II

  ‘The Dor-hawk, solitary bird.’

When the Poem was first written the note of the bird was thus described: 

  ’The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune,
  Twirling his watchman’s rattle about—­’

but from unwillingness to startle the reader at the outset by so bold a mode of expression, the passage was altered as it now stands.

III

After the line, ‘Can any mortal clog come to her’, followed in the MS. an incident which has been kept back.  Part of the suppressed verses shall here be given as a gratification of private feeling, which the well-disposed reader will find no difficulty in excusing.  They are now printed for the first time.

Can any mortal clog come to her?  It can:  ... ...  But Benjamin, in his vexation, Possesses inward consolation; He knows his ground, and hopes to find A spot with all things to his mind, An upright mural block of stone, Moist with pure water trickling down.  A slender spring; but kind to man It is, a true Samaritan; Close to the highway, pouring out Its offering from a chink or spout; Whence all, howe’er athirst, or drooping With toil, may drink, and without stooping.

    Cries Benjamin, “Where is it, where? 
  Voice it hath none, but must be near.” 
—­A star, declining towards the west,
  Upon the watery surface threw
  Its image tremulously imprest,
  That just marked out the object and withdrew: 
  Right welcome service! ...
  ...

                         ROCK OF NAMES! 
  Light is the strain, but not unjust
  To Thee and thy memorial-trust,
  That once seemed only to express
  Love that was love in idleness;
  Tokens, as year hath followed year,
  How changed, alas, in character! 
  For they were graven on thy smooth breast
  By hands of those my soul loved best;
  Meek women, men as true and brave
  As ever went to a hopeful grave: 
  Their hands and mine, when side by side
  With kindred zeal and mutual pride,
  We worked until the Initials took
  Shapes that defied a scornful look.—­
  Long as for us a genial feeling
  Survives, or one in need of healing,
  The power, dear Rock, around thee cast,
  Thy monumental power, shall last
  For me and mine!  O thought of pain,
  That would impair it or profane! 
  Take all in kindness then, as said
  With a staid heart but playful head;
  And fail not Thou, loved Rock! to keep
  Thy charge when we are laid asleep.

W. W.

There is no poem more closely identified with the Grasmere district of the English Lakes—­and with the road from Grasmere to Keswick—­than ’The Waggoner’ is, and in none are the topographical allusions more minute and faithful.