Address to the Scholars of the Village School of
I come, ye little noisy Crew,Not long your pastime to prevent;I heard the blessing which to youOur common Friend and Father sent.I kissed his cheek before he died;And when his breath was fled,I raised, while kneeling by his side,His hand:--it dropped like lead.Your hands, dear Little-ones, do allThat can be done, will never fallLike his till they are dead.By night or day blow foul or fair,Ne'er will the best of all your trainPlay with the locks of his white hair,Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours;But he could see the woods and plains,Could hear the wind and mark the showersCome streaming down the streaming panes.Now stretched beneath his grass-green moundHe rests a prisoner of the ground.He loved the breathing air,He loved the sun, but if it riseOr set, to him where now he lies,Brings not a moment's care.
Alas! what idle words; but takeThe Dirge which for our Master's sakeAnd yours, love prompted me to make.The rhymes so homely in attireWith learned ears may ill agree,But chanted by your Orphan QuireWill make a touching melody.
Words in this poem
- pastime n.
- That which amuses, and serves to make time pass agreeably; sport; amusement; diversion. [Pass + time: cf. F. passetemps.]
- streaming a.
- Sending forth streams.
- dirge n.
- A piece of music of a mournful character, to accompany funeral rites; a funeral hymn. [Contraction of Lat. dirige, direct thou (imperative of dirigere), the first word of a funeral hymn (Lat. transl. of Psalm v. 8) beginning, "Dirige, Domine, in c]
- homely a.
- Belonging to, or having the characteristics of, home; domestic; familiar; intimate. [From Home, n.]
- quire v. i.
- To sing in concert.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Address to the Scholars of the Village School of is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 2 (of 8), Project Gutenberg ebook #12145; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: William Wordsworth, Address to the Scholars of the Village School of, in The Poetical Works, Volume II (1798–1807), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #12145, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/wordsworth-vol2/address-to-the-scholars-of-the-village-school-of.html, id L17300.
Form and metre
Address to the Scholars of the Village School of is 32 lines in 3 stanzas. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 92%). 97% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 7.8 syllables. 4 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 34% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABABCDCDEEDFGFG crewA · preventB · youA · sentB · diedC · fledD · sideC · leadD · allE · fallE · deadD · fairF · trainG · hairF · againG
- 2 ABABCCDEED hoursA · plainsB · showersA · panesB · moundC · groundC · airD · riseE · liesE · careD
- 3 AAA---- takeA · sakeA · makeA · attire · agree · quire · melody
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| I come, ye little noisy Crew, | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Not long your pastime to prevent; | 8 | ···/··˘/ |
| I heard the blessing which to you | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Our common Friend and Father sent. | 8 | //˘··/˘· |
| I kissed his cheek before he died; | 8 | ········ |
| And when his breath was fled, | 6 | ······ |
| I raised, while kneeling by his side, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| His hand:--it dropped like lead. | 7 | ····˘·· |
| Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| That can be done, will never fall | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Like his till they are dead. | 6 | ······ |
| By night or day blow foul or fair, | 8 | ········ |
| Ne'er will the best of all your train | 8 | ········ |
| Play with the locks of his white hair, | 8 | ········ |
| Or stand between his knees again. | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Here did he sit confined for hours; | 9 | ····˘/·/˘ |
| But he could see the woods and plains, | 8 | ········ |
| Could hear the wind and mark the showers | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Come streaming down the streaming panes. | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound | 8 | ········ |
| He rests a prisoner of the ground. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| He loved the breathing air, | 7 | ··˘·/˘· |
| He loved the sun, but if it rise | 8 | ········ |
| Or set, to him where now he lies, | 8 | ········ |
| Brings not a moment's care. | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Alas! what idle words; but take | 8 | ˘/·/˘··· |
| The Dirge which for our Master's sake | 8 | ····//˘· |
| And yours, love prompted me to make. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The rhymes so homely in attire | 9 | ···/˘·˘/˘ |
| With learned ears may ill agree, | 8 | ··˘···˘/ |
| But chanted by your Orphan Quire | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Will make a touching melody. | 8 | ···/˘/˘˘ |
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