The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 5 (of 8)

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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume 5 (of 8) Author: William Wordsworth Editor: William Knight Release Date: January 12, 2018 [EBook #56361] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS OF WORDSWORTH, VOL 5 *** Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jane Robins and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +-------------------------------------------+ | Note: | | | | = around word indicates bold =CAPSULE.= | | _ around word indicated italics _Erebus_ | +-------------------------------------------+ THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH VOL. V [Illustration: _William Wordsworth_ _after Margaret Gillies_ _Printed by Wittmann Paris_] THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH EDITED BY WILLIAM KNIGHT VOL. V [Illustration] London MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD. NEW YORK: MACMILLAN & CO. 1896 _All rights reserved_ CONTENTS PAGE THE EXCURSION-- PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814 20 BOOK FIRST--THE WANDERER 26 BOOK SECOND--THE SOLITARY 67 BOOK THIRD--DESPONDENCY 105 BOOK FOURTH--DESPONDENCY CORRECTED 142 BOOK FIFTH--THE PASTOR 195 BOOK SIXTH--THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 235 BOOK SEVENTH--THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS--_Continued_ 283 BOOK EIGHTH--THE PARSONAGE 326 BOOK NINTH--DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE 352 NOTES 383 APPENDIX NOTE A 391 NOTE B 392 NOTE C 393 NOTE D 396 NOTE E 398 WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS THE EXCURSION Composed 1795-1814.--Published 1814 [Something must now be said of this poem, but chiefly, as has been done through the whole of these notes, with reference to my personal friends, and especially to her who has perseveringly taken them down from my dictation. Towards the close of the first book, stand the lines that were first written,--beginning "Nine tedious years," and ending "Last human tenant of these ruined walls." These were composed in 1795, at Racedown; and for several passages describing the employment and demeanour of Margaret during her affliction, I was indebted to observations made in Dorsetshire, and afterwards at Alfoxden, in Somersetshire, where I resided in 1797 and 1798. The lines towards the conclusion of the fourth book, "Despondency corrected,"--beginning "For the man who in this spirit," to the words "intellectual soul,"--were in order of time composed the next, either at Racedown or Alfoxden, I do not remember which. The rest of the poem was written in the vale of Grasmere, chiefly during our residence at Allan Bank. The long poem on my own education was, together with many minor poems, composed while we lived at the cottage at Town-end. Perhaps my purpose of giving an additional interest to these my poems, in the eyes of my nearest and dearest friends, may be promoted by saying a few words upon the character of the Wanderer, the Solitary, and the Pastor, and some other of the persons introduced. And first of the principal one, the Wanderer. My lamented friend Southey (for this is written a month after his decease[A]) used to say that had he been born a Papist, the course of life which would in all probability have been his, was the one for which he was most fitted and most to his mind, that of a Benedictine monk, in a convent, furnished, as many once were, and some still are, with an inexhaustible library. _Books_, as appears from many passages in his writings, and was evident to those who had opportunities of observing his daily life, were in fact _his passion_; and _wandering_, I can with truth affirm, was _mine_; but this propensity in me was happily counteracted by inability from want of fortune to fulfil my wishes. But had I been born in a class which would have deprived me of what is called a liberal education, it is not unlikely that, being strong in body, I should have taken to a way of life such as that in which my Pedlar passed the greater part of his days. At all events, I am here called upon freely to acknowledge that the character I have represented in his person is chiefly an idea of what I fancied my own character might have become in his circumstances. Nevertheless much of what he says and does had an external existence, that fell under my own youthful and subsequent observation. An individual, named Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, followed this humble occupation for many years, and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal.[B] He married a kinswoman of my wife's, and her sister Sarah was brought up from her ninth year under this good man's roof.[C] My own imaginations I was happy to find clothed in reality, and fresh ones suggested, by what she reported of this man's tenderness of heart, his strong and pure imagination, and his solid attainments in literature, chiefly religious, whether in prose or verse. At Hawkshead also, while I was a schoolboy, there occasionally resided a Packman (the name then generally given to persons of this calling), with whom I had frequent conversations upon what had befallen him, and what he had observed, during his wandering life; and, as was natural, we took much to each other; and, upon the subject of _Pedlarism_ in general, as _then_ followed, and its favourableness to an intimate knowledge of human concerns, not merely among the humbler classes of society, I need say nothing here in addition to what is to be found in _The Excursion_, and a note attached to it. Now for the Solitary. Of him I have much less to say. Not long after we took up our abode at Grasmere, came to reside there, from what motive I either never knew or have forgotten, a Scotchman, a little past the middle of life, who had for many years been chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was in no respect, as far as I know, an interesting character, though in his appearance there was a good deal that attracted attention, as if he had been shattered in fortune, and not happy in mind. Of his quondam position I availed myself to connect with the Wanderer, also a Scotchman, a character suitable to my purpose, the elements of which I drew from several persons with whom I had been connected, and who fell under my observation during frequent residences in London at the beginning of the French Revolution. The chief of these was, one may now say, a Mr. Fawcett, a preacher at a Dissenting meeting-house at the Old Jewry. It happened to me several times to be one of his congregation through my connection with Mr. Nicholson of Cateaton Street, Strand, who, at a time when I had not many acquaintances in London, used often to invite me to dine with him on Sundays; and I took that opportunity (Mr. N. being a Dissenter) of going to hear Fawcett, who was an able and eloquent man. He published a poem on War, which had a good deal of merit, and made me think more about him than I should otherwise have done. But his Christianity was probably never very deeply rooted; and, like many others in those times of like shewy talents, he had not strength of character to withstand the effects of the French Revolution, and of the wild and lax opinions which had done so much towards producing it, and far more in carrying it forward in its extremes. Poor Fawcett, I have been told, became pretty much such a person as I have described, and early disappeared from the stage, having fallen into habits of intemperance, which I have heard (though I will not answer for the fact) hastened his death. Of him I need say no more. There were many like him at that time, which the world will never be without, but which were more numerous then, for reasons too obvious to be dwelt upon. To what is said of the Pastor in the poem, I have little to add but what may be deemed superfluous. It has ever appeared to me highly favourable to the beneficial influence of the Church of England upon all gradations and classes of society, that the patronage of its benefices is in numerous instances attached to the estates of noble families of ancient gentry; and accordingly I am gratified by the opportunity afforded me in _The Excursion_, to pourtray the character of a country clergyman of more than ordinary talents, born and bred in the upper ranks of society so as to partake of their refinements, and at the same time brought by his pastoral office and his love of rural life into intimate connection with the peasantry of his native district. To illustrate the relation which in my mind this Pastor bore to the Wanderer, and the resemblances between them, or rather the points of community in their nature, I likened one to an oak, and the other to a sycamore; and having here referred to this comparison, I need only add, I had no one individual in my mind, wishing rather to embody this idea than to break in upon the simplicity of it by traits of individual character, or of any peculiarity of opinion. And now for a few words upon the scene where these interviews and conversations are supposed to occur. The scene of the first book of the poem is, I must own, laid in a tract of country not sufficiently near to that which soon comes into view in the second book, to agree with the fact. All that relates to Margaret, and the ruined cottage, etc., was taken from observations made in the south-west of England, and certainly it would require more than seven-league boots to stretch in one morning, from a common in Somersetshire, or Dorsetshire, to the heights of Furness Fells, and the deep valleys they embosom. For thus dealing with space, I need make, I trust, no apology; but my friends may be amused by the truth. In the poem, I suppose that the Pedlar and I ascended from a plain country up the vale of Langdale, and struck off a good way above the chapel to the western side of the vale. We ascended the hill, and thence looked down upon the circular recess in which lies Blea Tarn, chosen by the Solitary for his retreat. After we quit his cottage, passing over a low ridge, we descend into another vale, that of Little Langdale, towards the head of which stands embowered, or partly shaded by yews and other trees, something between a cottage and a mansion, or gentleman's house, such as they once were in this country. This I convert into the parsonage, and at the same time, and as by the waving of a magic wand, I turn the comparatively confined vale of Langdale, its tarn, and the rude chapel which once adorned the valley, into the stately and comparatively spacious vale of Grasmere and its ancient parish church; and upon the side of Loughrigg Fell, at the foot of the lake, and looking down upon it and the whole Vale and its encompassing mountains, the Pastor is supposed by me to stand, when at sunset he addresses his companions in words which I hope my readers will remember,[D] or I should not have taken the trouble of giving so much in detail the materials on which my mind actually worked. Now for a few particulars of _fact_, respecting the persons whose stories are told or characters described by the different speakers. To Margaret I have already alluded. I will add here that the lines beginning, She was a woman of a steady mind, and ending Live on earth a life of happiness, faithfully delineate, as far as they go, the character possessed in common by many women whom it has been my happiness to know in humble life; and that several of the most touching things which she is represented as saying and doing are taken from actual observation of the distresses and trials under which different persons were suffering, some of them strangers to me, and others daily under my notice. I was born too late to have a distinct remembrance of the origin of the American war; but the state in which I represent Robert's mind to be, I had frequent opportunities of observing at the commencement of our rupture with France in 1793; opportunities of which I availed myself in the story of the Female Vagrant, as told in the poem on _Guilt and Sorrow_. The account given by the Solitary, towards the close of the second book, in all that belongs to the character of the old man, was taken from a Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last house quitting the vale on the road to Ambleside; the character of his hostess, and all that befell the poor man upon the mountain, belongs to Paterdale. The woman I knew well; her name was Ruth Jackson, and she was exactly such a person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel, among which the old man was found lying, may yet be traced, and stood upon the ridge that divides Paterdale from Boardale and Martindale, having been placed there for the convenience of both districts. The glorious appearance disclosed above and among the mountains, was described partly from what my friend Mr. Luff, who then lived in Paterdale, witnessed upon that melancholy occasion, and partly from what Mary and I had seen, in company with Sir George and Lady Beaumont, above Hartshope Hall, on our way from Paterdale to Ambleside. And now for a few words upon the Church, its Monuments, and of the Deceased who are spoken of as lying in the surrounding churchyard. But first for the one picture given by the Pastor and the Wanderer of the Living. In this nothing is introduced but what was taken from nature and real life. The cottage was called Hackett, and stands, as described, on the southern extremity of the ridge which separates the two Langdales. The pair who inhabited it were called Jonathan and Betty Yewdale. Once when our children were ill, of whooping-cough, I think, we took them for change of air to this cottage, and were in the habit of going there to drink tea upon fine summer afternoons, so that we became intimately acquainted with the characters, habits, and lives of these good, and let me say, in the main, wise people. The matron had, in her early youth, been a servant in a house at Hawkshead, where several boys boarded, while I was a schoolboy there. I did not remember her as having served in that capacity; but we had many little anecdotes to tell to each other of remarkable boys, incidents, and adventures, which had made a noise in their day in that small town. These two persons were induced afterwards to settle at Rydal, where they both died. The church, as already noticed, is that of Grasmere. The interior of it has been improved lately and made warmer by underdrawing the roof, and raising the floor; but the rude and antique majesty of its former appearance has been impaired by painting the rafters; and the oak benches, with a simple rail at the back dividing them from each other, have given way to seats that have more the appearance of pews. It is