Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  And thus divides and thus relieves the time;

  Smooth task, with ‘his’ compared, whose mind could string,

  Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread

  Of keen domestic anguish; and beguile

  A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed;

  Till gentlest death released him.

  Far from us 310

  Be the desire—too curiously to ask

  How much of this is but the blind result

  Of cordial spirits and vital temperament,

  And what to higher powers is justly due.

  But you, Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale

  A Priest abides before whose life such doubts

  Fall to the ground; whose gifts of nature lie

  Retired from notice, lost in attributes

  Of reason, honourably effaced by debts

  Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe, 320

  And conquest over her dominion gained,

  To which her frowardness must needs submit.

  In this one Man is shown a temperance—proof

  Against all trials; industry severe

  And constant as the motion of the day;

  Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade

  That might be deemed forbidding, did not there

  All generous feelings flourish and rejoice;

  Forbearance, charity in deed and thought,

  And resolution competent to take 330

  Out of the bosom of simplicity

  All that her holy customs recommend,

  And the best ages of the world prescribe.

  —Preaching, administering, in every work

  Of his sublime vocation, in the walks

  Of worldly intercourse between man and man,

  And in his humble dwelling, he appears

  A labourer, with moral virtue girt,

  With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned.”

  “Doubt can be none,” the Pastor said, “for whom 340

  This portraiture is sketched. The great, the good,

  The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise,—

  These titles emperors and chiefs have borne,

  Honour assumed or given: and him, the WONDERFUL,

  Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,

  Deservedly have styled.—From his abode

  In a dependent chapelry that lies

  Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild,

  Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,

  And, having once espoused, would never quit; 350

  Into its graveyard will ere long be borne

  That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone

  May cover him; and by its help, perchance,

  A century shall hear his name pronounced,

  With images attendant on the sound;

  Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close

  In utter night; and of his course remain

  No cognizable vestiges, no more

  Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words

  To speak of him, and instantly dissolves.” 360

  The Pastor, pressed by thoughts which round his theme

  Still lingered, after a brief pause, resumed;

  “Noise is there not enough in doleful war,

  But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth,

  And lend the echoes of his sacred shell,

  To multiply and aggravate the din?

  Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love—

  And, in requited passion, all too much

  Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear—

  But that the minstrel of the rural shade 370

  Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse

  The perturbation in the suffering breast,

  And propagate its kind, far as he may?

  —Ah who (and with such rapture as befits

  The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate

  The good man’s purposes and deeds; retrace

  His struggles, his discomfitures deplore,

  His triumphs hail, and glorify his end;

  That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds

  Through fancy’s heat redounding in the brain, 380

  And like the soft infections of the heart,

  By charm of measured words may spread o’er field,

  Hamlet, and town; and piety survive

  Upon the lips of men in hall or bower;

  Not for reproof, but high and warm delight,

  And grave encouragement, by song inspired?

  —Vain thought! but wherefore murmur or repine?

  The memory of the just survives in heaven:

  And, without sorrow, will the ground receive

  That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 390

  Of what lies here confines us to degrees

  In excellence less difficult to reach,

  And milder worth: nor need we travel far

  From those to whom our last regards were paid,

  For such example.

  Almost at the root

  Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare

  And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,

  Oft stretches towards me, like a long straight path

  Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath

  A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 400

  From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn

  The precious gift of hearing. He grew up

  From year to year in loneliness of soul;

  And this deep mountain-valley was to him

  Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn

  Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep

  With startling summons; not for his delight

  The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him

  Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds

  Were working the broad bosom of the lake 410

  Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,

  Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud

  Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,

  The agitated scene before his eye

  Was silent as a picture: evermore

  Were all things silent, wheresoe’er he moved.

  Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts

  Upheld, he duteously pursued the round

  Of rural labours; the steep mountain-side

  Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog; 420

  The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed;

  And the ripe corn before his sickle fell

  Among the jocund reapers. For himself,

  All watchful and industrious as he was,

  He wrought not: neither field nor flock he owned:

  No wish for wealth had place within his mind;

  Nor husband’s love, nor father’s hope or care.

  Though born a younger brother, need was none

  That from the floor of his paternal home

  He should depart, to plant himself anew. 430

  And when, mature in manhood, he beheld

  His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued

  Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased,

  By the pure bond of independent love,

  An inmate of a second family;

  The fellow-labourer and friend of him

  To whom the small inheritance had fallen.

  —Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight

  That pressed upon his brother’s house; for books

  Were ready comrades whom he could not tire; 440

  Of whose society the blameless Man

  Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,

  Even to old age, with unabated charm

  Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his thoughts;

  Beyond its natural elevation raised

  His introverted spirit; and bestowed

  Upon his life an outward dignity

  Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,

  The s
tormy day, each had its own resource;

  Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 450

  Science severe, or word of holy Writ

  Announcing immortality and joy

  To the assembled spirits of just men

  Made perfect, and from injury secure.

  —Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field,

  To no perverse suspicion he gave way,

  No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint:

  And they, who were about him, did not fail

  In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized

  His gentle manners: and his peaceful smiles, 460

  The gleams of his slow-varying countenance,

  Were met with answering sympathy and love.

  At length, when sixty years and five were told,

  A slow disease insensibly consumed

  The powers of nature: and a few short steps

  Of friends and kindred bore him from his home

  (Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags)

  To the profounder stillness of the grave.

  —Nor was his funeral denied the grace

  Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 470

  Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude.

  And now that monumental stone preserves

  His name, and unambitiously relates

  How long, and by what kindly outward aids,

  And in what pure contentedness of mind,

  The sad privation was by him endured.

