Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

How vain, thought I, is it by change of place 20

  To seek that comfort which the mind denies;

  Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned

  Wisely; and by such tenure do we hold

  Frail life’s possessions, that even they whose fate

  Yields no peculiar reason of complaint

  Might, by the promise that is here, be won

  To steal from active duties, and embrace

  Obscurity, and undisturbed repose.

  —Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times,

  Should be allowed a privilege to have 30

  Her anchorites, like piety of old;

  Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained

  By war, might, if so minded, turn aside

  Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few

  Living to God and nature, and content

  With that communion. Consecrated be

  The spots where such abide! But happier still

  The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends

  That meditation and research may guide

  His privacy to principles and powers 40

  Discovered or invented; or set forth,

  Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth,

  In lucid order; so that, when his course

  Is run, some faithful eulogist may say,

  He sought not praise, and praise did overlook

  His unobtrusive merit; but his life,

  Sweet to himself, was exercised in good

  That shall survive his name and memory.

  Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere

  Accompanied these musings; fervent thanks 50

  For my own peaceful lot and happy choice;

  A choice that from the passions of the world

  Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat;

  Sheltered, but not to social duties lost,

  Secluded, but not buried; and with song

  Cheering my days, and with industrious thought;

  With the ever-welcome company of books;

  With virtuous friendship’s soul-sustaining aid,

  And with the blessings of domestic love.

  Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 60

  Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel

  Worn in the moorland, till I overtook

  My two Associates, in the morning sunshine

  Halting together on a rocky knoll,

  Whence the bare road descended rapidly

  To the green meadows of another vale.

  Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand

  In sign of farewell. “Nay,” the old Man said,

  “The fragrant air its coolness still retains;

  The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 70

  The dewy grass; you cannot leave us now,

  We must not part at this inviting hour.”

  He yielded, though reluctant; for his mind

  Instinctively disposed him to retire

  To his own covert; as a billow, heaved

  Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea.

  —So we descend: and winding round a rock

  Attain a point that showed the valley—stretched

  In length before us; and, not distant far,

  Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower, 80

  Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees.

  And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond

  Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed

  A copious stream with boldly-winding course;

  Here traceable, there hidden—there again

  To sight restored, and glittering in the sun.

  On the stream’s bank, and everywhere, appeared

  Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots;

  Some scattered o’er the level, others perched

  On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 90

  Now in its morning purity arrayed.

  “As ‘mid some happy valley of the Alps,”

  Said I, “once happy, ere tyrannic power,

  Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss,

  Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth,

  A popular equality reigns here,

  Save for yon stately House beneath whose roof

  A rural lord might dwell.”—”No feudal pomp,

  Or power,” replied the Wanderer, “to that House

  Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 100

  Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest,

  The shepherd of his flock; or, as a king

  Is styled, when most affectionately praised,

  The father of his people. Such is he;

  And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice

  Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed

  To me some portion of a kind regard;

  And something also of his inner mind

  Hath he imparted—but I speak of him

  As he is known to all.

  The calm delights 110

  Of unambitious piety he chose,

  And learning’s solid dignity; though born

  Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends.

  Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew

  From academic bowers. He loved the spot—

  Who does not love his native soil?—he prized

  The ancient rural character, composed

  Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest

  And undisguised, and strong and serious thought

  A character reflected in himself, 120

  With such embellishment as well beseems

  His rank and sacred function. This deep vale

  Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight,

  And one a turreted manorial hall

  Adorns, in which the good Man’s ancestors

  Have dwelt through ages, Patrons of this Cure.

  To them, and to his own judicious pains,

  The Vicar’s dwelling, and the whole domain,

  Owes that presiding aspect which might well

  Attract your notice; statelier than could else 130

  Have been bestowed, through course of common chance,

  On an unwealthy mountain Benefice.”

  This said, oft pausing, we pursued our way;

  Nor reached the village-churchyard till the sun

  Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen

  Above the summits of the highest hills,

  And round our path darted oppressive beams.

