Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  self-abasement, which are ever most profound as minds are most

  susceptible of genuine exaltation—or an intuition, communicated

  in adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power;—these

  are the only tribute which can here be paid—the only offering

  that upon such an altar would not be unworthy.

  “What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones

  The labour of an age in piled stones,

  Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid

  Under a star-ypointing pyramid?

  Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame,

  What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

  Thou in our wonder and astonishment

  Hast built thyself a livelong monument,

  And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

  That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.”

  THE EXCURSION: BOOK SIXTH

  THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

  HAIL to the crown by Freedom shaped—to gird

  An English Sovereign’s brow! and to the throne

  Whereon he sits! Whose deep foundations lie

  In veneration and the people’s love;

  Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law.

  —Hail to the State of England! And conjoin

  With this a salutation as devout,

  Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church;

  Founded in truth; by blood of Martyrdom

  Cemented; by the hands of Wisdom reared 10

  In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp,

  Decent and unreproved. The voice, that greets

  The majesty of both, shall pray for both;

  That, mutually protected and sustained,

  They may endure long as the sea surrounds

  This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil.

  And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains

  Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers,

  And spires whose ‘silent finger points to heaven;’

  Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 20

  Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud

  Of the dense air, which town or city breeds

  To intercept the sun’s glad beams—may ne’er

  That true succession fail of English hearts,

  Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive

  What in those holy structures ye possess

  Of ornamental interest, and the charm

  Of pious sentiment diffused afar,

  And human charity, and social love.

  —Thus never shall the indignities of time 30

  Approach their reverend graces, unopposed;

  Nor shall the elements be free to hurt

  Their fair proportions; nor the blinder rage

  Of bigot zeal madly to overturn;

  And, if the desolating hand of war

  Spare them, they shall continue to bestow

  Upon the thronged abodes of busy men

  (Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind

  Exclusively with transitory things)

  An air and mien of dignified pursuit; 40

  Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds.

  The Poet, fostering for his native land

  Such hope, entreats that servants may abound

  Of those pure altars worthy; ministers

  Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain

  Superior, insusceptible of pride,

  And by ambitious longings undisturbed;

  Men, whose delight is where their duty leads

  Or fixes them; whose least distinguished day

  Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 50

  Which makes the sabbath lovely in the sight

  Of blessed angels, pitying human cares.

  —And, as on earth it is the doom of truth

  To be perpetually attacked by foes

  Open or covert, be that priesthood still,

  For her defence, replenished with a band

  Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts

  Thoroughly disciplined; nor (if in course

  Of the revolving world’s disturbances

  Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert! 60

  To meet such trial) from their spiritual sires

  Degenerate; who, constrained to wield the sword

  Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed

  With hostile din, and combating in sight

  Of angry umpires, partial and unjust;

  And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire,

  So to declare the conscience satisfied:

  Nor for their bodies would accept release;

  But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed

  With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, 70

  The faith which they by diligence had earned,

  Or, through illuminating grace, received,

  For their dear countrymen, and all mankind.

  O high example, constancy divine!

  Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal

  And from the sanctity of elder times

  Not deviating,—a priest, the like of whom

  If multiplied, and in their stations set,

  Would o’er the bosom of a joyful land

  Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 80

  Before me stood that day; on holy ground

  Fraught with the relics of mortality,

  Exalting tender themes, by just degrees

  To lofty raised; and to the highest, last;

  The head and mighty paramount of truths,—

  Immortal life, in never-fading worlds,

  For mortal creatures, conquered and secured.

  That basis laid, those principles of faith

  Announced, as a preparatory act

  Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 90

  The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground;

  Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe

  But with a mild and social cheerfulness;

  Then to the Solitary turned, and spake.

  “At morn or eve, in your retired domain,

  Perchance you not unfrequently have marked

  A Visitor—in quest of herbs and flowers;

  Too delicate employ, as would appear,

  For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet

  From nature’s kindliness received a frame 100

  Robust as ever rural labour bred.”

