Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs

  Upon a slope above the village school,

  And there along that bank when I have pass’d

  At evening, I believe, that near his grave

  A full half-hour together I have stood,

  Mute — for he died when he was ten years old.

  THE BROTHERS.

  A PASTORAL POEM.

  These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live

  A profitable life: some glance along

  Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air.

  And they were butterflies to wheel about

  Long as their summer lasted; some, as wise,

  Upon the forehead of a jutting crag

  Sit perch’d with book and pencil on their knee,

  And look and scribble, scribble on and look,

  Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,

  Or reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.

  But, for that moping son of Idleness

  Why can he tarry yonder? — In our church-yard

  Is neither epitaph nor monument,

  Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread.

  And a few natural graves. To Jane, his Wife,

  Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.

  It was a July evening, and he sate

  Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves

  Of his old cottage, as it chanced that day,

  Employ’d in winter’s work. Upon the stone

  His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,

  While, from the twin cards tooth’d with glittering wire,

  He fed the spindle of his youngest child,

  Who turn’d her large round wheel in the open air

  With back and forward steps. Towards the field

  In which the parish chapel stood alone,

  Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,

  While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent

  Many a long look of wonder, and at last,

  Risen from his seat, beside the snowy ridge

  Of carded wool — which the old Man had piled

  He laid his implements with gentle care,

  Each in the other lock’d; and, down the path

  Which from his cottage to the church-yard led,

  He took his way, impatient to accost

  The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

  ’Twas one well known to him in former days,

  A Shepherd-lad: who ere his thirteenth year

  Had chang’d his calling, with the mariners

  A fellow-mariner, and so had fared

  Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear’d

  Among the mountains, and he in his heart

  Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.

  Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard

  The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds

  Of caves and trees; and when the regular wind

  Between the tropics fill’d the steady sail

  And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,

  Lengthening invisibly its weary line

  Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours

  Of tiresome indolence would often hang

  Over the vessel’s aide, and gaze and gaze,

  And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam

  Flash’d round him images and hues, that wrought

  In union with the employment of his heart,

  He, thus by feverish passion overcome,

  Even with the organs of his bodily eye,

  Below him, in the bosom of the deep

  Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that graz’d

  On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,

  And Shepherds clad in the same country grey

  Which he himself had worn.

  And now at length,

  From perils manifold, with some small wealth

  Acquir’d by traffic in the Indian Isles,

  To his paternal home he is return’d,

  With a determin’d purpose to resume

  The life which he liv’d there, both for the sake

  Of many darling pleasures, and the love

  Which to an only brother he has borne

  In all his hardships, since that happy time

  When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two

  Were brother Shepherds on their native hills.

  — They were the last of all their race; and now,

  When Leonard had approach’d his home, his heart

  Fail’d in him, and, not venturing to inquire

  Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov’d,

  Towards the church-yard he had turn’d aside,

  That, as he knew in what particular spot

  His family were laid, he thence might learn

  If still his Brother liv’d, or to the file

  Another grave was added. — He had found

  Another grave, near which a full half hour

  He had remain’d, but, as he gaz’d, there grew

  Such a confusion in his memory,

  That he began to doubt, and he had hopes

  That he had seen this heap of turf before,

  That it was not another grave, but one,

  He had forgotten. He had lost his path,

  As up the vale he came that afternoon,

  Through fields which once had been well known to him.

  And Oh! what joy the recollection now

  Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,

  And looking round he thought that he perceiv’d

  Strange alteration wrought on every side

  Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,

  And the eternal hills, themselves were chang’d.

  By this the Priest who down the field had come

  Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate

  Stopp’d short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb

  He scann’d him with a gay complacency.

  Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself;

  ’Tis one of those who needs must leave the path

  Of the world’s business, to go wild alone:

  His arms have a perpetual holiday,

  The happy man will creep about the fields

  Following his fancies by the hour, to bring

  Tears down his check, or solitary smiles

  Into his face, until the setting sun

  Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus

  Beneath a shed that overarch’d the gate

  Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear’d

  The good man might have commun’d with himself

  But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,

  Approach’d; he recogniz’d the Priest at once,

  And after greetings interchang’d, and given

  By Leonard to the Vicar as to one

  Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

  LEONARD.

