[Footnote C: 

  “When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady’s
  house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast,
  says Wordsworth,

    ‘That no wight his continuance espied.’

  But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed: 

    ’And as God wolde he gan so faste ride
    That no wight of his countenance espied.’”

(Professor Dowden, in the ‘Transactions of the Wordsworth Society’, No.  III.)—­Ed.]

[Footnote D:  In Chaucer “werreyed” = warred on = fought against.—­Ed.]

[Footnote E: 

    “‘Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.’

  This is Urry’s version, but Chaucer’s text is,

    ‘Toward my death, with wind in stern I sail,’

  Troilus’ bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a
  fierce stern-wind.”

(Professor Dowden, in the ‘Transactions of the Wordsworth Society’, No.  III.)—­Ed.]

[Footnote F:  In Chaucer “aboute” = around.—­Ed.]

* * * * *

1802

The Lyrical Ballads and Sonnets which follow were written in 1802; but during that year Wordsworth continued mainly 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.

  2nd 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. 1802.—­Ed.

* * * * *

THE SAILOR’S MOTHER

Composed March 11th and 12th, 1802.—­Published 1807

[Written in Town-end, Grasmere.  I met this woman near the Wishing-gate, on the high road that then led from Grasmere to Ambleside.  Her appearance was exactly as here described, and such was her account, nearly to the letter.—­I.F.]

One of the “Poems founded on the Affections.”—­Ed.

  One morning (raw it was and wet—­
  A foggy day in winter time)
  A Woman on [1] the road I met,
  Not old, though something past her prime: 
  Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 5
  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:  10
  She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
  I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.