remarkable that, excepting only the pew belonging to Rydal Hall, that to Rydal Mount, the one to the Parsonage, and I believe another, the men and women still continue, as used to be the custom in Wales, to sit separate from each other. Is this practice as old as the Reformation? and when and how did it originate? In the Jewish synagogues, and in Lady Huntingdon's chapels, the sexes are divided in the same way. In the adjoining churchyard greater changes have taken place. It is now not a little crowded with tombstones; and near the school-house, which stands in the churchyard, is an ugly structure, built to receive the hearse, which is recently come into use. It would not be worth while to allude to this building, or the hearse-vehicle it contains, but that the latter has been the means of introducing a change much to be lamented in the mode of conducting funerals among the mountains. Now, the coffin is lodged in the hearse at the door of the house of the deceased, and the corpse is so conveyed to the churchyard gate. All the solemnity which formerly attended its progress, as described in this poem, is put an end to. So much do I regret this, that I beg to be excused for giving utterance here to a wish that, should it befall me to die at Rydal Mount, my own body may be carried to Grasmere Church after the manner in which, till lately, that of every one was borne to the place of sepulture here, namely, on the shoulders of neighbours; no house being passed without some words of a funeral psalm being sung at the time by the attendants bearing it. When I put into the mouth of the Wanderer, "Many precious rites and customs of our rural ancestry are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, will last for ever," and what follows, little did I foresee that the observance and mode of proceeding which had often affected me so much would so soon be superseded. Having said much of the injury done to this churchyard, let me add, that one is at liberty to look forward to a time when, by the growth of the yew-trees thriving there, a solemnity will be spread over the place that will in some degree make amends for the old simple character which has already been so much encroached upon, and will be still more every year. I will here set down, by way of memorial, that my friend Sir George Beaumont, having long ago purchased the beautiful piece of water called Loughrigg Tarn, on the banks of which he intended to build, I told him that a person in Kendal who was attached to the place wished to purchase it. Sir George, finding the possession of no use to him, consented to part with it, and placed the purchase-money--£20--at my disposal, for any local use which I thought proper. Accordingly, I resolved to plant yew-trees in the churchyard; and had four pretty strong large oak enclosures made, in each of which was planted, under my own eye, and principally if not entirely by my own hand, two young trees, with the intention of leaving the one that throve best to stand. Many years after, Mr. Barber, who will long be remembered in Grasmere, Mr. Greenwood (the chief landed proprietor), and myself, had four other enclosures made in the churchyard at our own expense, in each of which was planted a tree taken from its neighbour, and they all stand thriving admirably, the fences having been removed as no longer necessary. May the trees be taken care of hereafter, when we are all gone; and some of them will perhaps, at some far-distant time, rival in majesty the yew of Lorton, and those which I have described as growing at Borrowdale, where they are still to be seen[E] in grand assemblage. And now for the persons that are selected as lying in the churchyard. But first for the individual whose grave is prepared to receive him. His story is here truly related. He was a schoolfellow of mine for some years. He came to us when he was at least seventeen years of age, very tall, robust, and full grown. This prevented him from falling into the amusements and games of the school; consequently, he gave more time to books. He was not remarkably bright or quick, but by industry, he made a progress more than respectable. His parents not being wealthy enough to send him to college when he left Hawkshead, he became a schoolmaster, with a view to prepare himself for holy orders. About this time he fell in love, as related in the poem, and everything followed as there described, except that I do not know exactly when and where he died. The number of youths that came to Hawkshead School from the families of the humble yeomanry, to be educated to a certain degree of scholarship, as a preparation for the church, was considerable, and the fortunes of those persons in after life various of course, and some not a little remarkable. I have now one of this class in my eye who became an usher in a preparatory school, and ended in making a large fortune. His manners, when he came to Hawkshead, were as uncouth as well could be; but he had good abilities, with skill to turn them to account; and when the master of the school, to which he was usher, died, he stept into his place and became proprietor of the establishment. He contrived to manage it with such address, and so much to the taste of what is called high society and the fashionable world, that no school of the kind, even till he retired, was in such high request. Ministers of State, the wealthiest gentry, and nobility of the first rank, vied with each other in bespeaking a place for their sons in the seminary of this fortunate teacher.[F] In the solitude of Grasmere, while living as a married man in a cottage of £8 per annum rent, I often used to smile at the tales which reached me of the brilliant career of this quondam clown--for such in reality he was, in manners, and appearance, before he was polished a little by attrition with gentlemen's sons trained at Hawkshead, rough and rude as many of our juveniles were. Not 200 yards from the cottage in Grasmere just mentioned, to which I retired, this gentleman, who many years afterwards purchased a small estate in the neighbourhood, is now erecting a boat-house, with an upper story to be resorted to as an entertaining room when he and his associates may feel inclined to take their pastime on the lake. Every passenger will be disgusted with the sight of this edifice, not merely as a tasteless thing in itself, but as utterly out of place, and peculiarly fitted, as far as it is observed (and it obtrudes itself on notice at every point of view), to mar the beauty and destroy the pastoral simplicity of the vale. For my own part, and that of my household, it is our utter detestation, standing by a shore to which, before the high road was made to pass that way, we used daily and hourly to repair for seclusion and for the shelter of a grove, under which I composed many of my poems--_The Brothers_ especially; and for this reason we gave the grove that name. That which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth Dies with him, or is changed. So much for my old schoolfellow and his exploits. I will only add that, as the foundation has twice failed, from the Lake no doubt being intolerant of the intrusion, there is some ground for hoping that the impertinent structure will not stand. It has been rebuilt in somewhat better taste, and much as one wishes it away, it is not now so very unsightly. The structure is an emblem of the man. Perseverance has conquered difficulties, and given something of form and polish to rudeness.[G] The Miner, next described as having found his treasure after twice ten years of labour, lived in Paterdale, and the story is true to the letter. It seems to me, however, rather remarkable, that the strength of mind which had supported him through his long unrewarded labour, did not enable him to bear its successful issue. Several times in the course of my life I have heard of sudden influxes of great wealth being followed by derangement; and, in one instance, the shock of good fortune was so great as to produce absolute idiotcy. But these all happened where there had been little or no previous effort to acquire the riches, and therefore such a consequence might the more naturally be expected, than in the case of the solitary miner. In reviewing his story, one cannot but regret that such perseverance was not sustained by a worthier object. Archimedes leaped out of his bath and ran about the streets, proclaiming his discovery in a transport of joy; but we are not told that he lost either his life or his senses in consequence. The next character, to whom the priest is led by contrast with the resoluteness displayed by the foregoing, is taken from a person born and bred in Grasmere, by name Dawson; and whose talents, dispositions, and way of life, were such as are here delineated. I did not know him, but all was fresh in memory when we settled at Grasmere in the beginning of the century. From this point the conversation leads to the mention of two individuals, who, by their several fortunes, were, at different times, driven to take refuge at the small and obscure town of Hawkshead on the skirt of these mountains. Their stories I had from the dear old dame with whom, as a schoolboy, and afterwards, I lodged for nearly the space of ten years. The elder, the Jacobite, was named Drummond, and was of a high family in Scotland; the Hanoverian Whig bore the name of Vandeput, and might, perhaps, be a descendant of some Dutchman who had come over in the train of King William. At all events, his zeal was such, that he ruined himself by a contest for the representation of London or Westminster, undertaken to support his Party, and retired to this corner of the world, selected (as it had been by Drummond) for that obscurity which, since visiting the Lakes became fashionable, it has no longer retained. So much was this region considered out of the way till a late period, that persons who had fled from justice used often to resort hither for concealment, and some were so bold as to not unfrequently make excursions from the place of their retreat for the purpose of committing fresh offences. Such was particularly the case with two brothers of the name of Weston, who took up their abode at Old Brathay, I think about seventy years ago. They were highwaymen, and lived there some time without being discovered, though it was known that they often disappeared, in a way, and upon errands, which could not be accounted for. Their horses were noticed as being of a choice breed, and I have heard from the Relph family, one of whom was a saddler in the town of Kendal, that they were curious in their saddles, and housings, and accoutrements of their horses. They, as I have heard, and as was universally believed, were, in the end, both taken and hanged. Tall was her stature; her complexion dark And saturnine. This person lived at Town-end, and was almost our next neighbour. I have little to notice concerning her beyond what is said in the poem. She was a most striking instance how far a woman may surpass in talent, in knowledge, and culture of mind, those with and among whom she lives, and yet fall below them in Christian virtues of the heart and spirit. It seemed almost, and I say it with grief, that in proportion as she excelled in the one, she failed in the other. How frequently has one to observe in both sexes the same thing, and how mortifying is the reflection! As, on a sunny bank, a tender lamb Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March. The story that follows was told to Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister, by the sister of this unhappy young woman. Every particular was exactly as I have related. The party was not known to me, though she lived at Hawkshead; but it was after I left school. The clergyman who administered comfort to her in her distress I knew well. Her sister, who told the story, was the wife of a leading yeoman in the vale of Grasmere, and they were an affectionate pair, and greatly respected by every one who knew them. Neither lived to be old; and their estate--which was, perhaps, the most considerable then in the vale, and was endeared to them by many remembrances of a salutary character, not easily understood or sympathised with by those who are born to great affluence--passed to their eldest son, according to the practice of these vales, who died soon after he came into possession. He was an amiable and promising youth, but was succeeded by an only brother, a good-natured man, who fell into habits of drinking, by which he gradually reduced his property; and the other day the last acre of it was sold, and his wife and children, and he himself still surviving, have very little left to live upon; which it would not, perhaps, have been worth while to record here, but that through all trials this woman has proved a model of patience, meekness, affectionate forbearance, and forgiveness. Their eldest son, who through the vices of his father has thus been robbed of an ancient family inheritance, was never heard to murmur or complain against the cause of their distress, and is now (1843) deservedly the chief prop of his mother's hopes. The Clergyman and his family described at the beginning of the seventh book were, during many years, our principal associates in the vale of Grasmere, unless I were to except our very nearest neighbours. I have entered so particularly into the main points of their history, that I will barely testify in prose that--with the single exception of the particulars of their journey to Grasmere, which, however, was exactly copied from real life in another instance--the whole that I have said of them is as faithful to the truth as words can make it. There was much talent in the family, and the eldest son was distinguished for poetical talent, of which a specimen is given in my notes to the Sonnets to the Duddon. Once, when in our cottage at Town-end I was talking with him about poetry, in the course of our conversation I presumed to find fault with the versification of Pope, of whom he was an enthusiastic admirer. He defended him with a warmth that indicated much irritation; nevertheless I would not abandon my point, and said, "In compass and variety of sound your own versification surpasses his." Never shall I forget the change in his countenance and tone of voice: the storm was laid in a moment; he no longer disputed my judgment, and I passed immediately in his mind, no doubt, for as great a critic as ever lived. I ought to add, he was a clergyman and a well-educated man, and his verbal memory was the most remarkable of any individual I have known, except a Mr. Archer, an Irishman, who lived several years in this neighbourhood, and who in this faculty was a prodigy: he afterwards became deranged, and I fear continues so