Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

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by William Wordsworth

On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice

  Or the necessity that fixed him here;

  Apart from old temptations, and constrained

  To punctual labour in his sacred charge.

  See him a constant preacher to the poor! 150

  And visiting, though not with saintly zeal,

  Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will,

  The sick in body, or distrest in mind;

  And, by a salutary change, compelled

  To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day

  With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud

  Or splendid than his garden could afford,

  His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged

  Or the wild brooks; from which he now returned

  Contented to partake the quiet meal 160

  Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate

  And three fair Children, plentifully fed

  Though simply, from their little household farm;

  Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl

  By nature yielded to his practised hand;—

  To help the small but certain comings-in

  Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less

  Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs

  A charitable door.

  So days and years

  Passed on;—the inside of that rugged house 170

  Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron’s care,

  And gradually enriched with things of price,

  Which might be lacked for use or ornament.

  What, though no soft and costly sofa there

  Insidiously stretched out its lazy length,

  And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls,

  Yet were the windows of the low abode

  By shutters weather-fended, which at once

  Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar.

  There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds; 180

  Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants,

  That creep along the ground with sinuous trail,

  Were nicely braided; and composed a work

  Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace

  Lay at the threshold and the inner doors;

  And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool

  But tinctured daintily with florid hues,

  For seemliness and warmth, on festal days,

  Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone

  With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise 190

  Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid.

  Those pleasing works the Housewife’s skill produced:

  Meanwhile the unsedentary Master’s hand

  Was busier with his task—to rid, to plant,

  To rear for food, for shelter, and delight;

  A thriving covert! And when wishes, formed

  In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind,

  Restored me to my native valley, here

  To end my days; well pleased was I to see

  The once-bare cottage, on the mountainside, 200

  Screened from assault of every bitter blast;

  While the dark shadows of the summer leaves

  Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof.

  Time, which had thus afforded willing help

  To beautify with nature’s fairest growths

  This rustic tenement, had gently shed,

  Upon its Master’s frame, a wintry grace;

  The comeliness of unenfeebled age.

  But how could I say, gently? for he still

  Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 210

  A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights

  Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes.

  Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost;

  Generous and charitable, prompt to serve;

  And still his harsher passions kept their hold—

  Anger and indignation. Still he loved

  The sound of titled names, and talked in glee

  Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends:

  Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight

  Uproused by recollected injury, railed 220

  At their false ways disdainfully,—and oft

  In bitterness, and with a threatening eye

  Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow.

  —Those transports, with staid looks of pure good-will,

  And with soft smile, his consort would reprove.

  She, far behind him in the race of years,

  Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced

  Far nearer, in the habit of her soul,

  To that still region whither all are bound,

  Him might we liken to the setting sun 230

  As seen not seldom on some gusty day,

  Struggling and bold, and shining from the west

  With an inconstant and unmellowed light;

  She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung

  As if with wish to veil the restless orb;

  From which it did itself imbibe a ray

  Of pleasing lustre.—But no more of this;

  I better love to sprinkle on the sod

  That now divides the pair, or rather say,

  That still unites them, praises, like heaven’s dew, 240

  Without reserve descending upon both.

  Our very first in eminence of years

  This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale!

  And, to his unmolested mansion, death

  Had never come, through space of forty years;

  Sparing both old and young in that abode.

  Suddenly then they disappeared: not twice

  Had summer scorched the fields; not twice had fallen,

  On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow,

  Before the greedy visiting was closed, 250

  And the long-privileged house left empty—swept

  As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague

  Had been among them; all was gentle death,

  One after one, with intervals of peace.

  A happy consummation! an accord

  Sweet, perfect, to be wished for! save that here

  Was something which to mortal sense might sound

  Like harshness,—that the old grey-headed Sire,

  The oldest, he was taken last; survived

  When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 260

  His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gift,

  His little smiling Grandchild, were no more.

  ‘All gone all vanished! he deprived and bare,

  ‘How will he face the remnant of his life?

  ‘What will become of him?’ we said, and mused

  In sad conjectures—’Shall we meet him now

  ‘Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks?

  ‘Or shall we overhear him, as we pass,

  ‘Striving to entertain the lonely hours

  ‘With music?’ (for he had not ceased to touch 270

  The harp or viol which himself had framed,

  For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.)

  ‘What titles will he keep? will he remain

  ‘Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist,

  ‘A planter, and a rearer from the seed?

  ‘A man of hope and forward-looking mind

  ‘Even to the last!’—Such was he, unsubdued.

  But Heaven was gracious; yet a little while,

  And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng

  Of open projects, and his inward hoard 280

  Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen,

  Was overcome by unexpected sleep,

  In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown

  Softly and lightly from a passing cloud,

  Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay

  For noontide solace on the summer grass,

  The warm lap of his mother earth: and so,

  Their lenient term of separation past,
<
br />   That family (whose graves you there behold)

  By yet a higher privilege once more 290

  Were gathered to each other.”

  Calm of mind

  And silence waited on these closing words;

  Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear

  Lest in those passages of life were some

  That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend

  Too nearly, or intent to reinforce

  His own firm spirit in degree deprest

  By tender sorrow for our mortal state)

  Thus silence broke:—”Behold a thoughtless Man

  From vice and premature decay preserved 300

  By useful habits, to a fitter soil

  Transplanted ere too late.—The hermit, lodged

  Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads,

  With each repeating its allotted prayer,

  And thus divides and thus relieves the time;

  Smooth task, with ‘his’ compared, whose mind could string,

  Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread

  Of keen domestic anguish; and beguile

  A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed;

  Till gentlest death released him.

