William Wordsworth

Here you will find the Long Poem Guilt and Sorrow of poet William Wordsworth

Guilt and Sorrow


A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain 
Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; 
Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain 
Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air 
Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 
Both of the time to come, and time long fled: 
Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; 
A coat he wore of military red 
But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. 


While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 
He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure 
That welcome in such house for him was none. 
No board inscribed the needy to allure 
Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor 
And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" 
The pendent grapes glittered above the door;-- 
On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, 
Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. 


The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire, 
In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 
That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, 
Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, 
Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. 
Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, 
And scarce could any trace of man descry, 
Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; 
But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. 


No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, 
No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; 
Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 
But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. 
Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; 
And so he sent a feeble shout--in vain; 
No voice made answer, he could only hear 
Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 
Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. 


Long had he fancied each successive slope 
Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn 
And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope 
The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 
Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn 
Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, 
But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, 
And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; 
The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. 


And be it so--for to the chill night shower 
And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; 
A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour 
Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, 
Full long endured in hope of just reward, 
He to an armed fleet was forced away 
By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared 
Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 
'Gainst all that in 'his' heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. 


For years the work of carnage did not cease, 
And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, 
Death's minister; then came his glad release, 
And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made 
Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid 
The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 
Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid 
In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow 
As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. 


Vain hope! for frand took all that he had earned. 
The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 
Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, 
Bears not to those he loves their needful food. 
His home approaching, but in such a mood 
That from his sight his children might have run. 
He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; 
And when the miserable work was done 
He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. 


From that day forth no place to him could be 
So lonely, but that thence might come a pang 
Brought from without to inward misery. 
Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang 
A sound of chains along the desert rang; 
He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high 
A human body that in irons swang, 
Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 
And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. 


It was a spectacle which none might view, 
In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; 
Nor only did for him at once renew 
All he had feared from man, but roused a train 
Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. 
The stones, as if to cover him from day, 
Rolled at his back along the living plain; 
He fell, and without sense or motion lay; 
But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way. 


As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires 
Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed 
Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, 
Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed 
His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 
Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. 
Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, 
Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem 
To tr