if alive. Then follows the character of Robert Walker, for which see notes to the Duddon. That of the _Deaf Man_, whose epitaph may be seen in the churchyard at the head of Hawes Water, and whose qualities of mind and heart, and their benign influence in conjunction with his privation, I had from his relatives on the spot. The _Blind Man_, next commemorated, was John Gough, of Kendal, a man known, far beyond his neighbourhood, for his talents and attainments in natural history and science. Of the _Infant's Grave_ next noticed, I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under my own observation; and all persons who are intimately acquainted with cottage life must often have observed like instances of the working of the domestic affections. A volley thrice repeated o'er the corse Let down into the hollow of that grave. This young volunteer bore the name of Dawson, and was younger brother, if I am not mistaken, to the prodigal of whose character and fortunes an account is given towards the beginning of the preceding book. The father of the family I knew well; he was a man of literary education and considerable experience in society--much beyond what was common among the inhabitants of the Vale. He had lived a good while in the Highlands of Scotland as a manager of ironworks at Bunaw, and had acted as clerk to one of my predecessors in the office of Distributor of Stamps, when he used to travel round the country collecting and bringing home the money due to Government in gold, which it may be worth while to mention, for the sake of my friends, was deposited in the cell or iron closet under the west window, which still exists, with the iron doors that guarded the property. This, of course, was before the time of Bills and Notes. The two sons of this person had no doubt been led by the knowledge of their father to take more delight in scholarship, and had been accustomed, in their own minds, to take a wider view of social interests, than was usual among their associates. The premature death of this gallant young man was much lamented, and as an attendant upon the funeral, I myself witnessed the ceremony, and the effect of it as described in the poems. ... Tradition tells That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight Came on a war-horse.... ... The house is gone. The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion remained when we first took up our abode at Grasmere. Two or three cottages still remain which are called Nott Houses, from the name of the gentleman (I have called him a knight) concerning whom these traditions survive. He was the ancestor of the Knott family, formerly considerable proprietors in the district. What follows in the discourse of the Wanderer, upon the changes he had witnessed in rural life by the introduction of machinery, is truly described from what I myself saw during my boyhood and early youth, and from what was often told me by persons of this humble calling. Happily, most happily, for these mountains, the mischief was diverted from the banks of their beautiful streams, and transferred to open and flat counties abounding in coal, where the agency of steam was found much more effectual for carrying on those demoralising works. Had it not been for this invention, long before the present time, every torrent and river in this district would have had its factory, large and populous in proportion to the power of the water that could there be commanded. Parliament has interfered to prevent the night-work which was once carried on in these mills as actively as during the day-time, and by necessity, still more perniciously; a sad disgrace to the proprietors and to the nation which could so long tolerate such unnatural proceedings. Reviewing, at this late period, 1843, what I put into the mouths of my interlocutors a few years after the commencement of the century, I grieve that so little progress has been made in diminishing the evils deplored, or promoting the benefits of education which the Wanderer anticipates. The results of Lord Ashley's labours to defer the time when children might legally be allowed to work in factories, and his endeavours to limit still further the hours of permitted labour, have fallen far short of his own humane wishes, and of those of every benevolent and right-minded man who has carefully attended to this subject; and in the present session of Parliament (1843) Sir James Graham's attempt to establish a course of religious education among the children employed in factories has been abandoned, in consequence of what might easily be foreseen, the vehement and turbulent opposition of the Dissenters; so that for many years to come it may be thought expedient to leave the religious instruction of children entirely in the hands of the several denominations of Christians in the Island, each body to work according to its own means and in its own way. Such is my own confidence, a confidence I share with many others of my most valued friends, in the superior advantages, both religious and social, which attend a course of instruction presided over and guided by the clergy of the Church of England, that I have no doubt, that if but once its members, lay and clerical, were duly sensible of those benefits, their Church would daily gain ground, and rapidly, upon every shape and fashion of Dissent; and in that case, a great majority in Parliament being sensible of these benefits, the Ministers of the country might be emboldened, were it necessary, to apply funds of the State to the support of education on church principles. Before I conclude, I cannot forbear noticing the strenuous efforts made at this time in Parliament by so many persons to extend manufacturing and commercial industry at the expense of agricultural, though we have recently had abundant proofs that the apprehensions expressed by the Wanderer were not groundless. I spake of mischief by the wise diffused, With gladness thinking that the more it spreads The healthier, the securer, we become; Delusion which a moment may destroy! The Chartists are well aware of this possibility, and cling to it with an ardour and perseverance which nothing, but wiser and more brotherly dealing towards the many, on the part of the wealthy few, can moderate or remove. While, from the grassy mountain's open side We gazed, in silence hushed. The point here fixed upon in my imagination is half way up the northern side of Loughrigg Fell, from which the Pastor and his companions are supposed to look upwards to the sky and mountain-tops, and round the vale, with the lake lying immediately beneath them. But turned, not without welcome promise given That he would share the pleasures and pursuits Of yet another summer's day, consumed In wandering with us. When I reported this promise of the Solitary, and long after, it was my wish, and I might say intention, that we should resume our wanderings and pass the Borders into his native country, where, as I hoped, he might witness, in the society of the Wanderer, some religious ceremony--a sacrament say, in the open fields, or a preaching among the mountains--which, by recalling to his mind the days of his early childhood, when he had been present on such occasions in company with his parents and nearest kindred, might have dissolved his heart into tenderness, and so done more towards restoring the Christian faith in which he had been educated, and, with that, contentedness and even cheerfulness of mind, and all that the Wanderer and Pastor by their several effusions and addresses had been unable to effect. An issue like this was in my intentions. But alas! ----'mid the wreck of is and was, Things incomplete and purposes betrayed Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass Than noblest objects utterly decayed.[H] RYDAL MOUNT, _June 24, 1843_. St. John Baptist Day.--I. F.] Although the Fenwick note to _The Excursion_ has been printed here in full, extracts from it will be introduced as footnotes, in explanation of certain passages of the poem. _The Excursion_ was written at intervals between 1795 and 1814. The story of Margaret, in the first book, was begun at Racedown in 1795, and continued at Alfoxden in 1797-8. But only two short fragments of the poem--the former in book first and the latter in book fourth (as indicated in the Fenwick note)--were written before Wordsworth's arrival at Grasmere. There the poem was thought out, arranged, written down, altered, and re-arranged; the first part during his residence at Dove Cottage, the second and longer part at Allan Bank. The following extracts from Miss Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal show how laboriously her brother worked at this poem:-- Tuesday, Dec. 22, 1801.-- ... "Went to Rydal for letters. The road was covered with snow. We walked home almost without speaking. William composed a few lines of 'The Pedlar.' We talked about Lamb's tragedy."... Wednesday, Dec. 23.-- ... "Mary wrote out the Tales from Chaucer for Coleridge. William worked at 'The Ruined Cottage,' and made himself very ill."... Tuesday, Jan. 26, 1802.-- ... "We sate till we were both tired, for William wrote out part of his poem, and endeavoured to alter it, and so made himself ill. I copied out the rest for him."... Monday, Feb. 1st.-- ... "William worked hard at 'The Pedlar,' and tired himself."... Tuesday, 2nd Feb.-- ... "William worked at 'The Pedlar.'"... Thursday, 4th.-- ... "William thought a little about 'The Pedlar.'" Friday, 5th.-- ... "Sate up late at 'The Pedlar.'" Sunday, 7th.--"William had a bad night, and was working at his poem. We sate by the fire, and did not walk, but read 'The Pedlar,' thinking it done; but lo! ... could find fault with no one part of it--it was uninteresting, and must be altered. Poor William!" Wednesday, 10th Feb.--"We read the first part of the poem, and were delighted with it, but William afterwards got to some ugly place, and went to bed tired out." ... Thursday, 11th.-- ... "William sadly tired, and working at 'The Pedlar.'" Friday, 12th.-- ... "I re-copied 'The Pedlar'; but poor William all the time at work.... We sate a long time with the window unclosed, and almost finished writing 'The Pedlar,' but poor William wore himself out and me with labour. Went to bed at 12 o'clock." Saturday, 13th.--"It snowed a little. Still at work at 'The Pedlar,' altering and re-fitting.... William read parts of his _Recluse_ aloud to me."... Sunday, 14th Feb.-- ... "William left me at work altering some passages of 'The Pedlar,' and went into the orchard." Sunday, Feb. 28.-- ... "William very ill; employed himself with 'The Pedlar.'" Friday morning.-- ... "I wrote 'The Pedlar,' and finished it."... These extracts--which will recall the laborious way in which he toiled over the poem _Michael_ (see vol. ii. p. 233)--all refer to the close of the year 1801, and the beginning of the year 1802. It is impossible to find out, with exactness, what were the parts of _The Excursion_ which were then so carefully written, and so fastidiously altered--since "The Pedlar" was the Wordsworth household name for the entire poem, until it was recast for publication, at Allan Bank. But after February 1802 he turned to other subjects of composition, chiefly lyrical, and laid aside "The Pedlar" for a time--his sister, at least, regarding it as "finished." What was completed, however, did not, probably, extend beyond the story of the Wanderer, and perhaps a part of that of the Solitary. The person, whose character gave rise to the Solitary, came to reside at Grasmere not long after the Wordsworths settled there; but as the Fenwick note expressly says that the poem was written "_chiefly_ during our residence at Allan Bank," I do not think that more than the first two books belong to the Town-end period. _The Excursion_ was originally published in quarto in 1814. The second edition, octavo, appeared in 1820.[I] _The Excursion_ was included in all the collected editions of 1827, 1832, 1836-7, 1840, 1845, 1849-50, in the Paris reprint of 1828, and in the American edition by Henry Reed. It was also republished by itself in 1836, 1844, and 1847. The textual changes in the several editions were numerous and significant. The longest and most important passage in the earlier ones, omitted after 1820, occurs at the close of the sixth book. Another (shorter) fragment, near the beginning of book seventh, refers to the Sympson household at the Wytheburn parsonage. No edition of _The Excursion_ has as yet been issued with adequate notes, either topographical or literary. The first book--"The Wanderer"--has, however, been annotated, both by Mr. H. H. Turner (published in Rivington's English School Classics), and also by the Rev. H. G. Robinson, Prebendary of York, and published at Edinburgh, by Messrs. Oliver and Boyd. The following letter from Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, after his first perusal of _The Excursion_ has special interest:-- _August 14, 1814._ "DEAR WORDSWORTH--I cannot tell you how pleased I was at the receipt of the great armful of poetry which you have sent me; and to get it before the rest of the world too! I have gone quite through with it, and was thinking to have accomplished that pleasure a second time before I wrote to thank you, but M. Burney came in the night (while we were out) and made holy theft of it, but we expect restitution in a day or two. It is the noblest conversational poem I ever read--a day in Heaven. The part (or rather main body) which has left the sweetest odour on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an impression so recent) is the Tales of the Churchyard; the only girl among seven brethren, born out of due time, and not duly taken away again,--the deaf man and the blind man; the Jacobite and the Hanoverian, whom antipathies reconcile; the Scarron-entry of the rusticating parson upon his solitude;--these were all new to me too. My having known the story of Margaret (at the beginning), a very old acquaintance, even as long back as when I saw you first at Stowey, did not make her reappearance less fresh. I don't know what to pick out of this best of books upon the best subjects for partial naming. That gorgeous sunset[J] is famous; I think it must have been the identical one we saw on Salisbury Plain five years ago, that drew Phillips from the card-table, where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequalled set; but neither he nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified, such as the prophets saw them in that sunset--the wheel, the potter's clay, the wash-pot, the wine-press, the almond-tree rod, the basket of figs, the fourfold visaged head, the throne, and Him that sat thereon. One feeling I was particularly struck with, as what I recognised so very lately at Harrow Church on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming properties of a country church just entered; a certain fragrance which it has, either from its holiness, or being kept shut all the week, or the air that is let in being pure country, exactly what you have reduced into words; but I am feeling that which I can-not express. Reading your lines about it fixed me for a time, a monument in Harrow Church. Do you know it? with its fine long spire, white as washed marble, to be seen, by vantage of its high site, as far as Salisbury spire itself almost." In a letter written in the same year, 1814, Lamb tells Wordsworth of the spurious review of _The Excursion_, in _The Quarterly Review_, "which Mr. Baviad Gifford has palmed upon it for mine," calls his own review "the prettiest piece of prose I ever writ," and gives a specimen of it, viz.