Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

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Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 249

by William Wordsworth


  Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained;

  Ask of the channelled rivers if they held

  A safer, easier, more determined, course. 490

  What terror doth it strike into the mind

  To think of one, blind and alone, advancing

  Straight toward some precipice’s airy brink!

  But, timely warned, ‘He’ would have stayed his steps,

  Protected, say enlightened, by his ear;

  And on the very edge of vacancy

  Not more endangered than a man whose eye

  Beholds the gulf beneath.—No floweret blooms

  Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills,

  Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 500

  Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live

  Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth

  Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind;

  The ocean paid him tribute from the stores

  Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led,

  His genius mounted to the plains of heaven.

  —Methinks I see him—how his eye-balls rolled,

  Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired,—

  But each instinct with spirit; and the frame

  Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 510

  Fancy, and understanding; while the voice

  Discoursed of natural or moral truth

  With eloquence, and such authentic power,

  That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood

  Abashed, and tender pity overawed.”

  “A noble—and, to unreflecting minds,

  A marvellous spectacle,” the Wanderer said,

  “Beings like these present! But proof abounds

  Upon the earth that faculties, which seem

  Extinguished, do not, ‘therefore’, cease to be. 520

  And to the mind among her powers of sense

  This transfer is permitted,—not alone

  That the bereft their recompense may win;

  But for remoter purposes of love

  And charity; nor last nor least for this,

  That to the imagination may be given

  A type and shadow of an awful truth;

  How, likewise, under sufferance divine,

  Darkness is banished from the realms of death,

  By man’s imperishable spirit, quelled. 530

  Unto the men who see not as we see

  Futurity was thought, in ancient times,

  To be laid open, and they prophesied.

  And know we not that from the blind have flowed

  The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre;

  And wisdom married to immortal verse?”

  Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet

  Lying insensible to human praise,

  Love, or regret,—’whose’ lineaments would next

  Have been portrayed, I guess not; but it chanced 540

  That, near the quiet churchyard where we sate,

  A team of horses, with a ponderous freight

  Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope,

  Whose sharp descent confounded their array,

  Came at that moment, ringing noisily.

  “Here,” said the Pastor, “do we muse, and mourn

  The waste of death; and lo! the giant oak

  Stretched on his bier—that massy timber wain;

  Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team.”

  He was a peasant of the lowest class: 550

  Grey locks profusely round his temples hung

  In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite

  Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged

  Within his cheek, as light within a cloud;

  And he returned our greeting with a smile.

  When he had passed, the Solitary spake;

  “A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays

  And confident to-morrows; with a face

  Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much

  Of Nature’s impress,—gaiety and health, 560

  Freedom and hope; but keen, withal, and shrewd.

  His gestures note,—and hark! his tones of voice

  Are all vivacious as his mien and looks.”

  The Pastor answered: “You have read him well.

  Year after year is added to his store

  With ‘silent’ increase: summers, winters—past,

  Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say,

  Ten summers and ten winters of a space

  That lies beyond life’s ordinary bounds,

  Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 570

  The obligation of an anxious mind,

  A pride in having, or a fear to lose;

  Possessed like outskirts of some large domain,

  By any one more thought of than by him

  Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord!

  Yet is the creature rational, endowed

  With foresight; hears, too, every sabbath day,

  The christian promise with attentive ear;

  Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven

  Reject the incense offered up by him, 580

  Though of the kind which beasts and birds present

  In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul,

  From trepidation and repining free.

  How many scrupulous worshippers fall down

  Upon their knees, and daily homage pay

  Less worthy, less religious even, than his!

  This qualified respect, the old Man’s due,

  Is paid without reluctance; but in truth,”

  (Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile)

  “I feel at times a motion of despite 590

  Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill,

  As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part

  In works of havoc; taking from these vales,

  One after one, their proudest ornaments.

