Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,

  It seemed the better part was gnawed away

  Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,

  Which had been twined about the slender stem

  Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; 880

  The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep.

  —Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms,

  And, noting that my eye was on the tree,

  She said, ‘I fear it will be dead and gone

  Ere Robert come again.’ When to the House

  We had returned together, she enquired

  If I had any hope:—but for her babe

  And for her little orphan boy, she said,

  She had no wish to live, that she must die

  Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 890

  Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung

  Upon the self-same nail; his very staff

  Stood undisturbed behind the door.

  And when,

  In bleak December, I retraced this way,

  She told me that her little babe was dead,

  And she was left alone. She now, released

  From her maternal cares, had taken up

  The employment common through these wilds, and gained,

  By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself;

  And for this end had hired a neighbour’s boy 900

  To give her needful help. That very time

  Most willingly she put her work aside,

  And walked with me along the miry road,

  Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort

  That any heart had ached to hear her, begged

  That, wheresoe’er I went, I still would ask

  For him whom she had lost. We parted then—

  Our final parting; for from that time forth

  Did many seasons pass ere I returned

  Into this tract again.

  Nine tedious years; 910

  From their first separation, nine long years,

  She lingered in unquiet widowhood;

  A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been

  A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend,

  That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate

  Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day;

  And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit

  The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench

  For hours she sate; and evermore her eye

  Was busy in the distance, shaping things 920

  That made her heart beat quick. You see that path,

  Now faint,—the grass has crept o’er its grey line;

  There, to and fro, she paced through many a day

  Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp

  That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread

  With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed

  A man whose garments showed the soldier’s red,

  Or crippled mendicant in sailor’s garb,

  The little child who sate to turn the wheel

  Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice 930

  Made many a fond enquiry; and when they,

  Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by,

  Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate,

  That bars the traveller’s road, she often stood,

  And when a stranger horseman came, the latch

  Would lift, and in his face look wistfully;

  Most happy, if, from aught discovered there

  Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat

  The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut

  Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand, 940

  At the first nipping of October frost,

  Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw

  Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived

  Through the long winter, reckless and alone;

  Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain,

  Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps

  Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day

  Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind,

  Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still

  She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 950

  Have parted hence; and still that length of road,

  And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared,

  Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,—

  In sickness she remained; and here she died;

  Last human tenant of these ruined walls!”

  The old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved;

  From that low bench, rising instinctively

  I turned aside in weakness, nor had power

  To thank him for the tale which he had told.

  I stood, and leaning o’er the garden wall 960

  Reviewed that Woman’s sufferings; and it seemed

  To comfort me while with a brother’s love

  I blessed her in the impotence of grief.

  Then towards the cottage I returned; and traced

  Fondly, though with an interest more mild,

  That secret spirit of humanity

  Which, ‘mid the calm oblivious tendencies

  Of nature, ‘mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,

  And silent overgrowings, still survived.

  The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 970

  “My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given,

  The purposes of wisdom ask no more:

  Nor more would she have craved as due to One

  Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt

  The unbounded might of prayer; and learned, with soul

  Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs,

  From sources deeper far than deepest pain,

  For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read

  The forms of things with an unworthy eye?

  She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 980

  I well remember that those very plumes,

  Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,

  By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o’er,

  As once I passed, into my heart conveyed

  So still an image of tranquillity,

  So calm and still, and looked so beautiful

  Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,

  That what we feel of sorrow and despair

  From ruin and from change, and all the grief

  That passing shows of Being leave behind, 990

  Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain,

  Nowhere, dominion o’er the enlightened spirit

  Whose meditative sympathies repose

  Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away,

  And walked along my road in happiness.”

  He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot

  A slant and mellow radiance, which began

  To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees,

  We sate on that low bench: and now we felt,

  Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 1000

  A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,

  A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,

  At distance heard, peopled the milder air.

  The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien

  Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff;

  Together casting then a farewell look

  Upon those silent walls, we left the shade;

  And, ere the stars were visible, had reached

  A village-inn,—our evening resting-place.

  THE EXCURSION: BOOK SECOND

  THE SOLITARY

  IN days of yore how fortunately fared

  The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall,

  Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts

  Munificent, and love, and ladies’ praise;

  Now meeting on his road an armed knight,

  Now resting with a pilgrim by the side
r />   Of a clear brook;—beneath an abbey’s roof

  One evening sumptuously lodged; the next,

  Humbly in a religious hospital;

  Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; 10

  Or haply shrouded in a hermit’s cell.

  Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared;

  He walked—protected from the sword of war

  By virtue of that sacred instrument

  His harp, suspended at the traveller’s side;

  His dear companion wheresoe’er he went

  Opening from land to land an easy way

  By melody, and by the charm of verse.

  Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race

  Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts 20

  From his long journeyings and eventful life,

  Than this obscure Itinerant had skill

  To gather, ranging through the tamer ground

  Of these our unimaginative days;

  Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise

  Accoutred with his burthen and his staff;

  And now, when free to move with lighter pace.

  What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school

  Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes,

  Looked on this guide with reverential love? 30

  Each with the other pleased, we now pursued

  Our journey, under favourable skies.

  Turn wheresoe’er we would, he was a light

  Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass,

  Rarely a house, that did not yield to him

  Remembrances; or from his tongue call forth

  Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard

  Accompanied those strains of apt discourse,

  Which nature’s various objects might inspire;

  And in the silence of his face I read 40

  His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts,

  And the mute fish that glances in the stream,

  And harmless reptile coiling in the sun,

  And gorgeous insect hovering in the air,

  The fowl domestic, and the household dog—

  In his capacious mind, he loved them all:

  Their rights acknowledging he felt for all.