-- "The poet of the _Excursion_ 'walks through common forests as through some Dodona or enchanted wood, and every casual bird that flits upon the boughs, like that miraculous one in Tasso, but in language more piercing than any articulate sounds, reveals to him far higher love-lays.'" (_The Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. pp. 271-281.) In the Notes to the text I have confined myself chiefly to the explanation of obscure allusions, topographical, historical, or legendary.--ED. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: Southey died on the 21st of March, 1843.--ED.] [Footnote B: See the Appendix to this volume, Note A, p. 391.--ED.] [Footnote C: "Sarah went to Kendal on our mother's death, but Mr. P. died in the course of a year or two.--M. W." Pencilled on the opposite page of the MS.--ED.] [Footnote D: See _The Excursion_, book ix. l. 614.--ED.] [Footnote E: Alas! no longer as they were in Wordsworth's time. See the note to _Yew-Trees_, vol. ii. p. 371.--ED.] [Footnote F: "Mr. Pearson." Pencilled on the opposite page of the MS.--ED.] [Footnote G: Pencilled on the opposite page of the MS.--"This boathouse, badly built, gave way, and was rebuilt. It again tumbled, and was a third time reconstructed, but in a better fashion than before. It is not now, _per se_, an ugly building, however obtrusive it may be."--ED.] [Footnote H: Compare the sonnet _Malham Cove_ in volume vi., to which these lines belong.--ED.] [Footnote I: The following note from Wordsworth to Mr. Dyce, shews his estimation of the text of the first octavo edition, as compared with that of the earlier quarto edition. "MY DEAR SIR,--When you read _The Excursion_ do not read the quarto. It is improved in the 8vo E.:--but I thought the quarto might have its value with you as a collector.--Believe me, faithfully yours, "W. WORDSWORTH." 7th April, my birthday--61, 12 Bryanston Street. In 1820 there are very few departures from the text of 1814.--ED.] [Footnote J: In a subsequent letter (August 29th) he corrects this, and calls it "that celestial splendour of the mist going off."--ED.] TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K.G., ETC. ETC. Oft, through thy fair domains,[K] illustrious Peer! In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent; And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear.[L] --Now, by thy care befriended, I appear Before thee, LONSDALE, and this Work present, A token (may it prove a monument!) Of high respect and gratitude sincere. Gladly would I have waited till my task Had reached its close; but Life is insecure, And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream: Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask Thy favour; trusting that thou wilt not deem The offering, though imperfect, premature. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND, _July_ 29, 1814. PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814 The Title-page announces that this is only a portion of a poem; and the Reader must be here apprised that it belongs to the second part of a long and laborious Work, which is to consist of three parts.--The Author will candidly acknowledge that, if the first of these had been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy his own mind, he should have preferred the natural order of publication, and have given that to the world first; but, as the second division of the Work was designed to refer more to passing events, and to an existing state of things, than the others were meant to do, more continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and greater progress made here than in the rest of the poem; and as this part does not depend upon the preceding, to a degree which will materially injure its own peculiar interest, the Author, complying with the earnest entreaties of some valued Friends, presents the following pages to the Public. It may be proper to state whence the poem, of which _The Excursion_ is a part, derives its Title of THE RECLUSE.--Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains, with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary Work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such employment. As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them. That Work,[A] addressed to a dear Friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the Author's Intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished; and the result of the investigation which gave rise to it was a determination to compose a philosophical poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society; and to be entitled, _The Recluse_; as having for its principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement.--The preparatory poem[M] is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself; and the two Works have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the ante-chapel has to the body of a gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor Pieces, which have been long before the Public, when they shall be properly arranged,[N] will be found by the attentive Reader to have such connection with the main Work as may give them claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices. The Author would not have deemed himself justified in saying, upon this occasion, so much of performances either unfinished, or unpublished, if he had not thought that the labour bestowed by him upon what he has heretofore and now laid before the Public, entitled him to candid attention for such a statement as he thinks necessary to throw light upon his endeavours to please and, he would hope, to benefit his countrymen.--Nothing further need be added, than that the first and third parts of _The Recluse_ will consist chiefly of meditations in the Author's own person; and that in the intermediate part (_The Excursion_) the intervention of characters speaking is employed, and something of a dramatic form adopted. It is not the Author's intention formally to announce a system: it was more animating to him to proceed in a different course; and if he shall succeed in conveying to the mind clear thoughts, lively images, and strong feelings, the Reader will have no difficulty in extracting the system for himself. And in the mean time the following passage, taken from the conclusion of the first book of _The Recluse_, may be acceptable as a kind of _Prospectus_ of the design and scope of the whole Poem. "On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of imagery before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed; 5 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh The good and evil of our mortal state. --To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 10 Whether from breath of outward circumstance, Or from the Soul--an impulse to herself-- I would give utterance in numerous verse. Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; 15 Of blessed consolations in distress; Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; Of joy in widest commonalty spread; Of the individual Mind that keeps her own Inviolate retirement, subject there 20 To Conscience only, and the law supreme Of that Intelligence which governs all-- I sing:--'fit audience let me find though few!'[O] "So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard-- In holiest mood.[1] Urania,[P] I shall need 25 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven! For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink Deep--and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 30 All strength--all terror, single or in bands, That ever was put forth in personal form-- Jehovah--with his thunder, and the choir Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones-- I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 35 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out By help of dreams--can breed such fear and awe As fall upon us often when we look Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man-- 40 My haunt, and the main region of my song. --Beauty--a living Presence of the earth, Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed From earth's materials--waits upon my steps; 45 Pitches her tents before me as I move, An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves Elysian, Fortunate Fields--like those of old Sought in the Atlantic Main[Q]--why should they be A history only of departed things, 50 Or a mere fiction of what never was? For the discerning intellect of Man, When wedded to this goodly universe In love and holy passion, shall find these A simple produce of the common day. 55 --I, long before the blissful hour arrives, Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse Of this great consummation:--and, by words Which speak of nothing more than what we are, Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 60 Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims How exquisitely the individual Mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less Of the whole species) to the external World 65 Is fitted:--and how exquisitely, too-- Theme this but little heard of among men-- The external World is fitted to the Mind; And the creation (by no lower name Can it be called) which they with blended might 70 Accomplish:--this is our high argument. --Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft Must turn elsewhere--to travel near the tribes And fellowships of men, and see ill sights Of madding passions mutually inflamed; 75 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang Brooding above the fierce confederate storm Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore Within the walls of cities--may these sounds 80 Have their authentic comment; that even these Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn!-- Descend, prophetic Spirit![2] that inspir'st The human Soul of universal earth, Dreaming on things to come;[R] and dost possess 85 A metropolitan temple in the hearts Of mighty Poets: upon me bestow A gift of genuine insight; that my Song With star-like virtue in its place may shine, Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 90 Itself, from all malevolent effect Of those mutations that extend their sway Throughout the nether sphere!--And if with this I mix more lowly matter; with the thing Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 95 Contemplating; and who, and what he was-- The transitory Being that beheld This Vision; when and where, and how he lived;-- Be not this labour useless. If such theme May sort with highest objects, then--dread Power! Whose gracious favour is the primal source 101 Of all illumination--may my Life Express the image of a better time, More wise desires, and simpler manners;--nurse My Heart in genuine freedom:--all pure thoughts 105 Be with me;--so shall thy unfailing love Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end!" VARIANTS: [Footnote 1: 1845. Holiest of Men.-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 2: 1827. --Come thou prophetic Spirit, ... 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote K: The grounds of Lowther Castle. Compare the sonnet in "Poems, composed or suggested during a Tour, in the Summer of 1833," beginning-- Lowther! in thy majestic Pile are seen. ED. ] [Footnote L: The Lowther stream, rising among the Shap Fells, joins the Emont at Brougham Castle.--ED.] [Footnote M: _The Prelude_.--ED.] [Footnote N: As they were--according to their Author's somewhat arbitrary classification--in the editions of 1815 and subsequent years.--ED.] [Footnote O: See _Paradise Lost_, book vii. l. 31.--ED.] [Footnote P: "Daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne. She was regarded as the Muse of Astronomy, and was represented with a celestial globe, to which she points with a little staff" (Hirt. _Mythol. Bilderb._ p. 210).--ED.] [Footnote Q: Compare _The Prelude_, book i. l. 191 (see vol. iii. p. 138, notes * and ☨); Strabo, 1; Pliny, 6, c. 31 and 32; Horace, _Odes_ IV., 8, v. 27; Plutarch, _The Life of Sertorius_.--ED.] [Footnote R: See Wordsworth's note (p. 383).--ED.] Book First THE WANDERER[S] ARGUMENT _A summer forenoon--The Author reaches a ruined Cottage upon a Common, and there meets with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, of whose education and course of life he gives an account[3]--The Wanderer, while resting under the shade of the Trees that surround the Cottage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant._ 'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high: Southward the landscape indistinctly glared Through a pale steam;[T] but all the northern downs, In clearest air ascending, showed far off A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 5 From brooding clouds; shadows that lay in spots[4] Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed; To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss[5] Extends his careless limbs along the front 10 Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts A twilight of its own,[U] an ample shade, Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, Half conscious of the soothing melody, With side-long eye looks out upon the scene,[V] 15 By power of that impending covert, thrown, To finer distance. Mine was at that hour Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon Under a shade as grateful I should find Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy.[6] 20 Across a bare wide Common I was toiling With languid steps that by the slippery turf[7] Were baffled; nor could my weak arm disperse The host of insects gathering round my face, And ever with me as I paced along.[8] 25 Upon that open moorland stood a grove, The wished-for port to which my course was bound.[9] Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms,[W] Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls 30 That stared upon each other!