Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  —Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet,

  By reconcilement exquisite and rare,

  The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl

  Were such as might have quickened and inspired

  A Titian’s hand, addrest to picture forth

  Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade

  What time the hunter’s earliest horn is heard 830

  Startling the golden hills.

  A wide-spread elm

  Stands in our valley, named THE JOYFUL TREE;

  From dateless usage which our peasants hold

  Of giving welcome to the first of May

  By dances round its trunk.—And if the sky

  Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid

  To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars

  Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports,

  If not in beauty yet in sprightly air,

  Was hapless Ellen.—No one touched the ground 840

  So deftly, and the nicest maiden’s locks

  Less gracefully were braided;—but this praise,

  Methinks, would better suit another place.

  She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved.

  —The road is dim, the current unperceived,

  The weakness painful and most pitiful,

  By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth,

  May be delivered to distress and shame.

  Such fate was hers.—The last time Ellen danced,

  Among her equals, round THE JOYFUL TREE, 850

  She bore a secret burthen; and full soon

  Was left to tremble for a breaking vow,—

  Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow,

  Alone, within her widowed Mother’s house.

  It was the season of unfolding leaves,

  Of days advancing toward their utmost length,

  And small birds singing happily to mates

  Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power

  Winds pipe through fading woods; but those blithe notes

  Strike the deserted to the heart; I speak 860

  Of what I know, and what we feel within.

  —Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt

  Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig

  A thrush resorts, and annually chants,

  At morn and evening from that naked perch,

  While all the undergrove is thick with leaves,

  A time-beguiling ditty, for delight

  Of his fond partner, silent in the nest.

  —’Ah why,’ said Ellen, sighing to herself,

  ‘Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge; 870

  ‘And nature that is kind in woman’s breast,

  ‘And reason that in man is wise and good,

  ‘And fear of him who is a righteous judge;

  ‘Why do not these prevail for human life,

  ‘To keep two hearts together, that began

  ‘Their spring-time with one love, and that have need

  ‘Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet

  ‘To grant, or be received; while that poor bird—

  ‘O come and hear him! Thou who hast to me

  ‘Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature, 880

  ‘One of God’s simple children that yet know not

  ‘The universal Parent, how he sings

  ‘As if he wished the firmament of heaven

  ‘Should listen, and give back to him the voice

  ‘Of his triumphant constancy and love;

  ‘The proclamation that he makes, how far

  ‘His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!’

  Such was the tender passage, not by me

  Repeated without loss of simple phrase,

  Which I perused, even as the words had been 890

  Committed by forsaken Ellen’s hand

  To the blank margin of a Valentine,

  Bedropped with tears. ‘Twill please you to be told

  That, studiously withdrawing from the eye

  Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet

  In lonely reading found a meek resource:

  How thankful for the warmth of summer days,

  When she could slip into the cottage-barn,

  And find a secret oratory there;

  Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 900

  Of their long twilight, pore upon her book

  By the last lingering help of the open sky

  Until dark night dismissed her to her bed!

  Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose

  The unconquerable pang of despised love.

  A kindlier passion opened on her soul

  When that poor Child was born. Upon its face

  She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift

  Of unexpected promise, where a grief

  Or dread was all that had been thought of,—joy 910

  Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels,

  Amid a perilous waste that all night long

  Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm,

  When he beholds the first pale speck serene

  Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed,

  And greets it with thanksgiving. ‘Till this hour,’

  Thus, in her Mother’s hearing Ellen spake,

  ‘There was a stony region in my heart;

  ‘But He, at whose command the parched rock

  ‘Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 920

  ‘Hath softened that obduracy, and made

  ‘Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place,

  ‘To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I breathe

  ‘The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake

  ‘My infant! and for that good Mother dear,

  ‘Who bore me; and hath prayed for me in vain;—

  ‘Yet not in vain; it shall not be in vain.’

  She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled;

  And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return,

  They stayed not long.—The blameless Infant grew 930

  The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved

  They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed;

  A soothing comforter, although forlorn;

  Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands;

  Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by

  With vacant mind, not seldom may observe

  Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house,

  Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns.

  Through four months’ space the Infant drew its food

  From the maternal breast; then scruples rose; 940

  Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and crossed

  The fond affection. She no more could bear

  By her offence to lay a twofold weight

  On a kind parent willing to forget

  Their slender means: so, to that parent’s care

  Trusting her child, she left their common home,

  And undertook with dutiful content

  A Foster-mother’s office.

  ‘Tis, perchance,

  Unknown to you that in these simple vales

  The natural feeling of equality 950

  Is by domestic service unimpaired;

  Yet, though such service be, with us, removed

  From sense of degradation, not the less

  The ungentle mind can easily find means

  To impose severe restraints and laws unjust,

  Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel:

  For (blinded by an over-anxious dread

  Of such excitement and divided thought

  As with her office would but ill accord)

  The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, 960

  Forbade her all communion with her own:

  Week after week, the mandate they enforced.

  —So near! yet not allowed, upon that sight

  To fix her eyes—alas! ‘twas hard to bear!

  But wo
rse affliction must be borne—far worse;

  For ‘tis Heaven’s will—that, after a disease

  Begun and ended within three days’ space,

  Her child should die; as Ellen now exclaimed,

  Her own—deserted child!—Once, only once,

  She saw it in that mortal malady; 970

  And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain

  Permission to attend its obsequies.

  She reached the house, last of the funeral train;

  And some one, as she entered, having chanced

  To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure,

  ‘Nay,’ said she, with commanding look, a spirit

  Of anger never seen in her before,

  ‘Nay, ye must wait my time!’ and down she sate,

  And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat

  Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 980

  Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child,

  Until at length her soul was satisfied.

