DoraFirst published in 1842.This poem had been written as early as 1835, when it was read to Fitzgerald and Spedding (Life, i., 182). No alterations were made in the text after 1853. The story in this poem was taken even to the minutest details from a prose story of Miss Mitford’s, namely,The Tale of Dora Creswell(Our Village, vol. in., 242-53), the only alterations being in the names, Farmer Cresswell, Dora Creswell, Walter Cresswell, and Mary Hay becoming respectively Allan, Dora, William, and Mary Morrison. How carefully the poet has preserved the picturesque touches of the original may be seen by comparing the following two passages:—And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew..... She rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it round his hat.“A beautiful child lay on the ground at some distance, whilst a young girl, resting from the labour of reaping, was twisting a rustic wreath of enamelled cornflowers, brilliant poppies ... round its hat.” The style is evidently modelled closely on that of theOdyssey.With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often look’d at them,And often thought “I’ll make them man and wife”.Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all,And yearn’d towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan call’d his son, and said,“My son: I married late, but I would wish to seeMy grandchild on my knees before I die:And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora; she is wellTo look to; thrifty too beyond her age.She is my brother’s daughter: he and IHad once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wish’d this marriage, night and day,For many years.” But William answer’d short;“I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora”. Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:“You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father’s word was law,And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;Consider, William: take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,And never more darken my doors again.”But William answer’d madly; bit his lips,And broke away.[1]The more he look’d at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father’s house,And hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he woo’d and wedA labourer’s daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing,Allan call’dHis niece and said: “My girl, I love you well;But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law.”And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,“It cannot be: my uncle’s mind will change!”And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he pass’d his father’s gate,Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd look’d with tears upon her boy, and thoughtHard things of Dora. Dora came and said:“I have obey’d my uncle until now,And I have sinn’d, for it was all thro’ meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone,And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you:You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest, let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle’s eyeAmong the wheat; that when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone.”And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,But her heart fail’d her; and the reapers reap’dAnd the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it round his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye.Then when the farmer passed into the fieldHe spied her, and he left his men at work,And came and said: “Where were you yesterday?Whose child is that? What are you doing here?”So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answer’d softly, “This is William’s child?”“And did I not,” said Allan, “did I notForbid you, Dora?” Dora said again:“Do with me as you will, but take the childAnd bless him for the sake of him that’s gone!”And Allan said: “I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more.”So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fellAt Dora’s feet. She bow’d upon her hands,And the boy’s cry came to her from the field,More and more distant. She bow’d down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bow’d downAnd wept in secret; and the reapers reap’d,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praiseTo God, that help’d her in her widowhood.And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more”.Then answer’d Mary, “This shall never be,That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother; therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;And I will beg of him to take thee back;But if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William’s child until he growsOf age to help us.”So the women kiss’dEach other, and set out, and reach’d the farm.The door was off the latch: they peep’d, and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch’d outAnd babbled for the golden seal, that hungFrom Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in: but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her:And Allan set him down, and Mary said:“O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a-begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora: take her back; she loves you well.O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I ask’d him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me—I have been a patient wife: but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus:‘God bless him!’ he said, ‘and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone thro’!’ Then he turn’dHis face and pass’d—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slightHis father’s memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before.”So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room;And all at once the old man burst in sobs:“I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill’d my son.I have kill’d him—but I loved him—my dear son.May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children.”Then they clung aboutThe old man’s neck, and kiss’d him many times.And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobb’d o’er William’s child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as yearsWent forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.[1]In 1842 thus:—“Look to’t,Consider: take a month to think, and giveAn answer to my wish; or by the LordThat made me, you shall pack, and nevermoreDarken my doors again.” And William heard,And answered something madly; bit his lips,And broke away.All editions previous to 1853 have“Look to’t.
First published in 1842.
This poem had been written as early as 1835, when it was read to Fitzgerald and Spedding (Life, i., 182). No alterations were made in the text after 1853. The story in this poem was taken even to the minutest details from a prose story of Miss Mitford’s, namely,The Tale of Dora Creswell(Our Village, vol. in., 242-53), the only alterations being in the names, Farmer Cresswell, Dora Creswell, Walter Cresswell, and Mary Hay becoming respectively Allan, Dora, William, and Mary Morrison. How carefully the poet has preserved the picturesque touches of the original may be seen by comparing the following two passages:—
And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew..... She rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it round his hat.
“A beautiful child lay on the ground at some distance, whilst a young girl, resting from the labour of reaping, was twisting a rustic wreath of enamelled cornflowers, brilliant poppies ... round its hat.” The style is evidently modelled closely on that of theOdyssey.
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often look’d at them,And often thought “I’ll make them man and wife”.Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all,And yearn’d towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan call’d his son, and said,“My son: I married late, but I would wish to seeMy grandchild on my knees before I die:And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora; she is wellTo look to; thrifty too beyond her age.She is my brother’s daughter: he and IHad once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wish’d this marriage, night and day,For many years.” But William answer’d short;“I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora”. Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:“You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father’s word was law,And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;Consider, William: take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,And never more darken my doors again.”But William answer’d madly; bit his lips,And broke away.[1]The more he look’d at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father’s house,And hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he woo’d and wedA labourer’s daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing,Allan call’dHis niece and said: “My girl, I love you well;But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law.”And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,“It cannot be: my uncle’s mind will change!”And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he pass’d his father’s gate,Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd look’d with tears upon her boy, and thoughtHard things of Dora. Dora came and said:“I have obey’d my uncle until now,And I have sinn’d, for it was all thro’ meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone,And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you:You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest, let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle’s eyeAmong the wheat; that when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone.”And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a moundThat was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,But her heart fail’d her; and the reapers reap’dAnd the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowersThat grew about, and tied it round his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye.Then when the farmer passed into the fieldHe spied her, and he left his men at work,And came and said: “Where were you yesterday?Whose child is that? What are you doing here?”So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answer’d softly, “This is William’s child?”“And did I not,” said Allan, “did I notForbid you, Dora?” Dora said again:“Do with me as you will, but take the childAnd bless him for the sake of him that’s gone!”And Allan said: “I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more.”So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fellAt Dora’s feet. She bow’d upon her hands,And the boy’s cry came to her from the field,More and more distant. She bow’d down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bow’d downAnd wept in secret; and the reapers reap’d,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praiseTo God, that help’d her in her widowhood.And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more”.Then answer’d Mary, “This shall never be,That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother; therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;And I will beg of him to take thee back;But if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William’s child until he growsOf age to help us.”So the women kiss’dEach other, and set out, and reach’d the farm.The door was off the latch: they peep’d, and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch’d outAnd babbled for the golden seal, that hungFrom Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in: but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her:And Allan set him down, and Mary said:“O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a-begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora: take her back; she loves you well.O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I ask’d him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me—I have been a patient wife: but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus:‘God bless him!’ he said, ‘and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone thro’!’ Then he turn’dHis face and pass’d—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slightHis father’s memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before.”So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room;And all at once the old man burst in sobs:“I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill’d my son.I have kill’d him—but I loved him—my dear son.May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children.”Then they clung aboutThe old man’s neck, and kiss’d him many times.And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobb’d o’er William’s child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as yearsWent forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
[1]In 1842 thus:—“Look to’t,Consider: take a month to think, and giveAn answer to my wish; or by the LordThat made me, you shall pack, and nevermoreDarken my doors again.” And William heard,And answered something madly; bit his lips,And broke away.All editions previous to 1853 have“Look to’t.