  Oft was occasion given me to perceive

  How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd

  To happy contemplation soothed his walk; 50

  How the poor brute’s condition, forced to run

  Its course of suffering in the public road,

  Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart

  With unavailing pity. Rich in love

  And sweet humanity, he was, himself,

  To the degree that he desired, beloved.

  Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew

  Greeted us all day long; we took our seats

  By many a cottage-hearth, where he received

  The welcome of an Inmate from afar, 60

  And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger.

  —Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts,

  Huts where his charity was blest; his voice

  Heard as the voice of an experienced friend.

  And, sometimes—where the poor man held dispute

  With his own mind, unable to subdue

  Impatience through inaptness to perceive

  General distress in his particular lot;

  Or cherishing resentment, or in vain

  Struggling against it; with a soul perplexed, 70

  And finding in herself no steady power

  To draw the line of comfort that divides

  Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven,

  From the injustice of our brother men—

  To him appeal was made as to a judge;

  Who, with an understanding heart, allayed

  The perturbation; listened to the plea;

  Resolved the dubious point; and sentence gave

  So grounded, so applied, that it was heard

  With softened spirit, even when it condemned. 80

  Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved,

  Now as his choice directed, now as mine;

  Or both, with equal readiness of will,

  Our course submitting to the changeful breeze

  Of accident. But when the rising sun

  Had three times called us to renew our walk,

  My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice,

  As if the thought were but a moment old,

  Claimed absolute dominion for the day.

  We started—and he led me toward the hills, 90

  Up through an ample vale, with higher hills

  Before us, mountains stern and desolate;

  But, in the majesty of distance, now

  Set off, and to our ken appearing fair

  Of aspect, with aerial softness clad,

  And beautified with morning’s purple beams.

  The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress

  Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time,

  May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs

  Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 100

  From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise;

  And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease,

  Shall lack not their enjoyment:—but how faint

  Compared with ours! who, pacing side by side,

  Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all

  That we beheld; and lend the listening sense

  To every grateful sound of earth and air;

  Pausing at will—our spirits braced, our thoughts

  Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown,

  And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 110

  Mount slowly, sun! that we may journey long,

  By this dark hill protected from thy beams!

  Such is the summer pilgrim’s frequent wish;

  But quickly from among our morning thoughts

  ‘Twas chased away: for, toward the western side

  Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance,

  We saw a throng of people; wherefore met?

  Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose

  On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield

  Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual Wake, 120

  Which the bright season favours.—Tabor and pipe

  In purpose join to hasten or reprove

  The laggard Rustic; and repay with boons

  Of merriment a party-coloured knot,

  Already formed upon the village-green.

  —Beyond the limits of the shadow cast

  By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight

  That gay assemblage. Round them and above,

  Glitter, with dark recesses interposed,

  Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 130

  Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam

  Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs

  By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast

  Of gold, the Maypole shines; as if the rays

  Of morning, aided by exhaling dew,

  With gladsome influence could re-animate

  The faded garlands dangling from its sides.

  Said I, “The music and the sprightly scene

  Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join

  These festive matins?”—He replied, “Not loth 140

  To linger I would here with you partake,

  Not one hour merely, but till evening’s close,

  The simple pastimes of the day and place.

  By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set,

  The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed;

  There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend:

  But know we not that he, who intermits

  The appointed task and duties of the day,

  Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day;

  Checking the finer spirits that refuse 150

  To flow when purposes are lightly changed?

>   A length of journey yet remains untraced:

  Let us proceed.” Then, pointing with his staff

  Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent

  He thus imparted:—

  “In a spot that lies

  Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed,

  You will receive, before the hour of noon,

  Good recompense, I hope, for this day’s toil,

  From sight of One who lives secluded there,

  Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past life, 160

  (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be

  More faithfully collected from himself)

  This brief communication shall suffice.

  Though now sojourning there, he, like myself,

  Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage

  Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract

  Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant,

  Bears, on the humblest ground of social life,

  Blossoms of piety and innocence.

  Such grateful promises his youth displayed: 170

  And, having shown in study forward zeal,

  He to the Ministry was duly called;

  And straight, incited by a curious mind

  Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge

  Of Chaplain to a military troop

  Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched

  In plaided vest,—his fellow-countrymen.

  This office filling, yet by native power

  And force of native inclination made

  An intellectual ruler in the haunts 180

  Of social vanity, he walked the world,

  Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety;

  Lax, buoyant—less a pastor with his flock

  Than a soldier among soldiers—lived and roamed

  Where Fortune led:—and Fortune, who oft proves

  The careless wanderer’s friend, to him made known

  A blooming Lady—a conspicuous flower,

  Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised;

  Whom he had sensibility to love,

  Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 190

  For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind,

  Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth,

  His office he relinquished; and retired

  From the world’s notice to a rural home.

  Youth’s season yet with him was scarcely past,

  And she was in youth’s prime. How free their love,

  How full their joy! ‘Till, pitiable doom!

  In the short course of one undreaded year

  Death blasted all. Death suddenly o’erthrew

  Two lovely Children—all that they possessed! 200

  The Mother followed:—miserably bare

  The one Survivor stood; he wept, he prayed

  For his dismissal, day and night, compelled

  To hold communion with the grave, and face