  As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile

  Stood open; and we entered. On my frame,

  At such transition from the fervid air, 140

  A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike

  The heart, in concert with that temperate awe

  And natural reverence which the place inspired.

  Not raised in nice proportions was the pile,

  But large and massy; for duration built;

  With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld

  By naked rafters intricately crossed,

  Like leafless underboughs, in some thick wood,

  All withered by the depth of shade above.

  Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 150

  Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed;

  Each also crowned with winged heads—a pair

  Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor

  Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,

  Was occupied by oaken benches ranged

  In seemly rows; the chancel only showed

  Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state

  By immemorial privilege allowed;

  Though with the Encincture’s special sanctity

  But ill according. An heraldic shield, 160

  Varying its tincture with the changeful light,

  Imbued the altar-window; fixed aloft

  A faded hatchment hung, and one by time

  Yet undiscoloured. A capacious pew

  Of sculptured oak stood here, with
drapery lined;

  And marble monuments were here displayed

  Thronging the walls; and on the floor beneath

  Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven

  And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small

  And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 170

  The tribute by these various records claimed,

  Duly we paid, each after each, and read

  The ordinary chronicle of birth,

  Office, alliance, and promotion—all

  Ending in dust; of upright magistrates,

  Grave doctors strenuous for the mother-church,

  And uncorrupted senators, alike

  To king and people true. A brazen plate,

  Not easily deciphered, told of one

  Whose course of earthly honour was begun 180

  In quality of page among the train

  Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas

  His royal state to show, and prove his strength

  In tournament, upon the fields of France.

  Another tablet registered the death,

  And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight

  Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles.

  Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed;

  And, to the silent language giving voice,

  I read,—how in his manhood’s earlier day 190

  He, ‘mid the afflictions of intestine war

  And rightful government subverted, found

  One only solace—that he had espoused

  A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved

  For her benign perfections; and yet more

  Endeared to him, for this, that, in her state

  Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven’s regard,

  She with a numerous issue filled his house,

  Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm

  That laid their country waste. No need to speak 200

  Of less particular notices assigned

  To Youth or Maiden gone before their time,

  And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old;

  Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed

  In modest panegyric.

  “These dim lines,

  What would they tell?” said I,—but, from the task

  Of puzzling out that faded narrative,

  With whisper soft my venerable Friend

  Called me; and, looking down the darksome aisle,

  I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 210

  Standing apart; with curved arm reclined

  On the baptismal font; his pallid face

  Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost

  In some abstraction;—gracefully he stood,

  The semblance bearing of a sculptured form

  That leans upon a monumental urn

  In peace, from morn to night, from year to year.

  Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse;

  Who entered, humming carelessly a tune,

  Continuation haply of the notes 220

  That had beguiled the work from which he came,

  With spade and mattock o’er his shoulder hung;

  To be deposited, for future need,

  In their appointed place. The pale Recluse

  Withdrew; and straight we followed,—to a spot

  Where sun and shade were intermixed; for there

  A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms

  From an adjoining pasture, overhung

  Small space of that green churchyard with a light

  And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 230

  My ancient Friend and I together took

  Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake,

  Standing before us:—

  “Did you note the mien

  Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl,

  Death’s hireling, who scoops out his neighbour’s grave,

  Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay,

  All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf,

  Or plant a tree. And did you hear his voice?

  I was abruptly summoned by the sound

  From some affecting images and thoughts, 240

  Which then were silent; but crave utterance now.

  Much,” he continued, with dejected look,

  “Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase,

  Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes

  For future states of being; and the wings

  Of speculation, joyfully outspread,

  Hovered above our destiny on earth:

  But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul

  In sober contrast with reality,

  And man’s substantial life. If this mute earth 250

  Of what it holds could speak, and every grave

  Were as a volume, shut, yet capable

  Of yielding its contents to eye and ear,

  We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame,

  To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill

  That which is done accords with what is known

  To reason, and by conscience is enjoined;

  How idly, how perversely, life’s whole course,

  To this conclusion, deviates from the line,

  Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 260

  At her aspiring outset.

