The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, by William Wordsworth; editor William Knight.

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,[628]

On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur)

A wandering Youth, I listened with delight

To pastoral melody or warlike air,[IC]

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

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.

"These grassy heaps lie amicably close,"

Said I, "like surges heaving in the wind

Along [629] 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 [630]

On the smooth play-ground of the village-school?"[ID]

The Vicar answered,—"No disdainful pride

In them who rest beneath, nor any course

Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped

To place those hillocks in that lonely guise.

—Once more look forth, and follow with your sight

The length of road that [631] from yon mountain's base

Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line

Is lost within [632] a little tuft of trees;[IE]

Then, reappearing in a moment, quits

The cultured fields; and up the heathy waste,

Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine,

Led towards [633] an easy outlet of the vale.[IF]

That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft,

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.[IG]

Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads

By which our northern wilds could then be crossed;

And into most of these secluded vales [634]

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 school-boy of eight years;

But still, methinks, I see them as they passed

In order, drawing toward [635] 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 [636] 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

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 green-wood tree?

'Or Strollers are they,[637] furnished to enact

'Fair Rosamond,[IH] and the Children of the Wood,[II]

'And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set forth

'The lucky venture of sage Whittington,[IJ]

'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

100

To their inventive humour, by stern looks,

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,

105

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,

110

With undiminished glee, in hoary age.

"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;

115

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;

120

A generous spirit, and a body strong

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

125

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

130

By hopes of coming patronage beguiled

Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim

Abandoning and all his showy friends,[638]

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

He turned to this secluded chapelry;

135

That [639] 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:

140

And far remote the chapel stood,[IK]—remote,

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.[640]

145

Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang

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.

150

See him a constant preacher to the poor!

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 as salutary change, compelled

155

To rise [641] 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 [642] wild brooks; from which he now returned

160

Contented to partake the quiet meal

Of his own board,[643] where sat his gentle Mate

And three fair Children, plentifully fed

Though simply, from their little household farm;

Nor wanted timely treat [644] of fish or fowl

165

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

170

Passed on;—the inside of that rugged house

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

175

Insidiously stretched out its lazy length,

And no vain mirror glittered upon [645] the walls,

Yet were the windows of the low abode

By shutters weather-fended, which [646] at once

Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar.

180

There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds;

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

185

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 [647] days,

Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone

190

With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise

Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid.[IL]

"Those [648] pleasing works the Housewife's skill produced:

Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand

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

195

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

200

The once-bare cottage, on the mountain-side,

Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast;

While the dark shadows of the summer leaves

Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof.[649]

Time, which had thus afforded willing help

205

To beautify with nature's fairest growths [650]

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

210

Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm,

A stirring foot, a [651] 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;

215

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

220

Uproused by recollected injury, railed

At their false ways disdainfully,—and oft

In bitterness, and with a threatening eye

Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow.

—Those [652] transports, with staid looks of pure good-will,

225

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.

230

Him might we liken to the setting sun

As seen not seldom [653] 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

235

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 [654] now divides the pair, or rather say,

240

That [655] still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew,

Without reserve descending [656] upon both.

[657]"Our very first in eminence of years

This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale!

And, to his unmolested mansion, death

245

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,

250

Before the greedy visiting was closed,

And the long-privileged house left empty—swept

As by a plague.[IM] Yet no rapacious plague

Had been among them; all was gentle death,

One after one, with intervals of peace.

255

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

260

When the meek Partner of his age, his Son,

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?

265

'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

270

'With music?' (for he had not ceased to touch

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,

275

'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

280

Of open projects, and his [658] inward hoard

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,

285

Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay

For noontide solace on the summer grass,

The warm lap of his mother earth:[IN] and so,

Their lenient term of separation past,

That family (whose graves you there behold)

290

By yet a higher privilege once more

Were gathered to each other."[IO]

Calm of mind

And silence waited on these closing words;

Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear

Lest in those [659] passages of life were some

That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend

296

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

300

From vice and premature decay preserved

By useful habits, to a fitter soil

Transplanted ere too late.—The hermit, lodged

Amid [660] the untrodden desert, tells his beads,

With each repeating its allotted prayer

305

And thus divides and thus relieves the time;

Smooth task, with his[661] 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.

310

"Far from us

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.

315

But you, Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale [IP]

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

320

Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe,

And conquests 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

325

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,

330

And resolution competent to take

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

335

Of his sublime vocation, in the walks

Of worldly intercourse between [662] man and man,

And in his humble dwelling, he appears

A labourer, with moral virtue girt,

339

With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned."

"Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, "for whom

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,

345

Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,

Deservedly have styled.[IQ]—From his abode

In a dependent chapelry that lies

Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild,[IR]

Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,

350

And, having once espoused, would never quit;

Into its graveyard will ere long be borne

That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone [663]

May cover him;[IS] and by its help, perchance,

A century shall hear his name pronounced,

355

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 [664] itself in words

360

To speak of him, and instantly dissolves."

The Pastor pressed by thoughts which round his theme

Still linger'd, after a brief pause, resumed;

"Noise [665] is there not enough in doleful war,

But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth,

365

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—

370

But that the minstrel of the rural shade

Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse

The perturbation in the suffering breast,

And propagate its kind, far as he may?[666]

—Ah who (and with such rapture as befits

375

The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate

The good man's purposes and deeds;[667] retrace

His struggles, his discomfitures [668] deplore,

His triumphs hail, and glorify his end;

That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds

380

Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain,

And like the soft infections of the heart,

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

Hamlet, and town;[669] and piety survive

Upon the lips of men in hall or bower;

385

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 [670] ground receive

390

That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best

Of what lies here [671] 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.

395

"Almost at the root

Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare

And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,

Oft stretches toward [672] me, like a long straight path

Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath

400

A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies,[673]

From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn

The precious gift of hearing.[IT] He grew up

From year to year in loneliness of soul;

And this deep mountain-valley was to him

Soundless, with all its streams.[IU] The bird of dawn

406

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

410

Were working the broad bosom of the lake

Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,

Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud

Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,[IV]

The agitated scene before his eye

415

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

420

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog;

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:

426

No wish for wealth had place within his mind;

Nor husband's [674] love, nor father's hope or care.

"Though born a younger brother, need was none

That from the floor of his paternal home

430

He should depart, to plant himself anew.

And when, mature in manhood, he beheld

His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued

Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased,

By the pure bond of independent love,

435

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

440

Were ready comrades whom he could not tire;

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;

445

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 [675] its own resource;

450

Song of the muses, sage historic tale,

Science severe, or word of holy Writ

Announcing immortality and joy

To the assembled spirits of just men

Made perfect, and from injury secure.[676]

455

—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

460

His gentle manners: and his peaceful smiles,

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

465

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

470

Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief;

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,

475

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;

480

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze,

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,

485

We all too thanklessly participate,

Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him

Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch.[IW]

Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained;

Ask of the channelled rivers if they held

490

A safer, easier, more determined, course.

What terror doth it strike into the mind

To think of one, blind and alone, advancing

Straight toward some precipice's airy brink![677]

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

495

Protected, say enlightened, by his ear;

And on the very edge [678] 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,

500

Nor [679] in the woods, that could from him conceal

Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live

Upon his touch.[IX] The bowels of the earth

Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind;

The ocean paid him tribute from the stores

505

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;[IY] and the frame

510

Of the whole countenance alive with thought,

Fancy, and understanding; while the voice

Discoursed of natural or [680] moral truth

With eloquence, and such authentic power,

That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood

515

Abashed, and tender pity overawed."[IZ]