“Through Cumbrian Wilds, In Many A Mountain Cove”

In 1819 Wordsworth wrote the sonnet beginning, “Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend.” In the note to that sonnet (vol. vi. p. 196) I have given a different version of its last six lines, from a MS. sonnet. But as these six lines also form the conclusion of another unpublished sonnet, it may be given in full by itself, in this Appendix.--ED.

Through Cumbrian wilds, in many a mountain cove, The pastoral Muse laments the Wheel--no more Engaged, near blazing hearth on clean-swept floor, In tasks which guardian Angels might approve, Friendly the weight of leisure to remove, And to beguile the lassitude of ease; Gracious to all the dear dependencies Of house and field,--to plenty, peace, and love. There too did Fancy prize the murmuring wheel; For sympathies, inexplicably fine, Instilled a confidence--how sweet to feel! That ever in the night-calm, when the Sheep Upon their grassy beds lay couch’d in sleep, The quickening spindle drew a trustier line.