Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  It hung its head in mortal languishment.

  —Aided by this appearance, I at length

  Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, she went

  Home to her mother’s house.

  The Youth was fled;

  The rash betrayer could not face the shame

  Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused;

  And little would his presence, or proof given

  Of a relenting soul, have now availed;

  For, like a shadow, he was passed away 1010

  From Ellen’s thoughts; had perished to her mind

  For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love,

  Save only those which to their common shame,

  And to his moral being appertained:

  Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought

  A heavenly comfort; there she recognised

  An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need;

  There, and, as seemed, there only.

  She had built,

  Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest

  In blindness all too near the river’s edge; 1020

  That work a summer flood with hasty swell

  Had swept away; and now her Spirit longed

  For its last flight to heaven’s security.

  —The bodily frame wasted from day to day;

  Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares,

  Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace

  And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought,

  And much she read; and brooded feelingly

  Upon her own unworthiness. To me,

  As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 1030

  Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared

  To mitigate, as gently as I could,

  The sting of self-reproach, with healing words.

  Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth!

  In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate,

  The ghastly face of cold decay put on

  A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine!

  May I not mention—that, within those walls,

  In due observance of her pious wish,

  The congregation joined with me in prayer 1040

  For her soul’s good? Nor was that office vain.

  —Much did she suffer: but, if any friend,

  Beholding her condition, at the sight

  Gave way to words of pity or complaint,

  She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said,

  ‘He who afflicts me knows what I can bear;

  ‘And, when I fail, and can endure no more,

  ‘Will mercifully take me to himself.’

  So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed

  Into that pure and unknown world of love 1050

  Where injury cannot come:—and here is laid

  The mortal Body by her Infant’s side.”

  The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known

  That each had listened with his inmost heart.

  For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong

  Or less benign than that which I had felt

  When seated near my venerable Friend,

  Under those shady elms, from him I heard

  The story that retraced the slow decline

  Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 1060

  With the neglected house to which she clung.

  —I noted that the Solitary’s cheek

  Confessed the power of nature.—Pleased though sad,

  More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate;

  Thanks to his pure imaginative soul

  Capacious and serene; his blameless life,

  His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love

  Of human kind! He was it who first broke

  The pensive silence, saying:—

  “Blest are they

  Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 1070

  Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred.

  This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals

  With such, in their affliction.—Ellen’s fate,

  Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart,

  Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard

  Of one who died within this vale, by doom

  Heavier, as his offence was heavier far.

  Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones

  Of Wilfrid Armathwaite?”

  The Vicar answered,

  “In that green nook, close by the Churchyard wall, 1080

  Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself

  In memory and for warning, and in sign

  Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known,

  Of reconcilement after deep offence—

  There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies

  For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world;

  Nor need the windings of his devious course

  Be here retraced;—enough that, by mishap

  And venial error, robbed of competence,

  And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 1090

  He craved a substitute in troubled joy;

  Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving

  Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow.

  That which he had been weak enough to do

  Was misery in remembrance; he was stung,

  Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles

  Of wife and children stung to agony.

  Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad;

  Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth,

  Asked comfort of the open air, and found 1100

  No quiet in the darkness of the night,

  No pleasure in the beauty of the day.

  His flock he slighted: his paternal fields

  Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished

  To fly—but whither! And this gracious Church,

  That wears a look so full of peace and hope

  And love, benignant mother of the vale,

  How fair amid her brood of cottages!

  She was to him a sickness and reproach.

  Much to the last remained unknown: but this 1110

  Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died;

  Though pitied among men, absolved by God,

  He could not find forgiveness in himself;

  Nor could endure the weight of his own shame.

  Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn

  And from her grave.—Behold—upon that ridge,

  That, stretching boldly from the mountain side,

  Carries into the centre of the vale

  Its rocks and woods—the Cottage where she dwelt

  And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 1120

  (Full eight years past) the solitary prop

  Of many helpless Children. I begin

  With words that might be prelude to a tale

  Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel

  No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes

  See daily in that happy family.

  —Bright garland form they for the pensive brow

  Of their undrooping Father’s widowhood,

  Those six fair Daughters, budding yet—not one,

  Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 1130

  Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once

  That Father was, and filled with anxious fear,

  Now, by experience taught, he stands assured,

  That God, who takes away, yet takes not half

  Of what he seems to take; or gives it back,

  Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer;

  He gives it—the boon produce of a soil

  Which our endeavours have refused to till,

  And hope hath never watered. The Abode,

  Whose grateful owner can attest these truths, 1140

  Even were the object nearer to our sight,

  Would seem in no distinction to surpass

  The rudest h
abitations. Ye might think

  That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown

  Out of the living rock, to be adorned

  By nature only; but, if thither led,

  Ye would discover, then, a studious work

  Of many fancies, prompting many hands.

  Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines

  Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 1150

  A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose

  There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon

  Roof-high; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall,

  And with the flowers are intermingled stones

  Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills.

  These ornaments, that fade not with the year,

  A hardy Girl continues to provide;

  Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights,

  Her Father’s prompt attendant, does for him

  All that a boy could do, but with delight 1160

  More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she,

  Within the garden, like the rest, a bed

  For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space,

  By sacred charter, holden for her use.