  The Solitary answered: “Such a Form

  Full well I recollect. We often crossed

  Each other’s path; but, as the Intruder seemed

  Fondly to prize the silence which he kept,

  And I as willingly did cherish mine,

  We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard,

  From my good Host, that being crazed in brain

  By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks,

  Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 110

  In hope to find some virtuous herb of power

  To cure his malady!”

  The Vicar smiled,—

  “Alas! before to-morrow’s sun goes down

  His habitation will be here: for him

  That open grave is destined.”

  “Died he then

  Of pain and grief?” the Solitary asked,

  “Do not believe it; never could that be!”

  “He loved,” the Vicar answered, “deeply loved,

  Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and dared

  At length to tell his love, but sued in vain; 120

  Rejected, yea repelled; and, if with scorn

  Upon the haughty maiden’s brow, ‘tis but

  A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears

  In wantonness of conquest, or puts on

  To cheat the world, or from herself to hide

  Humiliation, when no longer free.

  ‘That’ he could brook, and glory in;—but whenr />
  The tidings came that she whom he had wooed

  Was wedded to another, and his heart

  Was forced to rend away its only hope; 130

  Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth

  An object worthier of regard than he,

  In the transition of that bitter hour!

  Lost was she, lost; nor could the Sufferer say

  That in the act of preference he had been

  Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone!

  Had vanished from his prospects and desires;

  Not by translation to the heavenly choir

  Who have put off their mortal spoils—ah no!

  She lives another’s wishes to complete,— 140

  ‘Joy be their lot, and happiness,’ he cried,

  ‘His lot and hers, as misery must be mine!’

  Such was that strong concussion; but the Man,

  Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak

  By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed

  The stedfast quiet natural to a mind

  Of composition gentle and sedate,

  And, in its movements, circumspect and slow.

  To books, and to the long-forsaken desk,

  O’er which enchained by science he had loved 150

  To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself,

  Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth

  With keener appetite (if that might be)

  And closer industry. Of what ensued

  Within the heart no outward sign appeared

  Till a betraying sickliness was seen

  To tinge his cheek; and through his frame it crept

  With slow mutation unconcealable;

  Such universal change as autumn makes

  In the fair body of a leafy grove, 160

  Discoloured, then divested.

  ‘Tis affirmed

  By poets skilled in nature’s secret ways

  That Love will not submit to be controlled

  By mastery:—and the good Man lacked not friends

  Who strove to instil this truth into his mind,

  A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed.

  ‘Go to the hills,’ said one, ‘remit a while

  ‘This baneful diligence:—at early morn

  ‘Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods;

  ‘And, leaving it to others to foretell, 170

  ‘By calculations sage, the ebb and flow

  ‘Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed,

  ‘Do you, for your own benefit, construct

  ‘A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow

  ‘Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.’

  The attempt was made;—’tis needless to report

  How hopelessly; but innocence is strong,

  And an entire simplicity of mind

  A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven;

  That opens, for such sufferers, relief 180

  Within the soul, fountains of grace divine;

  And doth commend their weakness and disease

  To Nature’s care, assisted in her office

  By all the elements that round her wait

  To generate, to preserve, and to restore;

  And by her beautiful array of forms

  Shedding sweet influence from above; or pure

  Delight exhaling from the ground they tread.”

  “Impute it not to impatience, if,” exclaimed

  The Wanderer, “I infer that he was healed 190

  By perseverance in the course prescribed.”

  “You do not err: the powers, that had been lost

  By slow degrees, were gradually regained;

  The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart

  In rest established; and the jarring thoughts

  To harmony restored.—But yon dark mould

  Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength,

  Hastily smitten by a fever’s force;

  Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused

  Time to look back with tenderness on her 200

  Whom he had loved in passion; and to send

  Some farewell words—with one, but one, request;

  That, from his dying hand, she would accept

  Of his possessions that which most he prized;

  A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants,

  By his own hand disposed with nicest care,

  In undecaying beauty were preserved;

  Mute register, to him, of time and place,

  And various fluctuations in the breast;

  To her, a monument of faithful love 210

  Conquered, and in tranquillity retained!