--I looked round, And to my wish and to my hope espied The Friend I sought;[10] a Man of reverend age, But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 35 Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep; An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. Him had I marked the day before--alone And stationed in the public way, with face Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff Afforded, to the figure of the man[11] 41 Detained for contemplation or repose, Graceful support; his countenance as he stood Was hidden from my view, and he remained[12] Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight, 45 With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon A glad congratulation we exchanged At such unthought-of meeting.--For the night We parted, nothing willingly; and now He by appointment waited for me here, 50 Under the covert[13] of these clustering elms. We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale, In the antique market-village where was passed My school-time,[W1] an apartment he had owned, To which at intervals the Wanderer drew,[14] 55 And found a kind of home or harbour there. He loved me; from a swarm of rosy boys Singled out me, as he in sport would say, For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years. As I grew up, it was my best delight 60 To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, On holidays, we rambled through the woods: We sate--we walked; he pleased me with report[15] Of things which he had seen; and often touched Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 65 Turned inward; or at my request would sing[16] Old songs, the product of his native hills;[17] A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed As cool refreshing water, by the care 70 Of the industrious husbandman, diffused Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought. Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse: How precious when in riper days I learned To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 75 In the plain presence of his dignity! Oh! many are the Poets that are sown By Nature; men endowed with highest gifts, The vision and the faculty divine;[X] Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 80 (Which, in the docile season of their youth, It was denied them to acquire, through lack Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, Or haply by a temper too severe, Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 85 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led By circumstance to take unto the height The measure of themselves, these favoured Beings, All but a scattered few, live out their time, Husbanding that which they possess within, 90 And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest minds Are often those of whom the noisy world Hears least;[Y] else surely this Man had not left[Z] His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. But, as the mind was filled with inward light,[AA] 95 So not without distinction had he lived, Beloved and honoured--far as he was known. And some small portion of his eloquent speech, And something that may serve to set in view The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 100 His observations, and the thoughts his mind[18] Had dealt with--I will here record in verse; Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink Or rise as venerable Nature leads, The high and tender Muses shall accept 105 With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, And listening Time reward with sacred praise. Among the hills of Athol he was born; Where,[19] on a small hereditary farm, An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 110 His Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt;[20] A virtuous household, though exceeding poor! Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, And fearing God;[AB] the very children taught Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 115 And an habitual piety, maintained With strictness scarcely known on English ground. From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak, In summer, tended cattle on the hills; But, through the inclement and the perilous days 120 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood[21] Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, Remote from view[22] of city spire, or sound Of minster clock! From that bleak tenement 125 He, many an evening, to his distant home In solitude returning, saw the hills Grow larger in the darkness; all alone Beheld the stars come out above his head, And travelled through the wood, with no one near To whom he might confess the things he saw. 131 So the foundations of his mind were laid. In such communion, not from terror free,[AC] While yet a child, and long before his time, Had he[23] perceived the presence and the power 135 Of greatness; and deep feelings had impressed So vividly great objects that they lay Upon his mind like substances, whose presence Perplexed the bodily sense. He had received[24] [25]A precious gift; for, as he grew in years, 140 With these impressions would he still compare All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms; And, being still unsatisfied with aught Of dimmer character, he thence attained An active power to fasten images 145 Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines Intensely brooded, even till they acquired The liveliness of dreams.[AD] Nor did he fail, While yet a child, with a child's eagerness Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 150 On all things which the moving seasons brought To feed such appetite--nor this alone Appeased his yearning:--in the after-day Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 155 He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, Or from the power of a peculiar eye, Or by creative feeling overborne, Or by predominance of thought oppressed, Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 160 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, Expression ever varying! Thus informed, He had small need of books; for many a tale Traditionary, round the mountains hung, And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, 165 Nourished Imagination in her growth, And gave the Mind that apprehensive power By which she is made quick to recognise The moral properties and scope of things. But eagerly he read, and read again, 170 Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied; The life and death of martyrs, who sustained, With will inflexible, those fearful pangs Triumphantly displayed in records left Of persecution, and the Covenant--times 175 Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour! And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, That left half-told[AE] the preternatural tale, Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 180 Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts Strange and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire, Sharp-kneed, sharp elbowed, and lean-ankled too, With long and ghostly shanks--forms which once seen Could never be forgotten! In his heart, 185 Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, Was wanting yet the pure delight of love By sound diffused, or by the breathing air,[AF] Or by the silent looks of happy things,[AG] Or flowing from the universal face 190 Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power Of Nature, and already was prepared, By his intense conceptions, to receive Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 195 To feel intensely, cannot but receive. Such was the Boy--but for the growing Youth What soul was his, when, from the naked top Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun[26] Rise up, and bathe the world in light![AH] He looked-- Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 201 And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay Beneath him[AI]:--Far and wide the clouds were touched, And in their silent faces could he read[27] Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 205 Nor any voice of joy;[AJ] his spirit drank The spectacle: sensation, soul, and form. All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life. 210 In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; Rapt into still communion that transcends 215 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love! A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 220 Was his existence oftentimes _possessed_. O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared The written promise! Early had he learned[28] To reverence the volume that[29] displays The mystery, the life which cannot die; 225 But in the mountains did he _feel_ his faith. All things, responsive to the writing, there[30] Breathed immortality, revolving life, And greatness still revolving; infinite: There littleness was not; the least of things 230 Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped Her prospects, nor did he believe,--he _saw_. What wonder if his being thus became Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires, Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude, 236 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired Wisdom, which works thro' patience; thence he learned In oft-recurring hours[31] of sober thought 240 To look on Nature with a humble heart, Self-questioned where it did not understand, And with a superstitious eye of love. So passed the time; yet to the nearest town[32] He duly went with what small overplus 245 His earnings might supply, and brought away The book that[33] most had tempted his desires While at the stall he read. Among the hills He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.[AK] Lore of different kind, 250 The annual savings of a toilsome life, His School-master[34] supplied; books that explain The purer elements of truth involved In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, (Especially perceived where nature droops 255 And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind Busy in solitude and poverty. These occupations oftentimes deceived The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 260 In pensive idleness. What could he do, Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life With blind endeavours?[35] Yet, still uppermost, Nature was at his heart as if he felt, Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 265 In all things that[36] from her sweet influence Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. While yet he lingered in the rudiments 270 Of science, and among her simplest laws, His triangles--they were the stars of heaven, The silent stars! Oft did he take delight To measure the altitude[37] of some tall crag That[38] is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 275 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows Inscribed upon its visionary sides,[39] The history of many a winter storm, Or obscure records of the path of fire.[AL] And thus before his eighteenth year was told, 280 Accumulated feelings pressed his heart With still increasing weight;[40] he was o'erpowered By Nature; by the turbulence subdued Of his own mind; by mystery and hope, And the first virgin passion of a soul 285 Communing with the glorious universe.[AM] Full often wished he that the winds might rage When they were silent: far more fondly now Than in his earlier season did he love Tempestuous nights--the conflict and the sounds 290 That live in darkness. From his intellect And from the stillness of abstracted thought He asked repose; and, failing oft to win[41] The peace required, he scanned the laws of light Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 295 From hollow clefts up to the clearer air A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun Varies its rainbow hues.[42] But vainly thus, And vainly by all other means, he strove To mitigate the fever of his heart. 300 In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, Thus was he reared; much wanting to assist The growth of intellect, yet gaining more,[43] And every moral feeling of his soul Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 305 The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, And drinking from the well of homely life.[AN] --But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, He now was summoned to select the course Of humble industry that[44] promised best 310 To yield him no unworthy maintenance. Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach A village-school--but wandering thoughts were then A misery to him; and the Youth resigned[45] A task he was unable to perform. 315 That stern yet kindly Spirit,[AO] who constrains The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, (Spirit attached to regions mountainous Like their own stedfast clouds) did now impel 320 His restless mind to look abroad with hope. --An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load, Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest;[46] 325 Yet do such travellers find their own delight; And their hard service, deemed debasing now, Gained merited respect in simpler times; When squire, and priest, and they who round them dwelt In rustic sequestration--all dependent 330 Upon the PEDLAR'S toil--supplied their wants, Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few Of his adventurous countrymen were led By perseverance in this track of life 335 To competence and ease:--to him it offered[47] Attractions manifold;--and this he chose. --His Parents on the enterprise bestowed[48] Their farewell benediction, but with hearts Foreboding evil. From his native hills 340 He wandered far; much did he see of men,[AP] Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, Their passions and their feelings; chiefly those Essential and eternal in the heart, That,[49] 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 345 Exist more simple in their elements, And speak a plainer language.[AQ] In the woods, A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, Itinerant in this labour, he had passed The better portion of his time; and there 350 Spontaneously had his affections thriven Amid the bounties of the year, the peace And liberty of nature;[50] there he kept In solitude and solitary thought His mind in a just equipoise of love. 355 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares Of ordinary life; unvexed, unwarped By partial bondage. In his steady course, No piteous revolutions had he felt, No wild varieties of joy and grief. 