# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/Female Vagrant

IV.
THE FEMALE VAGRANT.
Having described her own Situation with her Husband, serving in America during the War, she proceeds,
All perished—all, in one remorseless year, Husband and Children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.
Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. The very ocean has its hour of rest. I too was calm, though heavily distrest! Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were! My heart was hushed within me, I was blest, And looked, and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.
​Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps! And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke! The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps! The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke! The shriek that from the distant battle broke! The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!
Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world:— A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me—farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.
And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I at last a resting-place had found; "Here will I dwell," said I, "my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round: Here will I live:—of every friend disown'd, ​And end my days upon the ocean flood."— To break my dream the vessel reached its bound: And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food.
By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy Mates, the Cock From the cross timber of an out-house hung; Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue.
So pass'd another day, and so the third; Then did I try in vain the crowd's resort. —In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined Fort: There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness link'd, did on my vitals fall, And I had many interruptions short Of hideous sense; I sank, nor step could crawl And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital.
​Recovery came with food: but still my brain Was weak, nor of the past had memory. I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain Of many things which never troubled me; Of feet still bustling round with busy glee; Of looks where common kindness had no part; Of service done with careless cruelty, Fretting the fever round the languid heart; And groans, which, as they said, might make a dead man start.
These things just served to stir the torpid sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. My memory and my strength returned; and thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; The Travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food,—and rest, more welcome, mor edesired.
They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made Of Potters wandering on from door to door: But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, And other joys my fancy to allure; ​The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted, and Companions boon Well met from far with revelry secure, Among the forest glades, when jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.
But ill they suited me; those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly House-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.
What could I do, unaided and unblest? My Father! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Ill was I then for toil or service fit: With tears whose course no effort could confine, By the road-side forgetful would I sit Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
​I led a wandering life among the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, I lived upon what casual bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth Is, that I have my inner self abused, Forgone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.
Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: And now across this moor my steps I bend— Oh! tell me whither——for no earthly friend Have I."——She ceased, and weeping turned away, As if because her tale was at an end She wept;—because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.