The Poem
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| Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!" At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept—and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" —When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! —Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. [Note] [Contents] | [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] | [A] | 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1800 | |
| Oft had I heard ... | Only in the second issue of 1800. |
Oft had I heard ...
| 1800 (2nd issue). | |
| She dwelt on a wild Moor | 1800 |
| She lived on a wide Moor | MS. |
She dwelt on a wild Moor
She lived on a wide Moor
| 1800 | |
| ... bright ... | C. |
... bright ...
| 1800 | |
| He snapped ... | MS. |
He snapped ...
| 1827 | |
| And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd | 1800 |
| And, turning homeward, now they cried | 1815 |
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd
And, turning homeward, now they cried
| 1800 | |
| The Mother turning homeward cried, "We never more shall meet," When in the driven snow she spied | MS. |
The Mother turning homeward cried,
"We never more shall meet,"
When in the driven snow she spied
| 1840 | |
| Then downward ... | 1800 |
| Half breathless ... | 1827 |
Then downward ...
Half breathless ...
| 1800 | |
| ... and never lost Till ... | MS. |
... and never lost
Till ...
| 1827 | |
| The ... | 1800 |
The ...
| 1800 | |
| ... was ... | 1802 |
... was ...
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
Compare Gray's ode, On a Distant Prospect of Eton College, II. 38-9:
'Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind.'
Ed.
Note:
This poem was illustrated by Sir George Beaumont, in a picture of some merit, which was engraved by J. C. Bromley, and published in the collected editions of 1815 and 1820. Henry Crabb Robinson wrote in his Diary, September 11, 1816 (referring to Wordsworth):
"He mentioned the origin of some poems. Lucy Gray, that tender and pathetic narrative of a child lost on a common, was occasioned by the death of a child who fell into the lock of a canal. His object was to exhibit poetically entire solitude, and he represents the child as observing the day-moon, which no town or village girl would ever notice."
A contributor to Notes and Queries, May 12, 1883, whose signature is F., writes:
"The Scene of Lucy Gray.—In one of the editions of Wordsworth's works the scene of this ballad is said to have been near Halifax, in Yorkshire. I do not think the poet was acquainted with the locality beyond a sight of the country in travelling through on some journey. I know of no spot where all the little incidents mentioned in the poem would exactly fit in, and a few of the local allusions are evidently by a stranger. There is no 'minster'; the church at Halifax from time immemorial has always been known as the 'parish church,' and sometimes as the 'old church,' but has never been styled 'the minster.' The 'mountain roe,' which of course may be brought in as poetically illustrative, has not been seen on these hills for generations, and I scarcely think even the 'fawn at play' for more than a hundred years. These misapplications, it is almost unnecessary to say, do not detract from the beauty of the poetry. Some of the touches are graphically true to the neighbourhood, as, for instance, 'the wide moor,' the 'many a hill,' the 'steep hill's edge,' the 'long stone wall,' and the hint of the general loneliness of the region where Lucy 'no mate, no comrade, knew.' I think I can point out the exact spot—no longer a 'plank,' but a broad, safe bridge—where Lucy fell into the water. Taking a common-sense view, that she would not be sent many miles at two o'clock on a winter afternoon to the town (Halifax, of course), over so lonely a mountain moor—bearing in mind also that this moor overlooked the river, and that the river was deep and strong enough to carry the child down the current—I know only one place where such an accident could have occurred. The clue is in this verse:
The hill I take to be the high ridge of Greetland and Norland Moor, and the plank she had to cross Sterne Mill Bridge, which there spans the Calder, broad and rapid enough at any season to drown either a young girl or a grown-up person. The mountain burns, romantic and wild though they be, are not dangerous to cross, especially for a child old enough to go and seek her mother. To sum up the matter, the hill overlooking the moor, the path to and distance from the town, the bridge, the current, all indicate one point, and one point only, where this accident could have happened, and that is the bridge near Sterne Mill. This bridge is so designated from the Sterne family, a branch of whom in the last century resided close by. The author of Tristram Shandy spent his boyhood here; and Lucy Gray, had she safely crossed the plank, would immediately have passed Wood Hall, where the boy Laurence had lived, and, pursuing her way to Halifax, would have gone through the meadows in which stood Heath School, where young Sterne had been educated. The mill-weir at Sterne Mill Bridge was, I believe, the scene of Lucy Gray's death."'At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.'
'At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.'
Sterne Mill Bridge, however, crosses the river Calder, while Wordsworth tells us that the girl lost her life by falling "into the lock of a canal." The Calder runs parallel with the canal near Sterne Mill Bridge. See J.R. Tutin's Wordsworth in Yorkshire.—Ed.
[1799 Contents]
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