Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  And energy to conquer and repel—

  These elements of virtue, that declare

  The native grandeur of the human soul—

  Are oft-times not unprofitably shown

  In the perverseness of a selfish course:

  Truth every day exemplified, no less

  In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 670

  Than in fantastic conqueror’s roving camp,

  Or ‘mid the factious senate, unappalled

  Whoe’er may sink, or rise—to sink again,

  As merciless proscription ebbs and flows.

  There,” said the Vicar, pointing as he spake,

  “A woman rests in peace; surpassed by few

  In power of mind, and eloquent discourse.

  Tall was her stature; her complexion dark

  And saturnine; her head not raised to hold

  Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards earth, 680

  But in projection carried, as she walked

  For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes;

  Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought

  Was her broad forehead; like the brow of one

  Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare

  Of overpowering light.—While yet a child,

  She, ‘mid the humble flowerets of the vale,

  Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfurnished

  With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking

  To be admired, than coveted and loved. 690

  Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen,

  Over her comrades; else their simple sports,

  Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind,

  Had crossed her only to be shunned with scorn,

  —Oh! pang of sorrowful regret for those

  Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled,

  That they have lived for harsher servitude,

  Whether in soul, in body, or estate!

  Such doom was hers; yet nothing could subdue

  Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 700

  Those brighter images by books imprest

  Upon her memory, faithfully as stars

  That occupy their places, and, though oft

  Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze,

  Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired.

  Two passions, both degenerate, for they both

  Began in honour, gradually obtained

  Rule over her, and vexed her daily life;

  An unremitting, avaricious thrift;

  And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 710

  That held her spirit, in its own despite,

  Bound—by vexation, and regret, and scorn,

  Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows,

  And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed—

  To a poor dissolute Son, her only child.

  —Her wedded days had opened with mishap,

  Whence dire dependence. What could she perform

  To shake the burthen off? Ah! there was felt,

  Indignantly, the weakness of her sex.

  She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve; 720

  The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart

  Closed by degrees to charity; heaven’s blessing

  Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust

  In ceaseless pains—and strictest parsimony

  Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared,

  From each day’s need, out of each day’s least gain.

  Thus all was re-established, and a pile

  Constructed, that sufficed for every end,

  Save the contentment of the builder’s mind;

  A mind by nature indisposed to aught 730

  So placid, so inactive, as content;

  A mind intolerant of lasting peace,

  And cherishing the pang her heart deplored.

  Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared

  To the agitation of a brook that runs

  Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost

  In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained;

  But never to be charmed to gentleness:

  Its best attainment fits of such repose

  As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 740

  A sudden illness seized her in the strength

  Of life’s autumnal season.—Shall I tell

  How on her bed of death the Matron lay,

  To Providence submissive, so she thought;

  But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, almost

  To anger, by the malady that griped

  Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power,

  As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb?

  She prayed, she moaned;—her husband’s sister watched

  Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs; 750

  And yet the very sound of that kind foot

  Was anguish to her ears! ‘And must she rule,’

  This was the death-doomed Woman heard to say

  In bitterness, ‘and must she rule and reign,

  ‘Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone?

  ‘Tend what I tended, calling it her own!’

  Enough;—I fear, too much.—One vernal evening,

  While she was yet in prime of health and strength,

  I well remember, while I passed her door

  Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye 760

  Turned towards the planet Jupiter that hung

  Above the centre of the Vale, a voice

  Roused me, her voice; it said, ‘That glorious star

  ‘In its untroubled element will shine

  ‘As now it shines, when we are laid in earth

  ‘And safe from all our sorrows.’ With a sigh

  She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained

  By faith in glory that shall far transcend

  Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed

  To sight or mind. Nor less than care divine 770

  Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled,

  Was into meekness softened and subdued;

  Did, after trials not in vain prolonged,

  With resignation sink into the grave;

  And her uncharitable acts, I trust,

  And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven,

  Tho’, in this Vale, remembered with deep awe.”

