Composed 1804.--Published 1807
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Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of a poorwidow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well known toMrs. Wordsworth, to my sister, and, I believe, to the whole town. Shekept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was in thehabit of going out into the street to enquire of him after herson.--I. F.] Included by Wordsworth among his "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed. I Where art thou, my beloved Son,Where art thou, worse to me than dead?Oh find me, prosperous or undone!Or, if the grave be now thy bed,Why am I ignorant of the same 5That I may rest; and neither blameNor sorrow may attend thy name? II Seven years, alas! to have receivedNo tidings of an only child;To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 10And been for evermore beguiled; [1]Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!I catch at them, and then I miss;Was ever darkness like to this? III He was among the prime in worth, 15An object beauteous to behold;Well born, well bred; I sent him forthIngenuous, innocent, and bold:If things ensued that wanted grace,As hath been said, they were not base; 20And never blush was on my face. IV Ah! little doth the young-one dream,When full of play and childish cares,What power is in [2] his wildest scream,Heard by his mother unawares! 25He knows it not, he cannot guess:Years to a mother bring distress;But do not make her love the less. V Neglect me! no, I suffered longFrom that ill thought; and, being blind, 30Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:Kind mother have I been, as kindAs ever breathed:" and that is true;I've wet my path with tears like dew,Weeping for him when no one knew. 35 VI My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,Hopeless of honour and of gain,Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;Think not of me with grief and pain:I now can see with better eyes; 40And worldly grandeur I despise,And fortune with her gifts and lies. VII Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;They mount--how short a voyage brings 45The wanderers back to their delight!Chains tie us down by land and sea;And wishes, vain as mine, may beAll that is left to comfort thee. VIII Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;Or thou upon a desert thrownInheritest the lion's den;Or hast been summoned to the deep,Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 55An incommunicable sleep. IX I look for ghosts; but none will forceTheir way to me: 'tis falsely saidThat there was ever intercourseBetween [3] the living and the dead; 60For, surely, then I should have sightOf him I wait for day and night,With love and longings infinite. X My apprehensions come in crowds;I dread the rustling of the grass; 65The very shadows of the cloudsHave power to shake me as they pass:I question things and do not findOne that will answer to my mind;And all the world appears unkind. 70 XI Beyond participation lieMy troubles, and beyond relief:If any chance to heave a sigh,They pity me, and not my grief.Then come to me, my Son, or send 75Some tidings that my woes may end;I have no other earthly friend! * * * * *
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