As soon as he this song had thus sung through,
He fell again into his sorrows old;

And every night, as was his wont to do,
Troilus stood the bright moon to behold;
And all his trouble to the moon he told,
And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew,
I shall be glad if all the world be true.

Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow,
When hence did journey my bright Lady dear,
That cause is of my torment and my sorrow;
For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear,
For love of God, run fast above thy sphere;
For when thy horns begin once more to spring,
Then shall she come that with her bliss may bring.

The day is more, and longer every night

Than they were wont to be--for he thought so;
And that the sun did take his course not right,

By longer way than he was wont to go;
And said, I am in constant dread I trow,
That Phaeton his son is yet alive,

His too fond father's car amiss to drive.

Upon the walls fast also would he walk,
To the end that he the Grecian host might see;

And ever thus he to himself would talk :—
Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free;

Or yonder is it that the tents must be;

And thence does come this air which is so sweet

That in my soul I feel the joy of it.

And certainly this wind, that more and more

By moments thus increaseth in my face,

Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore;
I prove it thus; for in no other space
Of all this town, save only in this place,
Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain;
It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?

A weary while in pain he tosseth thus,
Till fully past and gone was the ninth night;
And ever at his side stood Pandarus,

Who busily made use of all his might

To comfort him, and make his heart more light;
Giving him always hope, that she the morrow
Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.

1802.

The Lyrical Ballads and Sonnets which follow were written in 1802; but during that year Wordsworth continued to work at The Excursion, as the following extracts from his sister's Journal indicate :-" Feb. 1, 1802. -William worked hard at the Pedlar, and tired himself. 2d Feb.Wm. worked at the Pedlar. I read aloud the 11th book of Paradise Lost. Thursday, 4th.-William thought a little about the Pedlar. 5th.—— Wm. sate up late at the Pedlar. 7th.-W. was working at his poem. Wm. read the Pedlar, thinking it was done. But lo! . . . it was uninteresting, and must be altered." Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th Feb. 1882.-ED.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

Comp. March 11th and 12th, 1802.

Pub. 1807.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet

A foggy day in winter time)

A Woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime:
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your Cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air?"1

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,
"I had a Son, who many a day
Sailed on the Seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.2

What clothes he might have left, or other property. 1807.

And I have travelled far as Hull, to see

And I have travelled many miles to see,

If aught which he had owned might still remain

for me.

1820.

The bird and cage they both were his :
'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim

He kept it: many voyages

The singing-bird had 2 gone with him;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind,

From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;-there1
I found it when my Son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!

I bear it with me, Sir;-he took so much delight in it."

As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. 1807.

Till he came back again; and there

1897.

In the Wordsworth household this poem went by the name of The Singing Bird as well as The Sailor's Mother. "Thursday (March 11th).— A fine morning. William worked at the poem of the Singing Bird. . . .” "Friday (March 12th).—William finished his poem of the Singing Bird." (Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)

ALICE FELL;

OR, POVERTY.

Comp. March 12th and 13th, 1802.

Pub. 1807.

[Written to gratify Mr Graham of Glasgow, brother of the author of "The Sabbath." He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr Clarkson, and a man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular my son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.]

It was only excluded from the editions 1820 and 1832.-ED.

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.1

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.2

Forthwith alighting on the ground,

Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?"3

And there a little Girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.