And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep,
  How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, [7] 30
  Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep
  That besprinkled the field; ’twas like youth in my blood!

  Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail;
  And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh,
  That follows the thought—­We’ve no land in the vale, 35
  Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: 

1820.

  the delight of our day, Ms.

  O fools that we were—­we had land which we sold Ms.

  O fools that we were without virtue to hold Ms.

  The fields that together contentedly lay
  Would have done us more good than another man’s gold Ms.]

[Variant 2: 

1820.

  When the bribe of the Tempter beset us, said I,
  Let him come with his bags proudly grasped in his hand. 
  But, Thomas, be true to me, Thomas, we’ll die Ms.]

[Variant 3: 

1836.

  ... chose ... 1820 and Ms.]

[Variant 4: 

1820.

  When my hand has half-lifted the latch of the gate, Ms.]

[Variant 5: 

1820.

... and ...  Ms.]

[Variant 6: 

1827.

But the blessings, and comfort, and wealth that we had,
We slighted them all,—­and our birth-right was lost.
1820 and Ms.

But we traitorously gave the best friend that we had
For spiritless pelf—­as we felt to our cost!  Ms.]

[Variant 7: 

1820.

When my sick crazy body had lain without sleep,
How cheering the sunshiny vale where I stood, Ms.]

* * * * *

ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA, [A]

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16

Composed September 16, 1804.—­Published 1815

Included by Wordsworth among his “Poems of the Fancy.”—­Ed.

—­Hast thou then survived—­
  Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,
  Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
  The most forlorn—­one life of that bright star,
  The second glory of the Heavens?—­Thou hast; 5
  Already hast survived that great decay,
  That transformation through the wide earth felt,
  And by all nations.  In that Being’s sight
  From whom the Race of human kind proceed,
  A thousand years are but as yesterday;