  THE Vicar paused; and toward a seat advanced,

  A long stone-seat, fixed in the Churchyard wall;

  Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 780

  Offering a sunny resting-place to them

  Who seek the House of worship, while the bells

  Yet ring with all their voices, or before

  The last hath ceased its solitary knoll.

  Beneath the shade we all sate down; and there,

  His office, uninvited, he resumed.

  “As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb

  Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March,

  Screened by its parent, so that little mound

  Lies guarded by its neighbour; the small heap 790

  Speaks for itself; an Infant there doth rest;

  The sheltering hillock is the Mother’s grave.

  If mild discourse, and manners that conferred

  A natural dignity on humblest rank;

  If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks,

  That for a face not beautiful did more

  Than beauty for the fairest face can do;

  And if religious tenderness of heart,

  Grieving for sin, and penitential tears

  Shed when the clouds had gathered and distained 800

  The spotless ether of a maiden life;

  If these may make a hallowed spot of earth

  More holy in the sight of God or Man;

  Then, o’er that mould, a sanctity shall brood

  Till the stars sicken at the day of doom.

  Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless man,

  Could field or grove, c
ould any spot of earth,

  Show to his eye an image of the pangs

  Which it hath witnessed; render back an echo

  Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod! 810

  There, by her innocent Baby’s precious grave,

  And on the very turf that roofs her own,

  The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel

  In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene.

  Now she is not; the swelling turf reports

  Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen’s tears

  Is silent; nor is any vestige left

  Of the path worn by mournful tread of her

  Who, at her heart’s light bidding, once had moved

  In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed 820

  Caught from the pressure of elastic turf

  Upon the mountains gemmed with morning dew,

  In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs.

  —Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet,

  By reconcilement exquisite and rare,

  The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl

  Were such as might have quickened and inspired

  A Titian’s hand, addrest to picture forth

  Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade

  What time the hunter’s earliest horn is heard 830

  Startling the golden hills.

  A wide-spread elm

  Stands in our valley, named THE JOYFUL TREE;

  From dateless usage which our peasants hold

  Of giving welcome to the first of May

  By dances round its trunk.—And if the sky

  Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid

  To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars

  Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports,

  If not in beauty yet in sprightly air,

  Was hapless Ellen.—No one touched the ground 840

  So deftly, and the nicest maiden’s locks

  Less gracefully were braided;—but this praise,

  Methinks, would better suit another place.

  She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved.

  —The road is dim, the current unperceived,

  The weakness painful and most pitiful,

  By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth,

  May be delivered to distress and shame.

  Such fate was hers.—The last time Ellen danced,

  Among her equals, round THE JOYFUL TREE, 850

  She bore a secret burthen; and full soon

  Was left to tremble for a breaking vow,—

  Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow,

  Alone, within her widowed Mother’s house.

  It was the season of unfolding leaves,

  Of days advancing toward their utmost length,

  And small birds singing happily to mates

  Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power

  Winds pipe through fading woods; but those blithe notes

  Strike the deserted to the heart; I speak 860

  Of what I know, and what we feel within.

  —Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt

  Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig

  A thrush resorts, and annually chants,

  At morn and evening from that naked perch,

  While all the undergrove is thick with leaves,

  A time-beguiling ditty, for delight

  Of his fond partner, silent in the nest.

  —’Ah why,’ said Ellen, sighing to herself,

  ‘Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge; 870

  ‘And nature that is kind in woman’s breast,

  ‘And reason that in man is wise and good,

  ‘And fear of him who is a righteous judge;

  ‘Why do not these prevail for human life,

  ‘To keep two hearts together, that began

  ‘Their spring-time with one love, and that have need

  ‘Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet

  ‘To grant, or be received; while that poor bird—

  ‘O come and hear him! Thou who hast to me

  ‘Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature, 880

  ‘One of God’s simple children that yet know not

  ‘The universal Parent, how he sings

  ‘As if he wished the firmament of heaven

  ‘Should listen, and give back to him the voice

  ‘Of his triumphant constancy and love;

  ‘The proclamation that he makes, how far

  ‘His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!’