  —And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound

  Was wasted on the good Man’s living ear,

  Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;

  And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, 480

  Murmurs, not idly, o’er his peaceful grave.

  Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of things!

  Guide of our way, mysterious comforter!

  Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and heaven,

  We all too thanklessly participate,

  Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him

  Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch.

  Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained;

  Ask of the channelled rivers if they held

  A safer, easier, more determined, course. 490

  What terror doth it strike into the mind

  To think of one, blind and alone, advancing

  Straight toward some precipice’s airy brink!

  But, timely warned, ‘He’ would have stayed his steps,

  Protected, say enlightened, by his ear;

  And on the very edge of vacancy

  Not more endangered than a man whose eye

  Beholds the gulf beneath.—No floweret blooms

  Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills,

  Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 500

  Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live

  Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth

  Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind;

  The ocean paid him tribute from the stores

  Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led,

  His genius mounted to the plains of heaven.

  —Methinks I see him—how his eye-balls rolled,

  Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired,—

  But each instinct with spirit; and the frame

  Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 510

  Fancy, and understanding; while the voice

  Discoursed of natural or moral truth

  With eloquence, and such authentic power,

  That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood

  Abashed, and tender pity overawed.”

  “A noble—and, to unreflecting minds,

  A marvellous spectacle,” the Wanderer said,

  “Beings like these present! But proof abounds

  Upon the earth that faculties, which seem

  Extinguished, do not, ‘therefore’, cease to be. 520

  And to the mind among her powers of sense

  This transfer is permitted,—not alone

  That the bereft their recompense may win;

  But for remoter purposes of love

  And charity; nor last nor least for this,

  That to the imagination may be given

  A type and shadow of an awful truth;

  How, likewise, under sufferance divine,

  Darkness is banished from the realms of death,

  By man’s imperishable spirit, quelled. 530

  Unto the men who see not as we see

  Futurity was thought, in ancient times,

  To be laid open, and they prophesied.

  And know we not that from the blind have flowed

  The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre;

  And wisdom married to immortal verse?”

  Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet

  Lying insensible to human praise,

  Love, or regret,—’whose’ lineaments would next

  Have been portrayed, I guess not; but it chanced 540

  That, near the quiet churchyard where we sate,

  A team of horses, with a ponderous freight

  Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope,

  Whose sharp descent confounded their array,

  Came at that moment, ringing noisily.

  “Here,” said the Pastor, “do we muse, and mourn

  The waste of death; and lo! the giant oak

  Stretched on his bier—that massy timber wain;

  Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team.”

  He was a peasant of the lowest class: 550

  Grey locks profusely round his temples hung

  In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite

  Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged

  Within his cheek, as light within a cloud;

  And he returned our greeting with a smile.

  When he had passed, the Solitary spake;

  “A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays

  And confident to-morrows; with a face

  Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much

  Of Nature’s impress,—gaiety and health, 560

  Freedom and hope; but keen, withal, and shrewd.

  His gestures note,—and hark! his tones of voice

  Are all vivacious as his mien and looks.”

  The Pastor answered: “You have read him well.

  Year after year is added to his store

  With ‘silent’ increase: summers, winters—past,

  Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say,

  Ten summers and ten winters of a space

  That lies beyond life’s ordinary bounds,

  Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 570

  The obligation of an anxious mind,

  A pride in having, or a fear to lose;

  Possessed like outskirts of some large domain,

  By any one more thought of than by him

  Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord!

  Yet is the creature rational, endowed

  With foresight; hears, too, every sabbath day,

  The christian promise with attentive ear;

  Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven

  Reject the incense offered up by him, 580

  Though of the kind which beasts and birds present

  In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul,

  From trepidation and repining free.

  How many scrupulous worshippers fall down

  Upon their knees, and daily homage pay

  Less worthy, less religious even, than his!

  This qualified respect, the old Man’s due,

  Is paid without reluctance; but in truth,”

  (Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile)

  “I feel at times a motion of despite 590

  Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill,

  As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part

  In works of havoc; taking from these vales, />
  One after one, their proudest ornaments.

  Full oft his doings leave me to deplore

  Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed,

  In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks;

  Light birch, aloft upon the horizon’s edge,

  A veil of glory for the ascending moon;

  And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, 600

  And on whose forehead inaccessible

  The raven lodged in safety.—Many a ship

  Launched into Morecamb-bay to ‘him’ hath owed

  Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears

  The loftiest of her pendants; He, from park

  Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree

  That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles:

  And the vast engine labouring in the mine,

  Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked

  The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 610

  If his undaunted enterprise had failed

  Among the mountain coves.

  Yon household fir,

  A guardian planted to fence off the blast,

  But towering high the roof above, as if

  Its humble destination were forgot—

  That sycamore, which annually holds

  Within its shade, as in a stately tent

  On all sides open to the fanning breeze,

  A grave assemblage, seated while they shear

  The fleece-encumbered flock—the JOYFUL ELM, 620

  Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May—

  And the LORD’S OAK—would plead their several rights

  In vain, if he were master of their fate;

  His sentence to the axe would doom them all.

  But, green in age and lusty as he is,

  And promising to keep his hold on earth

  Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men

  Than with the forest’s more enduring growth,

  His own appointed hour will come at last;

  And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world, 630

  This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall.

  Now from the living pass we once again:

  From Age,” the Priest continued, “turn your thoughts;

  From Age, that often unlamented drops,

  And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long!

  —Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board

  Of Gold-rill side; and, when the hope had ceased

  Of other progeny, a Daughter then

  Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole;

  And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 640

  Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm

  With which by nature every mother’s soul

  Is stricken in the moment when her throes

  Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry

  Which tells her that a living child is born;

  And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest,

  That the dread storm is weathered by them both.