading occurs in all the editions. But Wordsworth, whose MS. was not specially clear, may have written, or meant to write "petty," (a much better word), and not perceived the mistake when revising the sheets. If he really wrote "petty," he may have meant either small rills (rillets), or used the word as Shakespeare used it, for "pelting" rills.—Ed.
Compare Tennyson's In Memoriam, stanza xix.:
'There twice a day the Severn fills;
The salt sea-water passes by,
And hushes half the babbling Wye,
And makes a silence in the hills, etc.'
Ed.
This and the following six stanzas were added in 1815.—Ed.
Writing to Walter Scott, from Coleorton, on Jan. 20, 1807, Wordsworth sent him this stanza of the poem, and asked
"Could you furnish me, by application to any of your Gaelic friends, a phrase in that language which could take its place in the following verse of eight syllables, and have the following meaning."
He adds,
"The above is part of a little poem which I have written on a Highland story told me by an eye-witness ..."
This is the nearest clue we have to the date of the composition of the poem.—Ed.
Note:
It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages that a Boy, the Son of a Captain of a Man of War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell and floated in it from the shore to his Father's Ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. Upon the suggestion of a Friend, I have substituted such a Shell for that less elegant vessel in which my blind voyager did actually intrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Levin, as was related to me by an Eye-witness.—W. W. 1815.
This note varies slightly in later editions.
The Loch Leven referred to is a sea-loch in Argyllshire, into which the tidal water flows with some force from Loch Linnhe at Ballachulish.
'By night and day
The great Sea-water finds its way
Through long, long windings of the hills.'
The friend referred to in the note of 1815, who urged Wordsworth to give his blind voyager a Shell, instead of a washing-tub to sail in, was Coleridge. The original tale of the tub was not more unfortunate than the lines in praise of Wilkinson's spade, and several of Wordsworth's friends, notably Charles Lamb and Barren Field, objected to the change. Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815,
"I am afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsification of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out to the beast" [i. e. the reviewer!] "or rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing could fairly be said against it. You say you made the alteration for the 'friendly reader,' but the 'malicious' will take it to himself."
(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 283.) Wordsworth could not be induced to "undo his work," and go back to his own original; although he evidently agreed with what Lamb had said (as is seen in a letter to Barren Field, Oct. 24, 1828).—Ed.
[Contents 1803]
[Main Contents]