360 Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned And constant disposition of his thoughts To sympathy with man, he was alive To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 365 And all that was endured; for, in himself Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, He had no painful pressure from without That made him turn aside from wretchedness With coward fears. He could _afford_ to suffer 370 With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came That in our best experience he was rich, And in the wisdom of our daily life. For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, He had observed the progress and decay 375 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too; The history of many families; How they had prospered; how they were o'erthrown By passion or mischance, or such misrule Among the unthinking masters of the earth 380 As makes the nations groan. This active course He followed till provision for his wants Had been obtained;--the Wanderer then resolved[51] To pass the remnant of his days, untasked With needless services, from hardship free. 385 His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: But still he loved to pace the public roads And the wild paths; and, by the summer's warmth Invited, often would he leave his home And journey far, revisiting the scenes 390 That to his memory were most endeared.[52] --Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped[53] By worldly-mindedness or anxious care; Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed By knowledge gathered up from day to day; 395 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. The Scottish Church, both on himself and those With whom from childhood he grew up, had held The strong hand of her purity; and still Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 400 This he remembered in his riper age With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. But by the native vigour of his mind, By his habitual wanderings out of doors, By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 405 Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, He had imbibed of fear or darker thought Was melted all away; so true was this, That sometimes his religion seemed to me Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; 410 Who to the model of his own pure heart Shaped[54] his belief, as grace divine inspired, And[55] human reason dictated with awe. --And surely never did there live on earth A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 415 And teasing ways of children vexed not him; [56]Indulgent listener was he to the tongue Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's tale, To his fraternal sympathy addressed, Obtain reluctant hearing. Plain his garb; 420 Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared For sabbath duties; yet he was a man Whom no one could have passed without remark. Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 425 Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek Into a narrower circle of deep red, But had not tamed his eye;[AR] that, under brows Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought From years of youth;[AS] which, like a Being made 430 Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill To blend with knowledge of the years to come, Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. * * * * * So was He framed; and such his course of life Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 435 The prized memorial of relinquished toils, Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, The shadows of the breezy elms above 440 Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound Of my approaching steps, and in the shade Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space.[57] At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 445 Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose, And ere our lively greeting into peace Had settled, "'Tis," said I,[58] "a burning day: My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems,[59] Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 450 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out Upon the public way.[60] It was a plot Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 456 Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap[61] The broken wall. I looked around, and there, Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 460 Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench; 465 And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, I yet was standing, freely to respire, And cool my temples in the fanning air, Thus did he speak. "I see around me here Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, 470 Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left.[AT] --The Poets, in their elegies and songs 475 Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,[AU] And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, In these their invocations, with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power 480 Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, That steal upon the meditative mind, And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 485 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up In mortal stillness; and they ministered 490 To human comfort. Stooping down[62] to drink, Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, Green with the moss of years, and subject only To the soft handling of the elements: 495 There let it lie--how foolish are such thoughts! Forgive them;--never--never did my steps Approach this door but she who dwelt within[63] A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,[AV] 500 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a passenger Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken spring; and no one came 505 But he was welcome; no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguished of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandoned to decay, And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 510 "I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. She was a Woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love; Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 515 Of her own thoughts: by some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A Being, who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 520 The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom,[AW] In summer, ere the mower was abroad 525 Among the dewy grass,--in early spring, Ere the last star had vanished.--They who passed At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After his daily work, until the light 530 Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were spent In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven. "Not twenty years ago, but you I think 535 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war: This happy Land was stricken to the heart! 540 A Wanderer then among the cottages, I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw The hardships of that season: many rich Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor; And of the poor did many cease to be, 545 And their place knew them not.[AX] Meanwhile, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 550 When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,[64] Smitten with perilous fever. In disease He lingered long; and, when his strength returned, He found the little he had stored, to meet The hour of accident or crippling age, 555 Was all consumed. A second infant now Was added to the troubles of a time Laden, for them and all of their degree, With care and sorrow: shoals of artisans From ill-requited labour turned adrift 560 Sought daily bread from public charity,[65] They, and their wives and children--happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks![66] 565 "A sad reverse it was for him who long Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, This lonely Cottage. At the door[67] he stood, And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them;[AY] or with his knife 570 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks-- Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament; and with a strange, Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 575 He mingled,[68] where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was: And poverty brought on a petted mood 580 And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, And he would leave his work--and to the town Would turn without an errand his slack steps;[69] Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585 And with a cruel tongue; at other times He tossed them with a false unnatural joy: And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. 'Every smile,' Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 590 'Made my heart bleed.'" At this the Wanderer paused; And, looking up to those enormous elms, He said, "'Tis now the hour of deepest noon.[AZ] At this still season of repose and peace, This hour when all things which are not at rest 595 Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies With tuneful hum is filling all the air;[70] Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek?[71] Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, And in the weakness of humanity, 600 From natural wisdom turn our hearts away; To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears; And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?" * * * * * He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 605 But, when he ended, there was in his face Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,[BA] That for a little time it stole away All recollection; and that simple tale Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 610 A while on trivial things we held discourse, To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, I thought of that poor Woman as of one Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed Her homely tale with such familiar power, 615 With such an active countenance, an eye So busy, that the things of which he spake Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed, A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. I rose; and, having left the breezy shade, 620 Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, That had not cheered me long--ere, looking round[72] Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, And begged of the old Man that, for my sake, He would resume his story. He replied, 625 "It were a wantonness, and would demand Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts Could hold vain dalliance with the misery Even of the dead; contented thence to draw A momentary pleasure, never marked 630 By reason, barren of all future good. But we have known that there is often found In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, A power to virtue friendly; wer't not so, I am a dreamer among men, indeed 635 An idle dreamer! 'Tis a common tale, An ordinary sorrow of man's life, A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed In bodily form.--But without further bidding I will proceed. "While thus it fared with them, 640 To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, Had been a blessed home, it was my chance To travel in a country far remote; And[73] when these lofty elms once more appeared What pleasant expectations lured me on 645 O'er the flat Common!--With quick step I reached The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch; But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me[74] A little while; then turned her head away Speechless,--and, sitting down upon a chair, 650 Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, Nor[75] how to speak to her. Poor Wretch! at last She rose from off her seat, and then,--O Sir! I cannot _tell_ how she pronounced my name:-- With fervent love, and with a face of grief 655 Unutterably helpless, and a look That seemed to cling upon me,[76] she enquired If I had seen her husband. As she spake A strange surprise and fear came to my heart, Nor had I power to answer ere she told 660 That he had disappeared--not two months gone. He left his house: two wretched days had past, And on the third, as wistfully she raised Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, Like one in trouble, for returning light, 665 Within her chamber-casement she espied A folded paper, lying as if placed To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly She opened--found no writing, but beheld[77] Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 670 Silver and gold. 'I shuddered at the sight,' Said Margaret, 'for I knew it was his hand That must have placed it there; and ere that day Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, From one who by my husband had been sent 675 With the sad news, that he had joined a troop[78] Of soldiers, going to a distant land. --He left me thus--he could not gather heart To take a farewell of me; for he feared That I should follow with my babes, and sink 680 Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' "This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And, when she ended, I had little power To give her comfort, and was glad to take 684 Such words of hope from her own mouth as served To cheer us both. But long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around As if she had been shedding tears of joy. We parted.--'Twas the time of early spring; 690 I left her busy with her garden tools; And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, And, while I paced along the foot-way path, Called out, and sent a blessing after me, With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 695 That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. "I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, With my accustomed load; in heat and cold, Through many a wood and many an open ground, In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 700 Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal; My best companions now the driving winds, And now the 'trotting brooks'[BB] and whispering trees, And now the music of my own sad steps, With many a short-lived thought that passed between, And disappeared. "I journeyed back this way, 706 When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat[79] Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass,[BC] Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 710 I found that she was absent. In the shade, Where now we sit, I waited her return. Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore Its customary look,--only, it seemed,[80] The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 715 Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed, The yellow stone-crop,[BD] suffered to take root Along the window's edge, profusely grew Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, And strolled into her garden. It appeared 720 To lag behind the season, and had lost Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift[BE] Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled O'er paths they used to deck:[81] carnations, once Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 725 For the peculiar pains they had required, Declined their languid heads, wanting support.