  Full oft his doings leave me to deplore

  Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed,

  In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks;

  Light birch, aloft upon the horizon’s edge,

  A veil of glory for the ascending moon;

  And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, 600

  And on whose forehead inaccessible

  The raven lodged in safety.—Many a ship

  Launched into Morecamb-bay to ‘him’ hath owed

  Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears

  The loftiest of her pendants; He, from park

  Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree

  That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles:

  And the vast engine labouring in the mine,

  Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked

  The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 610

  If his undaunted enterprise had failed

  Among the mountain coves.

  Yon household fir,

  A guardian planted to fence off the blast,

  But towering high the roof above, as if

  Its humble destination were forgot—

  That sycamore, which annually holds

  Within its shade, as in a stately tent

  On all sides open to the fanning breeze,

  A grave assemblage, seated while they shear

  The fleece-encumbered flock—the JOYFUL ELM, 620

  Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May—

  And the LORD’S OAK—would plead their several rights

  In vain, if he were master of their fate;

  His sentence to the axe would doom them all.

  But, green in age and lusty as he is,

  And promising to keep his hold on earth

  Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men

  Than with the forest’s more enduring growth,

  His own appointed hour will come at last;

  And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world, 630

  T
his keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall.

  Now from the living pass we once again:

  From Age,” the Priest continued, “turn your thoughts;

  From Age, that often unlamented drops,

  And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long!

  —Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board

  Of Gold-rill side; and, when the hope had ceased

  Of other progeny, a Daughter then

  Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole;

  And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 640

  Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm

  With which by nature every mother’s soul

  Is stricken in the moment when her throes

  Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry

  Which tells her that a living child is born;

  And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest,

  That the dread storm is weathered by them both.

  The Father—him at this unlooked-for gift

  A bolder transport seizes. From the side

  Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, 650

  Day after day the gladness is diffused

  To all that come, almost to all that pass;

  Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer

  Spread on the never-empty board, and drink

  Health and good wishes to his new-born girl,

  From cups replenished by his joyous hand.

  —Those seven fair brothers variously were moved

  Each by the thoughts best suited to his years:

  But most of all and with most thankful mind

  The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched; 660

  A happiness that ebbed not, but remained

  To fill the total measure of his soul!

  —From the low tenement, his own abode,

  Whither, as to a little private cell,

  He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise,

  To spend the sabbath of old age in peace,

  Once every day he duteously repaired

  To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe:

  For in that female infant’s name he heard

  The silent name of his departed wife; 670

  Heart-stirring music! hourly heard that name;

  Full blest he was, ‘Another Margaret Green,’

  Oft did he say, ‘was come to Gold-rill side.’

  Oh! pang unthought of, as the precious boon

  Itself had been unlooked-for; oh! dire stroke

  Of desolating anguish for them all!

  —Just as the Child could totter on the floor,

  And, by some friendly finger’s help up-stayed,

  Range round the garden walk, while she perchance

  Was catching at some novelty of spring, 680

  Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell

  Drawn by the sunshine—at that hopeful season

  The winds of March, smiting insidiously,

  Raised in the tender passage of the throat

  Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarned,

  The household lost their pride and soul’s delight.

  —But time hath power to soften all regrets,

  And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress

  Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears

  Fail not to spring from either Parent’s eye 690

  Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own,

  Yet this departed Little-one, too long

  The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps

  In what may now be called a peaceful bed.

  On a bright day—so calm and bright, it seemed

  To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair—

  These mountains echoed to an unknown sound;

  A volley, thrice repeated o’er the Corse

  Let down into the hollow of that grave,

  Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 700

  Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth!

  Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods,

  That they may knit together, and therewith

  Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness!

  Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss.

  Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved,

  To me as precious as my own!—Green herbs

  May creep (I wish that they would softly creep)

  Over thy last abode, and we may pass

  Reminded less imperiously of thee;— 710

  The ridge itself may sink into the breast

  Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more;

  Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts,

  Thy image disappear!