  You see the Infant’s Grave; and to this spot,

  The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad,

  On whatsoever errand, urged her steps:

  Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt

  In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene!

  So call her; for not only she bewailed

  A mother’s loss, but mourned in bitterness

  Her own transgression; penitent sincere 990

  As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye?

  —At length the parents of the foster-child,

  Noting that in despite of their commands

  She still renewed and could not but renew

  Those visitations, ceased to send her forth;

  Or, to the garden’s narrow bounds, confined.

  I failed not to remind them that they erred;

  For holy Nature might not thus be crossed,

  Thus wronged in woman’s breast: in vain I pleaded—

  But the green stalk of Ellen’s life was snapped, 1000

  And the flower drooped; as every eye could see,

  It hung its head in mortal languishment.

  —Aided by this appearance, I at length

  Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, she went

  Home to her mother’s house.

  The Youth was fled;

  The rash betrayer could not face the shame

  Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused;

  And little would his presence, or proof given

  Of a relenting soul, have now availed;

  For, like a shadow, he was passed away 1010

  From Ellen’s thoughts; had perished to her mind

  For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love,

  Save only those which to their common shame,

  And to his moral being appertained:

  Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought

  A heavenly comfort; there she recognised

  An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need;

  There, and, as seemed, there only.

  She had built,

  Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest

  In blindness all too near the river’s edge; 1020

  That work a summer flood with hasty swell

  Had swept away; and now her Spirit longed

  For its last flight to heaven’s security.

  —The bodily frame wasted from day to day;

  Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares,

  Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace

  And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought,

  And much she read; and brooded feelingly

  Upon her own unworthiness. To me,

  As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 1030

  Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared

  To mitigate, as gently as I could,

  The sting of self-reproach, with healing words.

  Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth!

  In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate,

  The ghastly face of cold decay put on

  A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine!

  May I not mention—that, within those walls,

  In due observance of her pious wish,

  The congregation joined with me in prayer 1040

  For her soul’s good? Nor was that office vain.

  —Much did she suffer: but, if any friend,

  Beholding her condition, at the sight

  Gave way to words of pity or complaint,

  She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said,

  ‘He who afflicts me knows what I can bear;

  ‘And, when I fail, and can endure no more,

  ‘Will mercifully take me to himself.’

  So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed

  Into that pure and unknown world of love 1050

  Where injury cannot come:—and here is laid

  The mortal Body by her Infant’s side.”

  The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known

  That each had listened with his inmost heart.

  For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong

  Or less benign than that which I had felt

  When seated near my venerable Friend,

  Under those shady elms, from him I heard

  The story that retraced the slow decline

  Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 1060

  With the neglected house to which she clung.

  —I noted that the Solitary’s cheek

  Confessed the power of nature.—Pleased though sad,

  More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate;

  Thanks to his pure imaginative soul

  Capacious and serene; his blameless life,

  His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love

  Of human kind! He was it who first broke

  The pensive silence, saying:—

  “Blest are they

  Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 1070

  Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred.

  This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals

  With such, in their affliction.—Ellen’s fate,

  Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart,

  Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard

  Of one who died within this vale, by doom

  Heavier, as his offence was heavier far.

  Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones

  Of Wilfrid Armathwaite?”

  The Vicar answered,

  “In that green nook, close by the Churchyard wall, 1080

  Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself

  In memory and for warning, and in sign

  Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known,

  Of reconcilement after deep offence—

  There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies

  For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world;

  Nor need the windings of his devious course

  Be here retraced;—enough that, by mishap

  And venial error, robbed of competence,

  And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 1090

  He craved a substitute in troubled joy;

  Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving

  Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow.

  That which he had been weak enough to do

  Was misery in remembrance; he was stung,

  Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles

  Of wife and children stung to agony.

  Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad;

  Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth,

  Asked comfort of the open air, and found 1100

  No quiet in the darkness of the night,

  No pleasure in the beauty of the day.

  His flock he slighted: his paternal fields

  Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished

  To fly—but whither! And this gracious Church,

&
nbsp; That wears a look so full of peace and hope

  And love, benignant mother of the vale,

  How fair amid her brood of cottages!

  She was to him a sickness and reproach.

  Much to the last remained unknown: but this 1110

  Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died;

  Though pitied among men, absolved by God,

  He could not find forgiveness in himself;

  Nor could endure the weight of his own shame.

  Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn

  And from her grave.—Behold—upon that ridge,

  That, stretching boldly from the mountain side,

  Carries into the centre of the vale

  Its rocks and woods—the Cottage where she dwelt

  And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 1120

  (Full eight years past) the solitary prop

  Of many helpless Children. I begin

  With words that might be prelude to a tale

  Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel

  No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes

  See daily in that happy family.

  —Bright garland form they for the pensive brow

  Of their undrooping Father’s widowhood,

  Those six fair Daughters, budding yet—not one,

  Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 1130

  Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once

  That Father was, and filled with anxious fear,

  Now, by experience taught, he stands assured,

  That God, who takes away, yet takes not half

  Of what he seems to take; or gives it back,

  Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer;

  He gives it—the boon produce of a soil

  Which our endeavours have refused to till,

  And hope hath never watered. The Abode,

  Whose grateful owner can attest these truths, 1140

  Even were the object nearer to our sight,

  Would seem in no distinction to surpass

  The rudest habitations. Ye might think

  That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown

  Out of the living rock, to be adorned

  By nature only; but, if thither led,

  Ye would discover, then, a studious work

  Of many fancies, prompting many hands.

  Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines

  Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 1150

  A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose

  There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon

  Roof-high; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall,

  And with the flowers are intermingled stones

  Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills.

  These ornaments, that fade not with the year,

  A hardy Girl continues to provide;

  Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights,