Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

Her Father’s prompt attendant, does for him

  All that a boy could do, but with delight 1160

  More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she,

  Within the garden, like the rest, a bed

  For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space,

  By sacred charter, holden for her use.

  —These, and whatever else the garden bears

  Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not,

  I freely gather; and my leisure draws

  A not unfrequent pastime from the hum

  Of bees around their range of sheltered hives

  Busy in that enclosure; while the rill, 1170

  That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice

  To the pure course of human life which there

  Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom

  Of night is falling round my steps, then most

  This Dwelling charms me; often I stop short,

  (Who could refrain?) and feed by stealth my sight

  With prospect of the company within,

  Laid open through the blazing window:—there

  I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel

  Spinning amain, as if to overtake 1180

  The never-halting time; or, in her turn,

  Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood

  That skill in this or other household work,

  Which, from her Father’s honoured hand, herself,

  While she was yet a little-one, had learned.

  Mild Man! he is not gay, but they are gay;

  And the whole house seems filled with gaiety.

  —Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed,

  The Wife, from whose consolatory grave

  I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, 1190

  And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth!”

  BOOK SEVENTH

  THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS—(continued)

  WHILE thus from theme to theme the Historian passed,

  The words he uttered, and the scene that lay

  Before our eyes, awakened in my mind

  Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours;

  When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale,

  (What time the splendour of the setting sun

  Lay beautiful on Snowdon’s sovereign brow,

  On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur)

  A wandering Youth, I listened with delight

  To pastoral melody or warlike air, 10

  Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp

  By some accomplished Master, while he sate

  Amid the quiet of the green recess,

  And there did inexhaustibly dispense

  An interchange of soft or solemn tunes,

  Tender or blithe; now, as the varying mood

  Of his own spirit urged,—now, as a voice

  From youth or maiden, or some honoured chief

  Of his compatriot villagers (that hung

  Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes 20

  Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required

  For their heart’s ease or pleasure. Strains of power

  Were they, to seize and occupy the sense;

  But to a higher mark than song can reach

  Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream

  Which overflowed the soul was passed away,

  A consciousness remained that it had left,

  Deposited upon the silent shore

  Of memory, images and precious thoughts,

  That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 30

  “These grassy heaps lie amicably close,”

  Said I, “like surges heaving in the wind

  Along the surface of a mountain pool:

  Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold

  Five graves, and only five, that rise together

  Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching

  On the smooth playground of the village-school?”

  The Vicar answered,—”No disdainful pride

  In them who rest beneath, nor any course

  Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped 40

  To place those hillocks in that lonely guise.

  —Once more look forth, and follow with your sight

  The length of road that from yon mountain’s base

  Through bare enclosures stretches, ‘till its line

  Is lost within a little tuft of trees;

  Then, reappearing in a moment, quits

  The cultured fields; and up the heathy waste,

  Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine,

  Led towards an easy outlet of the vale.

  That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, 50

  By which the road is hidden, also hides

  A cottage from our view; though I discern

  (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees

  The smokeless chimney-top.—

  All unembowered

  And naked stood that lowly Parsonage

  (For such in truth it is, and appertains

  To a small Chapel in the vale beyond)

  When hither came its last Inhabitant.

  Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads

  By which our northern wilds could then be crossed; 60

  And into most of these secluded vales

  Was no access for wain, heavy or light.

  So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived

  With store of household goods, in panniers slung

  On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells,

  And on the back of more ignoble beast;

  That, with like burthen of effects most prized

  Or easiest carried, closed the motley train.

  Young was I then, a schoolboy of eight years;

  But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 70

  In order, drawing toward their wished-for home.

  —Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass

  Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight,

  Each in his basket nodding drowsily;

  Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers,

  Which told it was the pleasant month of June;

  And, close behind, the comely Matron rode,

  A woman of soft speech and gracious smile,

  And with a lady’s mien.—From far they came,

  Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs had been 80

  A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered

  By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest;

  And freak put on, and arch word dropped—to swell

  The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise

  That gathered round the slowly-moving train.

  —’Whence do they come? and with what errand charged?

  ‘Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe

  ‘Who pitch their tents under the greenwood tree?

  ‘Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact

  ‘Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 90

  ‘And, by that whiskered tabby’s aid, set forth

  ‘The lucky venture of sage Whittington,

  ‘When the next village hears the show announced

  ‘By blast of trumpet?’ Plenteous was the growth

  Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen

  On many a staring countenance portrayed

  Of boor or burgher, as they marched along.

  And more than once their steadiness of face

  Was put to proof, and exercise supplied

  To their inventive humour, by stern looks, 100

  And questions in authoritative tone,

  From some staid guardian of the public peace,

  Checking the sober steed on which he rode,

  In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still,

  By notice indirect, or blunt demand

  From traveller halting in his own despite,

  A simple curiosity to ease:

  Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered

  The
ir grave migration, the good pair would tell,

  With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 110

  A Priest he was by function; but his course

  From his youth up, and high as manhood’s noon,

  (The hour of life to which he then was brought)

  Had been irregular, I might say, wild;

  By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care

  Too little checked. An active, ardent mind;

  A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme

  To cheat the sadness of a rainy day;

  Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games;

  A generous spirit, and a body strong 120

  To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl—

  Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights

  Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall

  Of country ‘squire; or at the statelier board

  Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp

  Withdrawn,—to while away the summer hours

  In condescension among rural guests.

  With these high comrades he had revelled long,

  Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk

  By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 130

  Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim

  Abandoning and all his showy friends,

  For a life’s stay (slender it was, but sure)

  He turned to this secluded chapelry;

  That had been offered to his doubtful choice

  By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare

  They found the cottage, their allotted home;

  Naked without, and rude within; a spot

  With which the Cure not long had been endowed:

  And far remote the chapel stood,—remote, 140

  And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable,

  Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening

  Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers

  Frequented, and beset with howling winds.

  Yet cause was none, whate’er regret might hang

  On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice

  Or the necessity that fixed him here;

  Apart from old temptations, and constrained

  To punctual labour in his sacred charge.

  See him a constant preacher to the poor! 150

  And visiting, though not with saintly zeal,

  Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will,

  The sick in body, or distrest in mind;

  And, by a salutary change, compelled

  To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day

  With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud

  Or splendid than his garden could afford,

  His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged

  Or the wild brooks; from which he now returned

  Contented to partake the quiet meal 160

  Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate

  And three fair Children, plentifully fed

  Though simply, from their little household farm;

  Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl

  By nature yielded to his practised hand;—

  To help the small but certain comings-in

  Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less

  Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs

  A charitable door.

  So days and years

  Passed on;—the inside of that rugged house 170

  Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron’s care,

  And gradually enriched with things of price,

  Which might be lacked for use or ornament.

  What, though no soft and costly sofa there

  Insidiously stretched out its lazy length,

  And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls,

  Yet were the windows of the low abode

  By shutters weather-fended, which at once

  Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar.

  There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds; 180

  Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants,

  That creep along the ground with sinuous trail,

  Were nicely braided; and composed a work

  Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace

  Lay at the threshold and the inner doors;

  And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool

  But tinctured daintily with florid hues,

  For seemliness and warmth, on festal days,

  Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone

  With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise 190

  Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid.

  Those pleasing works the Housewife’s skill produced:

  Meanwhile the unsedentary Master’s hand

  Was busier with his task—to rid, to plant,

  To rear for food, for shelter, and delight;

  A thriving covert! And when wishes, formed

  In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind,

  Restored me to my native valley, here

  To end my days; well pleased was I to see

  The once-bare cottage, on the mountainside, 200

  Screened from assault of every bitter blast;

  While the dark shadows of the summer leaves

  Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof.

  Time, which had thus afforded willing help

  To beautify with nature’s fairest growths

  This rustic tenement, had gently shed,

  Upon its Master’s frame, a wintry grace;

  The comeliness of unenfeebled age.

  But how could I say, gently? for he still

  Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 210

  A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights

  Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes.

  Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost;

  Generous and charitable, prompt to serve;

  And still his harsher passions kept their hold—

  Anger and indignation. Still he loved

  The sound of titled names, and talked in glee

  Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends:

  Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight

  Uproused by recollected injury, railed 220

  At their false ways disdainfully,—and oft

  In bitterness, and with a threatening eye

  Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow.

  —Those transports, with staid looks of pure good-will,

  And with soft smile, his consort would reprove.

  She, far behind him in the race of years,

  Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced

  Far nearer, in the habit of her soul,

  To that still region whither all are bound,

  Him might we liken to the setting sun 230

  As seen not seldom on some gusty day,

  Struggling and bold, and shining from the west

  With an inconstant and unmellowed light;

  She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung

  As if with wish to veil the restless orb;

  From which it did itself imbibe a ray

  Of pleasing lustre.—But no more of this;

  I better love to sprinkle on the sod

  That now divides the pair, or rather say,

  That still unites them, praises, like heaven’s dew, 240

  Without reserve descending upon both.

  Our very first in eminence of years

  This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale!

  And, to his unmolested mansion, death

  Had never come, through space of forty years;

  Sparing both old and young in that abode.

  Suddenly then they disappeared: not twice

  Had summer scorched the fields; not twice had fallen,

  On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow,

  Before the greedy visiting was closed, 250

  And the long-privileged house left empty—swept

 
; As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague

  Had been among them; all was gentle death,

  One after one, with intervals of peace.

  A happy consummation! an accord

  Sweet, perfect, to be wished for! save that here

  Was something which to mortal sense might sound

  Like harshness,—that the old grey-headed Sire,

  The oldest, he was taken last; survived

  When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 260

  His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gift,

  His little smiling Grandchild, were no more.

  ‘All gone all vanished! he deprived and bare,

  ‘How will he face the remnant of his life?

  ‘What will become of him?’ we said, and mused

  In sad conjectures—’Shall we meet him now

  ‘Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks?

  ‘Or shall we overhear him, as we pass,

  ‘Striving to entertain the lonely hours

  ‘With music?’ (for he had not ceased to touch 270

  The harp or viol which himself had framed,

  For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.)

  ‘What titles will he keep? will he remain

  ‘Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist,

  ‘A planter, and a rearer from the seed?

  ‘A man of hope and forward-looking mind

  ‘Even to the last!’—Such was he, unsubdued.

  But Heaven was gracious; yet a little while,

  And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng

  Of open projects, and his inward hoard 280

  Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen,

  Was overcome by unexpected sleep,

  In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown

  Softly and lightly from a passing cloud,

  Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay

  For noontide solace on the summer grass,

  The warm lap of his mother earth: and so,

  Their lenient term of separation past,

  That family (whose graves you there behold)

  By yet a higher privilege once more 290

  Were gathered to each other.”

  Calm of mind

  And silence waited on these closing words;

  Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear

  Lest in those passages of life were some

  That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend

  Too nearly, or intent to reinforce

  His own firm spirit in degree deprest

  By tender sorrow for our mortal state)

  Thus silence broke:—”Behold a thoughtless Man

  From vice and premature decay preserved 300

  By useful habits, to a fitter soil

  Transplanted ere too late.—The hermit, lodged

  Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads,

  With each repeating its allotted prayer,