  Mark the babe

  Not long accustomed to this breathing world;

  One that hath barely learned to shape a smile,

  Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp

  With tiny finger—to let fall a tear;

  And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves,

  To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem,

  The outward functions of intelligent man;

  A grave proficient in amusive feats

  Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 270

  His expectations, and announce his claims

  To that inheritance which millions rue

  That they were ever born to! In due time

  A day of solemn ceremonial comes;

  When they, who for this Minor hold in trust

  Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage

  Of mere humanity, present their Charge,

  For this occasion daintily adorned,

  At the baptismal font. And when the pure

  And consecrating element hath cleansed 280

  The original stain, the child is there received

  Into the second ark, Christ’s church, with trust

  That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float

  Over the billows of this troublesome world

  To the fair land of everlasting life.

  Corrupt affections, covetous desires,

  Are all renounced; high as the thought of man

  Can carry virtue, virtue is professed;

  A dedication made, a promise given

  For due provision to control and guide, 290

  And unremitting progress to ensure

  In holiness and truth.”

  “You cannot blame,”

  Here interposing fervently I said,

  “Rites which attest that Man by nature lies

  Bedded for good and evil in a gulf

  Fearfully low; nor will your judgment scorn

  Those services, whereby attempt is made

  To lift the creature toward that eminence

  On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty

  He stood; or if not so, whose top serene 300

  At least he feels ‘tis given him to descry;

  Not without aspirations, evermore

  Returning, and injunctions from within

  Doubt to cast off and weariness; in trust

  That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost,

  May be, through pains and persevering hope,

  Recovered; or, if hitherto unknown,

  Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained.”

  “I blame them not,” he calmly answered—”no;

  The outwa
rd ritual and established forms 310

  With which communities of men invest

  These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows

  To which the lips give public utterance

  Are both a natural process; and by me

  Shall pass uncensured; though the issue prove,

  Bringing from age to age its own reproach,

  Incongruous, impotent, and blank.—But, oh!

  If to be weak is to be wretched—miserable,

  As the lost Angel by a human voice

  Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 320

  Far better not to move at all than move

  By impulse sent from such illusive power,—

  That finds and cannot fasten down; that grasps

  And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps;

  That tempts, emboldens—for a time sustains,

  And then betrays; accuses and inflicts

  Remorseless punishment; and so retreads

  The inevitable circle: better far

  Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace,

  By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed! 330

  Philosophy! and thou more vaunted name

  Religion! with thy statelier retinue,

  Faith, Hope, and Charity—from the visible world

  Choose for your emblems whatsoe’er ye find

  Of safest guidance or of firmest trust—

  The torch, the star, the anchor; nor except

  The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet

  The generations of mankind have knelt

  Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears,

  And through that conflict seeking rest—of you, 340

  High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask,

  Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky

  In faint reflection of infinitude

  Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet

  A subterraneous magazine of bones,

  In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid,

  Where are your triumphs? your dominion where?

  And in what age admitted and confirmed?

  —Not for a happy land do I enquire,

  Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 350

  Who, with obedience willing and sincere,

  To your serene authorities conform;

  But whom, I ask, of individual Souls,

  Have ye withdrawn from passion’s crooked ways,

  Inspired, and thoroughly fortified?—If the heart

  Could be inspected to its inmost folds

  By sight undazzled with the glare of praise,

  Who shall be named—in the resplendent line

  Of sages, martyrs, confessors—the man

  Whom the best might of faith, wherever fixed, 360

  For one day’s little compass, has preserved

  From painful and discreditable shocks

  Of contradiction, from some vague desire

  Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse

  To some unsanctioned fear?”