  Far from us 310

  Be the desire—too curiously to ask

  How much of this is but the blind result

  Of cordial spirits and vital temperament,

  And what to higher powers is justly due.

  But you, Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale

  A Priest abides before whose life such doubts

  Fall to the ground; whose gifts of nature lie

  Retired from notice, lost in attributes

  Of reason, honourably effaced by debts

  Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe, 320

  And conquest over her dominion gained,

  To which her frowardness must needs submit.

  In this one Man is shown a temperance—proof

  Against all trials; industry severe

  And constant as the motion of the day;

  Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade

  That might be deemed forbidding, did not there

  All generous feelings flourish and rejoice;

  Forbearance, charity in deed and thought,

  And resolution competent to take 330

  Out of the bosom of simplicity

  All that her holy customs recommend,

  And the best ages of the world prescribe.

  —Preaching, administering, in every work

  Of his sublime vocation, in the walks

  Of worldly intercourse between man and man,

  And in his humble dwelling, he appears

  A labourer, with moral virtue girt,

  With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned.”

  “Doubt can be none,” the Pastor said, “for whom 340

  This portraiture is sketched. The great, the good,

  The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise,—

  These titles emperors and chiefs have borne,

  Honour assumed or given: and him, the WONDERFUL,

  Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,

  Deservedly have styled.—From his abode

  In a dependent chapelry that lies

  Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild,

  Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,

  And, having once espoused, would never quit; 350

  Into its graveyard will ere long be borne

  That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone

  May cover him; and by its help, perchance,

  A century shall hear his name pronounced,

  With images attendant on the sound;

  Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close

  In utter night; and of his course remain

  No cognizable vestiges, no more

  Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words

  To speak of him, and instantly dissolves.” 360

  The Pastor, pressed by thoughts which round his theme

  Still lingered, after a brief pause, resumed;

  “Noise is there not enough in doleful war,

  But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth,

  And lend the echoes of his sacred shell,

  To multiply and aggravate the din?

  Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love—

  And, in requited passion, all too much

  Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear—

  But that the minstrel of the rural shade 370

  Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse

  The perturbation in the suffering breast,

  And propagate its kind, far as he may?

  —Ah who (and with such rapture as befits

  The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate

  The good man’s purposes and deeds; retrace

  His struggles, his discomfitures deplore,

  His triumphs hail, and glorify his end;

  That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds

  Through fancy’s heat redounding in the brain, 380

  And like the soft infections of the heart,

  By charm of measured words may spread o’er field,

  Hamlet, and town; and piety survive

  Upon the lips of men in hall or bower;

  Not for reproof, but high and warm delight,

  And grave encouragement, by song inspired?

  —Vain thought! but wherefore murmur or repine?

  The memory of the just survives in heaven:

  And, without sorrow, will the ground receive

  That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 390

  Of what lies here confines us to degrees

  In excellence less difficult to reach,

  And milder worth: nor need we travel far

  From those to whom our last regards were paid,

  For such example.

  Almost at the root

  Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare

  And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,

  Oft stretches towards me, like a long straight path

  Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath

  A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 400

  From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn

  The precious gift of hearing. He grew up

  From year to year in loneliness of soul;

  And this deep mountain-valley was to him

  Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn

  Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep

  With startling summons; not for his delight

  The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him

  Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds

  Were working the broad bosom of the lake 410

  Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,

  Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud

  Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,

  The agitated scene before his eye

  Was silent as a picture: evermore

  Were all things silent, wheresoe’er he moved.

  Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts

  Upheld, he duteously pursued the round

  Of rural labours; the steep mountain-side

  Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog; 420

  The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed;

  And the ripe corn before his sickle fell

  Among the jocund reapers. For himself,

  All watchful and industrious as he was,

  He wrought not: neither field nor flock he owned:

  No wish for wealth had place within his mind;

  Nor husband’s love, nor father’s hope or care.

  Though born a younger brother, need was none

  That from the floor of his paternal home

  He should depart, to plant himself anew. 430

  And when, mature in manhood, he beheld

  His parents laid in earth, no los
s ensued

  Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased,

  By the pure bond of independent love,

  An inmate of a second family;

  The fellow-labourer and friend of him

  To whom the small inheritance had fallen.

  —Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight

  That pressed upon his brother’s house; for books

  Were ready comrades whom he could not tire; 440

  Of whose society the blameless Man

  Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,

  Even to old age, with unabated charm

  Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his thoughts;

  Beyond its natural elevation raised

  His introverted spirit; and bestowed

  Upon his life an outward dignity

  Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,

  The stormy day, each had its own resource;

  Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 450

  Science severe, or word of holy Writ

  Announcing immortality and joy

  To the assembled spirits of just men

  Made perfect, and from injury secure.

  —Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field,

  To no perverse suspicion he gave way,

  No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint:

  And they, who were about him, did not fail

  In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized

  His gentle manners: and his peaceful smiles, 460

  The gleams of his slow-varying countenance,

  Were met with answering sympathy and love.

  At length, when sixty years and five were told,

  A slow disease insensibly consumed

  The powers of nature: and a few short steps

  Of friends and kindred bore him from his home

  (Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags)

  To the profounder stillness of the grave.

  —Nor was his funeral denied the grace

  Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 470

  Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude.

  And now that monumental stone preserves

  His name, and unambitiously relates

  How long, and by what kindly outward aids,

  And in what pure contentedness of mind,

  The sad privation was by him endured.

  —And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound

  Was wasted on the good Man’s living ear,

  Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;

  And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, 480

  Murmurs, not idly, o’er his peaceful grave.

  Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of things!

  Guide of our way, mysterious comforter!

  Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and heaven,

  We all too thanklessly participate,

  Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him

  Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch.

 

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