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Title: Alice Fell
Author: William Wordsworth [
More Titles by Wordsworth]
Alice Fell
The Post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threat'ning clouds the moon had drown'd;
When suddenly I seem'd to hear
A moan, a lamentable sound.
As if the wind blew many ways
I heard the sound, and more and more:
It seem'd to follow with the Chaise,
And still I heard it as before.
At length I to the Boy call'd out,
He stopp'd his horses at the word; . . . . . . 10
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it could be heard.
The Boy then smack'd his whip, and fast
The horses scamper'd through the rain;
And soon I heard upon the blast
The voice, and bade him halt again.
Said I, alighting on the ground,
"What can it be, this piteous moan?"
And there a little Girl I found,
Sitting behind the Chaise, alone. . . . . . . 20
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first,
And loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her very heart would burst;
And down from off the Chaise she leapt.
"What ails you, Child?" she sobb'd, "Look here!"
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather beaten Rag as e'er
From any garden scare-crow dangled.
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
Her help she lent, and with good heed . . . . . . 30
Together we released the Cloak;
A wretched, wretched rag indeed!
"And whither are you going, Child,
To night along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham" answer'd she half wild--
"Then come with me into the chaise."
She sate like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief
Could never, never, have an end. . . . . . . 40
"My Child, in Durham do you dwell?"
She check'd herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless."
"And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tatter'd Cloak.
The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, . . . . . . 50
As if she'd lost her only friend
She wept, nor would be pacified.
Up to the Tavern-door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the Host,
To buy a new Cloak for the old.
"And let it be of duffil grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell!"
Proud Creature was she the next day,
The little Orphan, Alice Fell! . . . . . . 60
-THE END-
William Wordsworth's poem: Alice Fell
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