[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.  This was taken from the case of a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith.  Her sorrow was well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my sister, and, I believe, to the whole town.  She kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was in the habit of going out into the street to enquire of him after her son.—­I.  F.]

Included by Wordsworth among his “Poems founded on the Affections.”—­Ed.

I Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone! 
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same 5
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Ii Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 10
And been for evermore beguiled; [1]
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?

III He was among the prime in worth, 15
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: 
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base; 20
And never blush was on my face.

IV Ah! little doth the young-one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in [2] his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares! 25
He knows it not, he cannot guess: 
Years to a mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.

V Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought; and, being blind, 30
Said, “Pride shall help me in my wrong: 
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:”  and that is true;
I’ve wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew. 35

VI My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother’s door;
Think not of me with grief and pain: 
I now can see with better eyes; 40
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

VII Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount—­how short a voyage brings 45
The wanderers back to their delight! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

VIII Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion’s den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 55
An incommunicable sleep.