  Such was the tender passage, not by me

  Repeated without loss of simple phrase,

  Which I perused, even as the words had been 890

  Committed by forsaken Ellen’s hand

  To the blank margin of a Valentine,

  Bedropped with tears. ‘Twill please you to be told

  That, studiously withdrawing from the eye

  Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet

  In lonely reading found a meek resource:

  How thankful for the warmth of summer days,

  When she could slip into the cottage-barn,

  And find a secret oratory there;

  Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 900

  Of their long twilight, pore upon her book

  By the last lingering help of the open sky

  Until dark night dismissed her to her bed!

  Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose

  The unconquerable pang of despised love.

  A kindlier passion opened on her soul

  When that poor Child was born. Upon its face

  She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift

  Of unexpected promise, where a grief

  Or dread was all that had been thought of,—joy 910

  Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels,

  Amid a perilous waste that all night long

  Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm,

  When he beholds the first pale speck serene

  Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed,

  And greets it with thanksgiving. ‘Till this hour,’

  Thus, in her Mother’s hearing Ellen spake,

  ‘There was a stony region in my heart;

  ‘But He, at whose command the parched rock

  ‘Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 920

  ‘Hath softened that obduracy, and made

  ‘Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place,

  ‘To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I breathe

  ‘The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake

  ‘My infant! and for that good Mother dear,

  ‘Who bore me; and hath prayed for me in vain;—

  ‘Yet not in vain; it shall not be in vain.’

  She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled;

  And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return,

  They stayed not long.—The blameless Infant grew 930

  The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved

  They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed;

  A soothing comforter, although forlorn;

  Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands;

  Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by

  With vacant mind, not seldom may observe

  Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house,

  Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns.

  Through four months’ space the Infant drew its food

  From the maternal breast; then scruples rose; 940

  Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and crossed

  The fond affection. She no more could bear

  By her offence to lay a twofold weight

  On a kind parent willing to forget

  Their slender means: so, to that parent’s care

  Trusting her child, she left their common home,

  And undertook with dutiful content

  A Foster-mother’s office.
r />   ‘Tis, perchance,

  Unknown to you that in these simple vales

  The natural feeling of equality 950

  Is by domestic service unimpaired;

  Yet, though such service be, with us, removed

  From sense of degradation, not the less

  The ungentle mind can easily find means

  To impose severe restraints and laws unjust,

  Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel:

  For (blinded by an over-anxious dread

  Of such excitement and divided thought

  As with her office would but ill accord)

  The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, 960

  Forbade her all communion with her own:

  Week after week, the mandate they enforced.

  —So near! yet not allowed, upon that sight

  To fix her eyes—alas! ‘twas hard to bear!

  But worse affliction must be borne—far worse;

  For ‘tis Heaven’s will—that, after a disease

  Begun and ended within three days’ space,

  Her child should die; as Ellen now exclaimed,

  Her own—deserted child!—Once, only once,

  She saw it in that mortal malady; 970

  And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain

  Permission to attend its obsequies.

  She reached the house, last of the funeral train;

  And some one, as she entered, having chanced

  To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure,

  ‘Nay,’ said she, with commanding look, a spirit

  Of anger never seen in her before,

  ‘Nay, ye must wait my time!’ and down she sate,

  And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat

  Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 980

  Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child,

  Until at length her soul was satisfied.

  You see the Infant’s Grave; and to this spot,

  The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad,

  On whatsoever errand, urged her steps:

  Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt

  In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene!

  So call her; for not only she bewailed

  A mother’s loss, but mourned in bitterness

  Her own transgression; penitent sincere 990

  As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye?

  —At length the parents of the foster-child,

  Noting that in despite of their commands

  She still renewed and could not but renew

  Those visitations, ceased to send her forth;

  Or, to the garden’s narrow bounds, confined.

  I failed not to remind them that they erred;

  For holy Nature might not thus be crossed,

  Thus wronged in woman’s breast: in vain I pleaded—

  But the green stalk of Ellen’s life was snapped, 1000

  And the flower drooped; as every eye could see,