[82] The cumbrous bind-weed,[BF] with its wreaths and bells, Had twined about her two small rows of peas, 729 And dragged them to the earth. "Ere this an hour Was wasted.--Back I turned my restless steps; [83]A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I sought, He said that she was used to ramble far.-- The sun was sinking in the west; and now I sate with sad impatience. From within 735 Her solitary infant cried aloud; Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, The voice was silent. From the bench I rose; But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. The spot, though fair, was very desolate-- 740 The longer I remained, more desolate: And, looking round me, now I first observed The corner stones, on either side the porch,[84] With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, 745 That fed upon the Common, thither came Familiarly, and found a couching-place Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell From these tall elms; the cottage-clock struck eight;-- I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 750 Her face was pale and thin--her figure, too, Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 'It grieves me you have waited here so long, But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late; And, sometimes--to my shame I speak--have need Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 756 While on the board she spread our evening meal, She told me--interrupting not the work Which gave employment to her listless hands-- That she had parted with her elder child; 760 To a kind master on a distant farm Now happily apprenticed.--'I perceive You look at me, and you have cause; to-day I have been travelling far; and many days About the fields I wander, knowing this 765 Only, that what I seek I cannot find; And so I waste my time: for I am changed; And to myself,' said she, 'have done much wrong And to this helpless infant. I have slept Weeping, and weeping have I waked;[85] my tears 770 Have flowed as if my body were not such As others are; and I could never die. But I am now in mind and in my heart More easy; and I hope,' said she, 'that God[86] Will give me patience to endure the things 775 Which I behold at home.' "It would have grieved Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel The story linger in my heart; I fear 'Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings To that poor Woman:--so familiarly 780 Do I perceive her manner, and her look, And presence; and so deeply do I feel Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks A momentary trance comes over me; And to myself I seem to muse on One 785 By sorrow laid asleep; or borne away, A human being destined to awake To human life, or something very near To human life, when he shall come again For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 790 Your very soul to see her: evermore Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast;[87] And, when she at her table gave me food, She did not look at me. Her voice was low, Her body was subdued. In every act 795 Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared The careless stillness of a thinking mind Self-occupied; to which all outward things Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 800 No heaving of the heart. While by the fire We sate together, sighs came on my ear, I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. "Ere my departure, to her care I gave, For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 805 Which with a look of welcome she received; And I exhorted her to place her trust[88] In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 810 With the best hope and comfort I could give: She thanked me for my wish;--but for my hope It seemed[89] she did not thank me. "I returned, And took my rounds along this road again When[90] on its sunny bank the primrose flower 815 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. I found her sad and drooping: she had learned No tidings of her husband; if he lived,[91] She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, 819 She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same In person and appearance; but her house Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;[BG] The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 825 Had been piled up against the corner panes In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 830 And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew, And once again entering the garden saw,[92] More plainly still, that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: 835 No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, Which had been twined about the slender stem 840 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. --Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone 845 Ere Robert come again.' When to the House We had returned together, she enquired[93] If I had any hope:--but for her babe And for her little orphan boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die 850 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place; his sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail; his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door. "And when, In bleak December, I retraced this way, 855 She told me that her little babe was dead, And she was left alone. She now, released From her maternal cares, had taken up The employment common through these wilds, and gained, By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 860 And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy To give her needful help. That very time Most willingly she put her work aside, And walked with me along the miry road, Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort 865 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then-- Our final parting; for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned 870 Into this tract again. "Nine tedious years; From their first separation, nine long years, She lingered in unquiet widowhood; A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, 875 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day; And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench For hours she sate; and evermore her eye 880 Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, Now faint,--the grass has crept o'er its grey line; There, to and fro, she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 885 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, The little child who sate to turn the wheel 890 Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, 895 And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully: Most happy, if, from aught discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 900 Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand, At the first nipping of October frost, Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived Through the long winter, reckless and alone; 905 Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain, Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 910 She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence; and still that length of road, And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,-- In sickness she remained; and here she died; 915 Last human tenant of these ruined walls!"[BH] The old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved; From that low bench, rising instinctively I turned aside in weakness, nor had power To thank him for the tale which he had told. 920 I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it seemed To comfort me while with a brother's love I blessed her in the impotence of grief. Then towards the cottage I returned; and traced 925 Fondly, though with an interest more mild,[94] That secret spirit of humanity Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, And silent overgrowings, still survived. 930 The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, "My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more: Nor more would she have craved as due to One Who, in her worst distress, had oft-times felt 935 The unbounded might of prayer; and learned, with soul Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs, From sources deeper far than deepest pain, For the meek Sufferer.[95] Why then should we read The forms of things with an unworthy eye?[96] 940 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, As once I passed, into my heart conveyed[97] 945 So still an image of tranquillity,[BI] So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair From ruin and from change, and all the grief 950 That passing shows[98] of Being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit Whose meditative sympathies repose Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away,[99] 955 And walked along my road in happiness." He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance, which began To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, We sate on that low bench: and now we felt, 960 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 965 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; Together casting then a farewell look Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; And, ere the stars were visible, had reached A village-inn,--our evening resting-place. 970 VARIANTS: [Footnote 3: 1836. _the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 4: 1827. From many a brooding cloud; far as the sight Could reach, those many shadows lay in spots 1814. ] [Footnote 5: 1845. Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 1814. ] [Footnote 6: 1845. By that impending covert made more soft, More low and distant! Other lot was mine; Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 1814. By power of that impending covert thrown To finer distance. Other lot was mine; 1827. ... Other lot was mine; Though with good hope to cheer the sultry hour That under shade as grateful I should soon Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. C. ... Mine was at that hour A toilsome lot, yet with good hope that soon Under a shade as grateful I should find C. ] [Footnote 7: 1845. With languid feet, which by the slippery ground 1814. With languid steps that ... 1827. ] [Footnote 8: Across a bare wide common I was toiling When oft each footstep by the slippery turf Was baffled: nor could my arm disperse The host of insects gathered round my face, And ever with me as I paced along. Now with eyes turned towards the far-distant hills, Now towards a grove that from the wide-spread moor Rose up! the port to which my course was bound. C. ] [Footnote 9: 1845. Upon that open level stood a Grove, The wished-for Port to which my steps were bound. 1814. ... my course was bound. 1827. ] [Footnote 10: 1845. Him whom I sought; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 11: 1827. And in the middle of the public way Stationed, as if to rest himself, with face Turned tow'rds the sun then setting, while that staff Afforded to his Figure, as he stood, 1814. Him had I chanced to mark the day before Alone, and stationed in the public way; Westward he looked as if his gaze were fixed Upon the sun then setting, ... C. ] [Footnote 12: 1845. ... the countenance of the Man Was hidden from my view, and he himself 1814. ... his countenance meanwhile Was hidden from my view, and he remain'd 1827. ] [Footnote 13: C. and 1845. Beneath the shelter ... 1814. ] [Footnote 14: 1845. We were tried Friends: I from my Childhood up Had known him.--In a little Town obscure, A market-village, seated in a tract Of mountains, where my school-day time was pass'd, One room he owned, the fifth part of a house, A place to which he drew, from time to time, 1814. We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale, In the antique market village where were pass'd My school-days, an apartment he had own'd, To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 1827. ] [Footnote 15: 1827. On holidays, we wandered through the woods, A pair of random travellers; we sate-- We walked; he pleas'd me with his sweet discourse 1814. ] [Footnote 16: 1827. ... he sang 1814. ] [Footnote 17: 1814. Old songs brought with him from his native hills; C. ] [Footnote 18: 1827. The doings, observations, which his mind 1814. His habits, observations, and the thoughts He cherished-- ... MS. ] [Footnote 19: 1827. There, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 20: 1827 His Father dwelt; and died in poverty; While He, whose lowly fortune I retrace, The youngest of three sons, was yet a babe, A little One--unconscious of their loss. But ere he had outgrown his infant days His widowed Mother, for a second Mate, Espoused the Teacher of the Village School; Who on her offspring zealously bestowed Needful instruction; not alone in arts Which to his humble duties appertained, But in the lore of right and wrong, the rule Of human kindness, in the peaceful ways Of honesty, and holiness severe. A virtuous Household ... 1814. ] [Footnote 21: 1827. To his Step-father's School, that stood alone, 1814. ] [Footnote 22: 1827. Far from the sight ... 1814. ] [Footnote 23: 1836. He had ... 1814. ] [Footnote 24: 1845. ... had impressed Great objects on his mind, with portraiture And colour so distinct, that on his mind They lay like substances, and almost seemed To haunt the bodily sense. He had received 1814. ... had impressed Upon his mind great objects so distinct In portraiture, in colouring so vivid, That on his mind they lay like substances, And almost indistinguishably mixed With things of bodily sense.... C. ] [Footnote 25: (Vigorous in native genius as he was) This line appeared only in 1814 and 1820.] [Footnote 26: 1827. From early childhood, even, as hath been said, From his sixth year, he had been sent abroad In summer to tend herds: such was his task Thenceforward 'till the later day of youth. O then what soul was his, when, on the tops Of the high mountains, he beheld the sun 1814. ] [Footnote 27: 1845. And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touch'd, And in their silent faces did he read 1814. ... could he read 1836. ] [Footnote 28: 1827. ... He had early learned 1814. ] [Footnote 29: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 30: 1832. There did he see the writing;--all things there 1814. Responsive to the writing, all things there 1827. ] [Footnote 31: 1827. In many a calmer hour ... 1814. ] [Footnote 32: 1827. ... yet to a neighbouring town 1814. ] [Footnote 33: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 34: 1827. His Step-father ... 1814. ] [Footnote 35: 1827. ... What could he do With blind endeavours, in that lonesome life, Thus thirsting daily?... 