No More Learning

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:

"Tuesday (March 16). --William went up into the orchard, and wrote a
part of 'The Emigrant Mother'. "

"Wednesday. --William went up into the orchard, and finished the
poem. . . . I went and sate with W. , and walked backwards and forwards in
the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem. "

This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections. "--Ed.




Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.

This Lady, [1] dwelling upon British [2] ground, 5
Where she was childless, daily would [3] repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 10
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say: [4]
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, [5]
My song the workings of her heart expressed.
I "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 15
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest field: 20
Thy little sister is at play;--
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!

II "Across the waters I am come, 25
And I have left a babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me--I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30
For thee, sweet Baby! --thou hast tried,
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou:--alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.

III "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; 35
An infant thou, a mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou--spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place; 40
The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky'--no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!

IV "My own dear Little-one will sigh, 45
Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come. '
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him;--and then
I should behold his face again!

V "'Tis gone--like dreams that we forget; 55
There was a smile or two--yet--yet [6]
I can remember them, I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.