  The Mountain-ash

  No eye can overlook, when ‘mid a grove

  Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head

  Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine

  Spring’s richest blossoms; and ye may have marked,

  By a brook-side or solitary tarn,

  How she her station doth adorn: the pool 720

  Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks

  Are brightened round her. In his native vale

  Such and so glorious did this Youth appear;

  A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts

  By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam

  Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,

  By all the graces with which nature’s hand

  Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards

  Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods,

  Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form: 730

  Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade

  Discovered in their own despite to sense

  Of mortals (if such fables without blame

  May find chance-mention on this sacred ground)

  So, through a simple rustic garb’s disguise,

  And through the impediment of rural cares,

  In him revealed a scholar’s genius shone;

  And so, not wholly hidden from men’s sight,

  In him the spirit of a hero walked

  Our unpretending valley.—How the quoit 740

  Whizzed from the Stripling’s arm! If touched by him,

  The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch

  Of the lark’s flight,—or shaped a rainbow curve,

  Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field!

  The indefatigable fox had learned

  To dread his perseverance in the chase.

  With admiration would he lift his eyes

  To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand

  Was loth to assault the majesty he loved:

  Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 750

  To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead,

  The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe;

  The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves,

  And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes,

  Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere;

  Were subject to young Oswald’s steady aim,

  And lived by his forbearance.

  From the coast

  Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his threats;

  Our Country marked the preparation vast

  Of hostile forces; and she called—with voice 760

  That filled her plains, that reached her utmost shores,

  And in remotest vales was heard—to arms!

  —Then, for the first time, here you might have seen

  The shepherd’s grey to martial scarlet changed,

  That flashed uncouthly through the woods and fields.

  Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire,

  And graced with shining weapons, weekly marched,

  From this lone valley, to a central spot

  Where, in assemblage with the flower and choice

  Of the surrounding district, they might learn 770

  The rudiments of war; ten—hardy, strong,

  And valiant; but young O
swald, like a chief

  And yet a modest comrade, led them forth

  From their shy solitude, to face the world,

  With a gay confidence and seemly pride;

  Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet

  Like Youths released from labour, and yet bound

  To most laborious service, though to them

  A festival of unencumbered ease;

  The inner spirit keeping holiday, 780

  Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left.

  Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour,

  Stretched on the grass, or seated in the shade,

  Among his fellows, while an ample map

  Before their eyes lay carefully outspread,

  From which the gallant teacher would discourse,

  Now pointing this way, and now that.—’Here flows,’

  Thus would he say, ‘the Rhine, that famous stream!

  ‘Eastward, the Danube toward this inland sea,

  ‘A mightier river, winds from realm to realm; 790

  ‘And, like a serpent, shows his glittering back

  ‘Bespotted—with innumerable isles:

  ‘Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk; observe

  ‘His capital city!’ Thence, along a tract

  Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears,

  His finger moved, distinguishing the spots

  Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged;

  Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields

  On which the sons of mighty Germany

  Were taught a base submission.—’Here behold 800

  ‘A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land,

  ‘Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods,

  ‘And mountains white with everlasting snow!’

  —And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow,

  Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best

  Of that young peasantry, who, in our days,

  Have fought and perished for Helvetia’s rights—

  Ah, not in vain!—or those who, in old time,

  For work of happier issue, to the side

  Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 810

  When he had risen alone! No braver Youth

  Descended from Judean heights, to march

  With righteous Joshua; nor appeared in arms

  When grove was felled, and altar was cast down,

  And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed,

  And strong in hatred of idolatry.”

  The Pastor, even as if by these last words

  Raised from his seat within the chosen shade,

  Moved toward the grave;—instinctively his steps

  We followed; and my voice with joy exclaimed: 820

  “Power to the Oppressors of the world is given,

  A might of which they dream not. Oh! the curse,

  To be the awakener of divinest thoughts,

  Father and founder of exalted deeds;

 

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