Behold the mighty Moon! this way
She looks as if at them-but they
Regard not her :-oh better wrong and strife
(By nature transient) than this torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove

As on their silent tasks they move!
Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
In scorn I speak not;-they are what their birth
And breeding suffer them to be ;
Wild outcasts of society !*

1807.

BEGGARS.+

SHE had a tall man's height or more;
Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore

A mantle, to her very feet
Descending with a graceful flow,

And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

* In the Edition of 1815 the poem concludes thus:

oh better wrong and strife,

Better vain deeds, or evil, than such life!

The silent heavens have goings-on;

The stars have tasks, but these have none.

There can be little doubt that, in this case, the alteration is an improvement.

This poem was written, March, 1802, from Miss Wordsworth's description of what she had seen two years before in her brother's absence. "It presents a remarkable illustration," says Dr. C. Wordsworth, "of the fact that the sister's eye was ever on the watch to provide for the brother's pen. His poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, and he treated them as seen by himself." Strangely enough, this scene so dwelt upon the Poet's mind that he wrote a sequel to the poem in 1817. In the Edition of 1815 the stanza runs thus:

SHE had a tall man's height or more;

No bonnet screened her from the heat;

Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen
Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered, fit person for a Queen

*

To lead those ancient Amazonian files;

Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand.
And begged an alms with doleful plea
That ceased not; on our English land +
Such woes, I knew, could never be ;

And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature
Was beautiful to see a weed of glorious feature.

I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy

A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller followed with his hat in hand,

Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown
With leaves of laurel stuck about;

A long drab-coloured cloak she wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet:

What other dress she had I could not know,
Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.

* In all my walks through field or town

Such figure had I never seen;

Her face was of Egyptian brown;

Fit person was she for a Queen.-Edit. 1815.

Before me begging did she stand,

Pouring out sorrows like a sea,

Grief after grief: on English land, &c.-Edit. 1815.

And, while both followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,
In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face.*

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit
For finest tasks of earth or air:

Wings let them have, and they might flit
Precursors to Aurora's car,

Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,
To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.+

They dart across my path—but lo,
Each ready with a plaintive whine!
Said I, "not half an hour ago

Your Mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answered-"she is dead :". I looked reproof-they saw-but neither hung his head. +

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day.”

"Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie ;§ It was your Mother, as I say!"

And, in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! ||

* Two brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old,

And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.-Edit. 1815.

This stanza is not in the Edition of 1815.

Nay, but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread.-Edit. 1815.

§ Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie.-Edit. 1815.

they both together flew.-Edit. 1815.

YARROW UNVISITED.*

(See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning

'Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow !'-)

FROM Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled ;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

* Miss Wordsworth says in her journal of the Scotch tour in August and September, 1803,-"Being so near the Yarrow when we were at Clovenford, we could not but think of the possibility of going thither, and debated concerning it, but came to the conclusion of reserving the pleasure for some future time; in consequence of which, after our return, William wrote this poem."

T

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow :
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

What's Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder."

-Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ;

My True-love sighed for sorrow ;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow !

66

"Oh! green," said I, are Yarrow's holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,*

But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path, and open Strath,

We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake †
Float double, swan and shadow!

* See Hamilton's Ballad as above.

This is the line which has been so often quoted as

"The swan on sweet St. Mary's lake,"

much to the Poet's dissatisfaction, and no wonder; for a very perfect image is thereby made common-place.