  Close to his destined habitation, lies

  One who achieved a humbler victory,

  Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is

  High in these mountains, that allured a band

  Of keen adventurers to unite their pains

  In search of precious ore: they tried, were foiled—

  And all desisted, all, save him alone.

  He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts,

  And trusting only to his own weak hands, 220

  Urged unremittingly the stubborn work,

  Unseconded, uncountenanced; then, as time

  Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found

  No recompense, derided; and at length,

  By many pitied, as insane of mind;

  By others dreaded as the luckless thrall

  Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope

  By various mockery of sight and sound;

  Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed.

  —But when the lord of seasons had matured 230

  The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years,

  The mountain’s entrails offered to his view

  And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward.

  Not with more transport did Columbus greet

  A world, his rich discovery! But our Swain,

  A very hero till his point was gained,

  Proved all unable to support the weight

  Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked

  With an unsettled liberty of thought,

  Wishes and endless schemes; by daylight walked 240

  Giddy and restless; ever and anon

  Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups;

  And truly might be said to die of joy!

  He vanished; but conspicuous to this day

  The path remains that linked his cottage-door

  To the mine’s mouth; a long and slanting track,

  Upon the rugged mountain’s stony side,

  Worn by his daily visits to and from

  The darksome centre of a constant hope.

  This vestige, neither force of beating rain, 250

  Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw

  Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away;

  And it is named, in memory of the event,

  The PATH OF PERSEVERANCE.”

  “Thou from whom

  Man has his strength,” exclaimed the Wanderer, “oh!

  Do thou direct it! To the virtuous grant

  The penetrative eye which can perceive

  In this blind world the guiding vein of hope;

  That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way,

  ‘Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified;’ 260

  Grant to the wise ‘his’ firmness of resolve!”

  “That prayer were not superfluous,” said the Priest,

  “Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust,

  That Westminster, for Britain’s glory, holds

  Within the bosom of her awful pile,

  Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh,

  Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due to all,

  Wherever laid, who living fell below

  Their virtue’s humbler mark; a sigh of ‘pain’

  If to the opposite extreme they sank. 270
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  How would you pity her who yonder rests;

  Him, farther off; the pair, who here are laid;

  But, above all, that mixture of earth’s mould

  Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind

  Recalls!

  ‘He’ lived not till his locks were nipped

  By seasonable frost of age; nor died

  Before his temples, prematurely forced

  To mix the manly brown with silver grey,

  Gave obvious instance of the sad effect

  Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 280

  The natural crown that sage Experience wears.

  Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn,

  And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed

  Or could perform; a zealous actor, hired

  Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn

  Into the lists of giddy enterprise—

  Such was he; yet, as if within his frame

  Two several souls alternately had lodged,

  Two sets of manners could the Youth put on;

  And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 290

  That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage,

  Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still

  As the mute swan that floats adown the stream,

  Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake,

  Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf,

  That flutters on the bough, lighter than he;

  And not a flower, that droops in the green shade,

  More winningly reserved! If ye enquire

  How such consummate elegance was bred

  Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice; 300

  ‘Twas Nature’s will; who sometimes undertakes,

  For the reproof of human vanity,

  Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk.

  Hence, for this Favourite—lavishly endowed

  With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit,

  While both, embellishing each other, stood

  Yet farther recommended by the charm

  Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song,

  And skill in letters—every fancy shaped

  Fair expectations; nor, when to the world’s 310

  Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there

  Were he and his attainments overlooked,

  Or scantily rewarded; but all hopes,

  Cherished for him, he suffered to depart,

  Like blighted buds; or clouds that mimicked land

  Before the sailor’s eye; or diamond drops

  That sparkling decked the morning grass; or aught

  That ‘was’ attractive, and hath ceased to be!

  Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites

  Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 320

  Who, by humiliation undeterred,

  Sought for his weariness a place of rest

  Within his Father’s gates.—Whence came he?—clothed