  —These, and whatever else the garden bears

  Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not,

  I freely gather; and my leisure draws

  A not unfrequent pastime from the hum

  Of bees around their range of sheltered hives

  Busy in that enclosure; while the rill, 1170

  That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice

  To the pure course of human life which there

  Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom

  Of night is falling round my steps, then most

  This Dwelling charms me; often I stop short,

  (Who could refrain?) and feed by stealth my sight

  With prospect of the company within,

  Laid open through the blazing window:—there

  I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel

  Spinning amain, as if to overtake 1180

  The never-halting time; or, in her turn,

  Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood

  That skill in this or other household work,

  Which, from her Father’s honoured hand, herself,

  While she was yet a little-one, had learned.

  Mild Man! he is not gay, but they are gay;

  And the whole house seems filled with gaiety.

  —Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed,

  The Wife, from whose consolatory grave

  I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, 1190

  And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth!”

  THE EXCURSION: BOOK SEVENTH

  THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS—(continued)

  WHILE thus from theme to theme the Historian passed,

  The words he uttered, and the scene that lay

  Before our eyes, awakened in my mind

  Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours;

  When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale,

  (What time the splendour of the setting sun

  Lay beautiful on Snowdon’s sovereign brow,

  On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur)

  A wandering Youth, I listened with delight

  To pastoral melody or warlike air, 10

  Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp

  By some accomplished Master, while he sate

  Amid the quiet of the green recess,

  And there did inexhaustibly dispense

  An interchange of soft or solemn tunes,

  Tender or blithe; now, as the varying mood

  Of his own spirit urged,—now, as a voice

  From youth or maiden, or some honoured chief

  Of his compatriot villagers (that hung

  Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes 20

  Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required

  For their heart’s ease or pleasure. Strains of power

  Were they, to seize and occupy the sense;

  But to a higher mark than song can reach

  Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream

  Which overflowed the soul was passed away,

  A consciousness remained that it had left,

  Deposited upon the silent shore

  Of memory, images and precious thoughts,

  That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 30

  “These grassy heaps lie amicably close,”

  Said I, “like surges heaving in the wind

  Along the surface of a mountain pool:

  Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold

  Five graves, and only five, that rise together

  Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching

  On the smooth playground of the village-school?”

  The Vicar answered,—”No disdainful pride

  In them who rest beneath, nor any course

  Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped 40

  To place those hillocks in that lonely guise.

  —Once more look forth, and follow with your sight

  The length of road that from yon mountain’s base

  Through bare enclosures stretches, ‘till its line

  Is lost within a little tuft of trees;

  Then, reappearing in a moment, quits

  The cultured fields; and up the heathy waste,

  Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine,

  Led towards an easy outlet of the vale.

  That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, 50

  By which the road is hidden, also hides

  A cottage from our view; though I discern

  (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees

  The smokeless chimney-top.—

  All unembowered

  And naked stood that lowly Parsonage

  (For such in truth it is, and appertains

  To a small Chapel in the vale beyond)

  When hither came its last Inhabitant.

  Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads

  By which our northern wilds could then be crossed; 60

  And into most of these secluded vales

  Was no access for wain, heavy or light.

  So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived

  With store of household goods, in panniers slung

  On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells,

  And on the back of more ignoble beast;

  That, with like burthen of effects most prized

  Or easiest carried, closed the motley train.

  Young was I then, a schoolboy of eight years;

  But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 70

  In order, drawing toward their wished-for home.

  —Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass

  Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight,

  Each in his basket nodding drowsily;

  Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers,

  Which told it was the pleasant month of June;

  And, close behind, the comely Matron rode,

  A woman of soft speech and gracious smile,

  And with a lady’s mien.—From far they came,

  Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs had been 80

  A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered

  By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest;

  And freak put on, and arch word dropped—to swell

  The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise

  That gathered round the slowly-moving train.

  —’Whence do they come? and with what errand charged?

  ‘Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe

  ‘Who pitch their tents under the greenwood tree?

  ‘Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact

  ‘Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 90

  ‘And, by that whiskered tabby’s aid, set forth

  ‘The lucky venture of sage
Whittington,

  ‘When the next village hears the show announced

  ‘By blast of trumpet?’ Plenteous was the growth

  Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen

  On many a staring countenance portrayed

  Of boor or burgher, as they marched along.

  And more than once their steadiness of face

  Was put to proof, and exercise supplied

  To their inventive humour, by stern looks, 100

  And questions in authoritative tone,

  From some staid guardian of the public peace,

  Checking the sober steed on which he rode,

  In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still,

  By notice indirect, or blunt demand

  From traveller halting in his own despite,

  A simple curiosity to ease:

  Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered

  Their grave migration, the good pair would tell,

  With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 110

  A Priest he was by function; but his course

  From his youth up, and high as manhood’s noon,

  (The hour of life to which he then was brought)

  Had been irregular, I might say, wild;

  By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care

  Too little checked. An active, ardent mind;

  A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme

  To cheat the sadness of a rainy day;

  Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games;

  A generous spirit, and a body strong 120

  To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl—

  Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights

  Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall

  Of country ‘squire; or at the statelier board

  Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp

  Withdrawn,—to while away the summer hours

  In condescension among rural guests.

  With these high comrades he had revelled long,

  Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk

  By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 130

  Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim

  Abandoning and all his showy friends,

  For a life’s stay (slender it was, but sure)

  He turned to this secluded chapelry;

  That had been offered to his doubtful choice

  By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare

  They found the cottage, their allotted home;

  Naked without, and rude within; a spot

  With which the Cure not long had been endowed:

  And far remote the chapel stood,—remote, 140

  And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable,

  Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening

  Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers

  Frequented, and beset with howling winds.

  Yet cause was none, whate’er regret might hang