Verse > Anthologies > Francis T. Palgrave, ed. > The Golden Treasury
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Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury.  1875.
 
W. Wordsworth
 
CCXXXVIII. The Affliction of Margaret
 
WHERE art thou, my beloved son— 
Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
O find me, prosperous or undone! 
Or if the grave be now thy bed, 
Why am I ignorant of the same,         5
That I may rest, and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name? 
  
Seven years, alas! to have received 
No tidings of an only child; 
To have despaired, have hoped, believed,  10
And be for evermore beguiled— 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 
I catch at them, and then I miss: 
Was ever darkness like to this? 
  
He was among the prime in worth,  15
An object beauteous to behold; 
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: 
If things ensued that wanted grace, 
As hath been said, they were not base;  20
And never blush was on my face. 
  
Ah! little doth the young one dream, 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What power is in his wildest scream 
Heard by his mother unawares!  25
He knows it not, he cannot guess; 
Years to a mother bring distress, 
But do not make her love the less. 
  
Neglect me! no, I suffered long 
From that ill thought; and being blind  30
Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong. 
Kind mother have I been, as kind 
As ever breathed:" and that is true; 
I've wet my path with tears like dew, 
Weeping for him when no one knew.  35
  
My son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honour and of gain, 
O do not dread thy mother's door; 
Think not of me with grief and pain. 
I now can see with better eyes;  40
And worldly grandeur I despise, 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
  
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 
They mount—how short a voyage brings  45
The wanderers back to their delight! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 
  
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,  50
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den; 
Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep  55
An incommunicable sleep. 
  
I look for ghosts; but none will force 
Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead;  60
For surely then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night 
With love and longings infinite. 
  
My apprehensions come in crowds; 
I dread the rustling of the grass;  65
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to shake me as they pass; 
I question things, and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind; 
And all the world appears unkind.  70
  
Beyond participation lie 
My troubles, and beyond relief: 
If any chance to heave a sigh, 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
Then come to me, my son, or send  75
Some tidings that my woes may end! 
I have no other earthly friend. 
 
 
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