To be a Prodigal’s Favourite—­then, worse truth,
  A Miser’s Pensioner—­behold our lot! 
  O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth
  Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: 

1837.

  ... itself, ... 1807.]

[Variant 2: 

1827

  ... bless ... 1807.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:  Common Pilewort.—­W.  W. 1807.]

With the last stanza compare one from ‘The Fountain’, vol. ii. p. 93: 

  ’Thus fares it still in our decay: 
  And yet the wiser mind
  Mourns less for what age takes away
  Than what it leaves behind.’

Compare also the other two poems on the Celandine, vol. ii. pp. 300, 303, written in a previous year.—­Ed.

* * * * *

AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK

1804

Composed 1804.—­Published 1842

[This was presented to me by Sir George Beaumont, with a view to the erection of a house upon it, for the sake of being near to Coleridge, then living, and likely to remain, at Greta Hall, near Keswick.  The severe necessities that prevented this arose from his domestic situation.  This little property, with a considerable addition that still leaves it very small, lies beautifully upon the banks of a rill that gurgles down the side of Skiddaw; and the orchard and other parts of the grounds command a magnificent prospect of Derwent Water, the mountains of Borrowdale and Newlands.  Not many years ago I gave the place to my daughter.—­I.  F.]

In pencil on the opposite page in Dora Wordsworth’s (Mrs. Quillinan’s) handwriting—­“Many years ago, Sir; for it was given when she was a frail feeble monthling.”

One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—­Ed.

  Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear
  A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell,
  On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
  In neighbourhood with One to me most dear,
  That undivided we from year to year 5
  Might work in our high Calling—­a bright hope
  To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope
  Till checked by some necessities severe. 
  And should these slacken, honoured Beaumont! still
  Even then we may perhaps in vain implore 10
  Leave of our fate thy wishes [1] to fulfil. 
  Whether this boon be granted us or not,
  Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot
  With pride, the Muses love it evermore. [2] [A]

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VARIANTS ON THE TEXT