  You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:

  Your years make up one peaceful family;

  And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come

  And welcome gone, they are so like each other,

  They cannot be remember’d. Scarce a funeral

  Comes to this church-yard once, in eighteen months;

  And yet, some changes must take place among you.

  And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks

  Can trace the finger of mortality,

  And see, that with our threescore years and ten

  We are not all that perish. — I remember,

  For many years ago I pass’d this road,

  There was a foot-way all along the fields

  By the brook-side — ’tis gone — and that dark cleft!

  To me it does not seem to wear the face

  Which then it had.

  PRIEST.

  Why, Sir, for aught I know,

  That chasm is much the same —

>   LEONARD.

  But, surely, yonder —

  PRIEST.

  Aye, there indeed, your memory is a friend

  That does not play you false. — On that tall pike,

  (It is the loneliest place of all these hills)

  There were two Springs which bubbled side by side,

  As if they had been made that they might be

  Companions for each other: ten years back,

  Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag

  Was rent with lightning — one is dead and gone,

  The other, left behind, is flowing still. —

  For accidents and changes such as these,

  Why we have store of them! a water-spout

  Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast

  For folks that wander up and down like you,

  To see an acre’s breadth of that wide cliff

  One roaring cataract — a sharp May storm

  Will come with loads of January snow,

  And in one night send twenty score of sheep

  To feed the ravens, or a Shepherd dies

  By some untoward death among the rocks:

  The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge —

  A wood is fell’d: — and then for our own homes!

  A child is born or christen’d, a field plough’d,

  A daughter sent to service, a web spun,

  The old house cloth is deck’d with a new face;

  And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates

  To chronicle the time, we all have here

  A pair of diaries, one serving, Sir,

  For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side,

  Your’s was a stranger’s judgment: for historians

  Commend me to these vallies.

  LEONARD.

  Yet your church-yard

  Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,

  To say that you are heedless of the past.

  Here’s neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,

  Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state

  Or emblem of our hopes: the dead man’s home

  Is but a fellow to that pasture field.

  PRIEST.

  Why there, Sir, is a thought that’s new to me.

  The Stone-cutters, ‘tis true, might beg their bread

  If every English church-yard were like ours:

  Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth.

  We have no need of names and epitaphs,

  We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.

  And then for our immortal part, we want

  No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:

  The thought of death sits easy on the man

  Who has been born and dies among the mountains:

  LEONARD.

  Your dalesmen, then, do in each other’s thoughts

  Possess a kind of second life: no doubt

  You, Sir, could help me to the history

  Of half these Graves?

  PRIEST.

  With what I’ve witness’d; and with what I’ve heard,

  Perhaps I might, and, on a winter’s evening,

  If you were seated at my chimney’s nook

  By turning o’er these hillocks one by one,

  We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round,

  Yet all in the broad high-way of the world.

  Now there’s a grave — your foot is half upon it,

  It looks just like the rest, and yet that man

  Died broken-hearted.

  LEONARD.

  ’Tis a common case,

  We’ll take another: who is he that lies

  Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves; —

  It touches on that piece of native rock

  Left in the church-yard wall.

  PRIEST.

  That’s Walter Ewbank.

  He had as white a head and fresh a cheek

  As ever were produc’d by youth and age

  Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.

  For five long generations had the heart

  Of Walter’s forefathers o’erflow’d the bounds

  Of their inheritance, that single cottage,

  You see it yonder, and those few green fields.

  They toil’d and wrought, and still, from sire to son,

  Each struggled, and each yielded as before

  A little — yet a little — and old Walter,

  They left to him the family heart, and land

  With other burthens than the crop it bore.

  Year after year the old man still preserv’d

  A chearful mind, and buffeted with bond,

  Interest and mortgages; at last he sank,

  And went into his grave before his time.

  Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurr’d him

  God only knows, but to the very last

  He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:

  His pace was never that of an old man:

  I almost see him tripping down the path

  With his two Grandsons after him — but you,

  Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,

  Have far to travel, and in these rough paths

  Even in the longest day of midsummer —

  LEONARD.

  But these two Orphans!

  PRIEST.

  Orphans! such they were —

  Yet not while Walter liv’d — for, though their Parents

  Lay buried side by side as now they lie,

  The old Man was a father to the boys,

  Two fathers in one father: and if tears

  Shed, when he talk’d of them where they were not,

  And hauntings from the infirmity of love,

  Are aught of what makes up a mother’s heart,

  This old Man in the day of his old age

  Was half a mother to them. — If you weep, Sir,

  To hear a stranger talking about strangers,

  Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!

  Aye. You may turn that way — it is a grave

  Which will bear looking at.

  LEONARD.

  These Boys I hope

  They lov’d this good old Man —

  PRIEST.

  They did — and truly,

  But that was what we almost overlook’d,

  They were such darlings of each other. For

  Though from their cradles they had liv’d with Walter,

  The only kinsman near them in the house,

  Yet he being old, they had much love to spare,

  And it all went into each other’s hearts.

  Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,

  Was two years taller: ‘twas a joy to see,

  To hear, to meet them! from their house the School

  Was distant three short miles, and in the time

  Of storm and thaw, when every water-course

  And unbridg’d stream, such as you may have notic’d

  Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,

  Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,

  Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps

  Remain’d at home, go staggering through the fords

  Bearing his Brother on his back. — I’ve seen him,

  On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,

  Aye, more than once I’ve seen him mid-leg deep,

  Their two books lying both on a dry stone

  Upon the hither side: — and once I said,

  As I remember, looking round these rocks

  And hills on which we all of us were born,

  That God who made the great book of the world

  Would bless such piety —

  LEONARD.

  It may be then —

  PRIEST.

  Never did worthier lads break English bread:

  The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,

  With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,

  Could never keep these boys
away from church,

  Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.

  Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner

  Among these rocks and every hollow place

  Where foot could come, to one or both of them

  Was known as well as to the flowers that grew there.

  Like roe-bucks they went bounding o’er the hills:

  They play’d like two young ravens on the crags:

  Then they could write, aye and speak too, as well

  As many of their betters — and for Leonard!

  The very night before he went away,

  In my own house I put into his hand

  A Bible, and I’d wager twenty pounds,

  That, if he is alive, he has it yet.

  LEONARD.

  It seems, these Brothers have not liv’d to be

  A comfort to each other. —

  PRIEST.

  That they might

  Live to that end, is what both old and young

  In this our valley all of us have wish’d,

  And what, for my part, I have often pray’d:

  But Leonard —

  LEONARD.

  Then James still is left among you —

  PRIEST.

  ’Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking:

  They had an Uncle, he was at that time

  A thriving man, and traffick’d on the seas:

  And, but for this same Uncle, to this hour

  Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.

  For the Boy lov’d the life which we lead here;

  And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old;

  His soul was knit to this his native soil.

  But, as I said, old Walter was too weak

  To strive with such a torrent; when he died,

  The estate and house were sold, and all their sheep,

  A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,

  Had clothed the Ewbauks for a thousand years.

  Well — all was gone, and they were destitute.

  And Leonard, chiefly for his brother’s sake,

  Resolv’d to try his fortune on the seas.

  ’Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him.

  If there was one among us who had heard

  That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,

  From the great Gavel , down by Leeza’s Banks,

  And down the Enna, far as Egremont,

  The day would be a very festival,

  And those two bells of ours, which there you see

  Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir!

  This is sad talk — they’ll never sound for him

  Living or dead — When last we heard of him

  He was in slavery among the Moors

  Upon the Barbary Coast — ’Twas not a little

  That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt,

  Before it ended in his death, the Lad

  Was sadly cross’d — Poor Leonard! when we parted,