1814. ] [Footnote 36: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 37: 1832. ... th' altitude ... 1814. ] [Footnote 38: 1827. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 39: 1845. Inscribed, as with the silence of the thought, Upon it's bleak and visionary sides, 1814. ] [Footnote 40: 1827. With an increasing weight; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 41: 1827. He asked repose; and I have heard him say That often, failing at this time to gain 1814. ] [Footnote 42: 1827. A cloud of mist, which in the sunshine frames A lasting tablet--for the observer's eye Varying it's rainbow hues.... 1814. ] [Footnote 43: 1827. Thus, even from Childhood upward, was he reared; For intellectual progress wanting much, Doubtless, of needful help--yet gaining more; 1814. ] [Footnote 44: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 45: 1827. The Mother strove to make her Son perceive With what advantage he might teach a School In the adjoining Village; but the Youth, Who of this service made a short essay, Found that the wanderings of his thought were then A misery to him; that he must resign 1814. ] [Footnote 46: 1836. Through dusty ways, in storm, from door to door, A vagrant Merchant bent beneath his load! 1814. Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 1827. ] [Footnote 47: 1845. ... for him it bore 1814. ] [Footnote 48: 1827. He asked his Mother's blessing; and, with tears Thanking his second Father, asked from him Paternal blessings. The good Pair bestowed 1814. ] [Footnote 49: 1827. Which, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 50: 1827. Upon the bounties of the year, and felt The liberty of Nature; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 51: 1827. ... --This active course, Chosen in youth, through manhood he pursued, Till due provision for his modest wants Had been obtained;--and, thereupon, resolved 1814. ] [Footnote 52: 1827. ... and, when the summer's warmth Invited him, would often leave his home And journey far, revisiting those scenes Which to his memory were most endeared. 1814. ] [Footnote 53: 1827. ... untouched 1814. ] [Footnote 54: 1827. Framed ... 1814. ] [Footnote 55: 1836. Or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 56: Nor could he bid them from his presence, tired With questions and importunate demands: These two lines appeared only in 1814 and 1820.] [Footnote 57: 1827. ... He had not heard my steps As I approached; and near him did I stand Unnotic'd in the shade, some minutes' space. 1814. ] [Footnote 58: 1827. And ere the pleasant greeting that ensued Was ended, "'Tis," said I, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 59: 1827. ... but you, I guess, 1814. ] [Footnote 60: 1827. ... He, at the word, Pointing towards a sweet briar, bade me climb The fence hard by, where that aspiring shrub Looked out upon the road ... 1814. ... He raised his hand, And to a sweet-briar pointing, bade me climb C. ] [Footnote 61: 1814. The gooseberry-trees that showed their dwindled fruit Hanging in long lank slips, or leafless strings Of currants might have tempted to o'erleap C. ] [Footnote 62: 1827. ... As I stooped ... 1814. ] [Footnote 63: 1836. Green with the moss of years; a pensive sight That moved my heart!--recalling former days When I could never pass that road but She Who lived within these walls, at my approach. 1814. Green with the moss of years, and subject only To the soft handling of the Elements: There let the relic lie--fond thought--vain words! Forgive them--never did my steps approach This humble door but she who dwelt within 1827. Forgive them;--never--never did my steps Approach this door but she who dwelt within 1832. Forgive them for the sake of her who dwelt Within these walls, who here so oft hath giv'n To me a daughter's greeting; and I loved her MS. Green with the moss of years. Upon the simple sight As there it lay I could not look unmoved! Forgive the weakness--never did step of mine Approach this door, but she who dwelt within C. ] [Footnote 64: 1827. With chearful hope: but ere the second autumn Her life's true Help-mate on a sick-bed lay, 1814. ] [Footnote 65: 1827. Was all consumed. Two children had they now, One newly born. As I have said, it was A time of trouble; shoals of Artisans Were from their daily labour turn'd adrift To seek their bread from public charity, 1814. ] [Footnote 66: 1827. That peck along the hedges, or the Kite That makes his dwelling on the mountain Rocks! 1814. ] [Footnote 67: 1836. ... At his door ... 1814. ] [Footnote 68: 1836. He blended, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 69: 1836. Without an errand, would direct his steps, 1814. ] [Footnote 70: 1845. Is filling all the air with melody; 1814. ] [Footnote 71: 1845. ... in an Old Man's eye? 1814. ] [Footnote 72: 1827. There was a heart-felt chillness in my veins.-- I rose; and, turning from the breezy shade, Went forth into the open air, and stood To drink the comfort of the warmer sun. Long time I had not staid, ere, looking round 1814. ] [Footnote 73: 1814. But ... MS. ] [Footnote 74: 1827. ... far remote. And glad I was, when, halting by yon gate That leads from the green lane, once more I saw These lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest: With many pleasant thoughts I chear'd my way O'er the flat Common.--Having reached the door I knock'd,--and, when I entered with the hope Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me 1814. ] [Footnote 75: 1832. Or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 76: 1814. With fervent love, and with a look of grief Unutterable, and with a helpless look That seemed to cling upon me, ... C. ] [Footnote 77: 1827. ... but therein 1814. ] [Footnote 78: 1836. Which placed it there: and ere that day was ended, That long and anxious day! I learned from One Sent hither by my Husband to impart The heavy news,--that he had joined a Troop. 1814. ] [Footnote 79: 1827. Towards the wane of Summer; when the wheat 1814. ] [Footnote 80: 1827. ... only, I thought, 1814. ] [Footnote 81: 1845. Its pride of neatness. From the border lines Composed of daisy and resplendent thrift, Flowers straggling forth had on those paths encroached Which they were used to deck:-- ... 1814. ... Daisy-flow'rs and thrift Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er The paths they used to deck:-- ... 1827. ] [Footnote 82: 1832. ... without support. 1814. ] [Footnote 83: And, as I walked before the door, it chanced This line appeared only in 1814 and 1820.] [Footnote 84: 1827. And, looking round, I saw the corner stones, Till then unnotic'd, on either side the door 1814. ] [Footnote 85: 1827. ... I have waked; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 86: 1832. ... "that heaven 1814. ] [Footnote 87: 1845. ... were downward cast; 1814. ] [Footnote 88: 1827. ... to have her trust 1814. ] [Footnote 89: 1836. Methought ... 1814. ] [Footnote 90: 1845. Ere ... 1814. ] [Footnote 91: 1814. ... sad and drooping. Time had brought No tidings which might lead her anxious mind To a source of quiet; if her husband lived, C. ] [Footnote 92: 1845. ... Once again I turned towards the garden gate, and saw, 1814. ] [Footnote 93: 1845. ... Towards the House Together we returned; and she enquired 1814. ... Back to the house We turned together, silent, till she asked MS. ] [Footnote 94: 1836. At length towards the Cottage I returned Fondly,--and traced, with interest more mild, 1814. ] [Footnote 95: The lines from "Nor more would she" to "Sufferer" (934-9) were added in 1845.] [Footnote 96: 1845. ... ask no more; Be wise and chearful; and no longer read The forms of things with an unworthy eye. 1814. ... ask no more: Doubt not that oft-times in her soul she felt The unbounded might of prayer--upon her knees Was taught that heavenly consolation springs From sources deeper far than deepest pain For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read The forms of things with a dejected eye? C. ] [Footnote 97: 1836. ... did to my heart convey 1814. ] [Footnote 98: 1845. The passing shews ... 1814. ] [Footnote 99: 1845. Appeared an idle dream, that could not live Where meditation was. I turned away 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote S: In a copy of the quarto edition of _The Excursion_ (1814) bequeathed by the Poet to his grandson, the Rev. John Wordsworth, there are numerous changes of text in his own handwriting, or that of his wife. The majority of these were incorporated in later editions. Several of them, however, were not. These are reproduced in this edition, wherever it has been thought expedient to preserve them, and are indicated as "MS." readings. On the fly-leaf of the same presentation copy of the 1814 edition, Mrs. Wordsworth wrote out Mr. R. P. Gillies' sonnet, addressed to the author of _The Excursion_.--ED.] [Footnote T: Compare _An Evening Walk_ (vol. i. p. 9)-- When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill. ED. ] [Footnote U: Compare _An Evening Walk_ (vol. i. p. 11)-- And its own twilight softens the whole scene. ED. ] [Footnote V: Compare the sonnet composed in boyhood, beginning-- Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane, and printed in an Appendix to vol. viii.--ED.] [Footnote W: Compare the _Sonnet composed at ---- Castle_, in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland," 1803 (vol. ii. p. 410)-- A brotherhood of venerable Trees. ED. ] [Footnote W1: Hawkshead. Compare the notes to _The Prelude_, in books i. and ii. The Fenwick note tells us, "At Hawkshead, while I was a schoolboy, there occasionally resided a Packman, with whom I had frequent conversations upon what had befallen him, and what he had observed, during his wandering life; and, as was natural, we took much to each other."--ED.] [Footnote X: Compare the _Elegiac Stansas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle, in a Storm_ (vol. iii. p. 54)-- The consecration, and the Poet's dream; and the Discourse on Poetry in the Preface to the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800. See the _Prose Works_.--ED.] [Footnote Y: Compare Sir Henry Taylor, _Philip van Artevelde_, act 1. scene v.-- The world knows nothing of its greatest men. ED. ] [Footnote Z: Compare Horace, _Epistles_ i. 17, 10-- Nec vixit male qui natus moriensque fefellit. ED. ] [Footnote AA: Compare _Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle_ (vol. iii. p. 54)-- The light that never was, on sea or land. ED. ] [Footnote AB: Compare _Resolution and Independence_, stanza xiv. (vol. ii. p. 319)-- Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. ED. ] [Footnote AC: Compare Byron, _Childe Harold_, canto iv. stanza clxxxiv.-- From a boy I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror,--'twas a pleasing fear. ED. ] [Footnote AD: Compare _Ode, Intimations of Immortality_, stanza ix. (vol. viii.)-- those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, etc. and _The Prelude_, book ii. l. 350 (vol. iii. p. 164)-- what I saw Appeared like something in myself, a dream, A prospect in the mind. ED. ] [Footnote AE: Compare Milton, _Il Penseroso_, l. 109-- Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold. ED. ] [Footnote AF: Compare _Lines Written in Early Spring_ (vol. i. p. 269)-- And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. ED. ] [Footnote AG: Compare _The Prelude_, book ii. l. 411 (vol. iii. p. 166)-- Communing ... With every form of creature, as it looked Towards the Uncreated with a countenance Of adoration, with an eye of love. ED. ] [Footnote AH: Compare book iv. ll. 111-14; also in Robert Browning's _Old Pictures in Florence_, stanza i.-- And washed by the morning water-gold, Florence lay out on the mountain-side. ED. ] [Footnote AI: The sea is not visible from the hills of Athole, except from the summit of Ben y' Gloe, where it can be seen to the south-east in the clearest weather. Wordsworth did not care for local accuracy in this passage. It was quite unnecessary for his purpose. Compare his account of the morning walk near Hawkshead in _The Prelude_, and see the Appendix-note to book iv. l. 338 (vol. iii. p. 389).--ED.] [Footnote AJ: Compare _Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey_ (vol. ii. p. 54), in which Wordsworth speaks of the rock, the mountain, and the wood, their colours and their forms, as an appetite, a feeling, and a love-- That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. ED. ] [Footnote AK: Compare the line in the sonnet on Milton (vol. ii. p. 346)-- Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart. ED. ] [Footnote AL: In this description of the eagle's birth-place, and the peak "familiar with forgotten years," Wordsworth probably wandered in imagination from the Athole district to Westmoreland, as this part of the poem was in all likelihood written in 1801-2. He visited the Athole country, with his sister, in 1803; going up as far as Blair, and returning: but there is no peak in that district (at least none that he would see) that shows Inscribed upon its visionary sides, The history of many a winter storm, Or obscure records of the path of fire, as does, for example, the Stob Dearg in the Buchaile Etive Mor group in Argyll, a peak which he saw in the course of his Scottish tour in that year. --ED.] [Footnote AM: Compare _Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey_ (vol. ii. p.54)-- The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite. ED. ] [Footnote AN: With this description of the boy and youth, compare Coleridge's words in _The Friend_, vol. iii. p. 46 (edition of 1818)-- "We have been discoursing of infancy, childhood, boyhood, and youth, of pleasures lying upon the unfolding intellect plenteously as morning dew-drops--of knowledge inhaled insensibly like the fragrance--of dispositions stealing into the spirit like music from unknown quarters--of images uncalled for and rising up like exhalations, of hopes plucked like beautiful wild flowers from the ruined tombs that border the highways of antiquity, to make a garland for a living forehead: in a word, we have been treating of nature as a teacher of truth through joy and through gladness, and as a creatress of the faculties by a process of smoothness and delight. We have made no mention of fear, shame, sorrow, nor of ungovernable and vexing thoughts; because, although these have been and have done mighty service, they are overlooked in that stage of life when youth is passing into manhood, overlooked or forgotten."--ED.] [Footnote AO: Enterprise. Compare the poem _To Enterprise_, which, Wordsworth says, "arose out of _The Italian Itinerant, and The Swiss Goatherd_." Compare also the latter poem, No. xxv. of the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" (1820).--ED.] [Footnote AP: See Wordsworth's note, p. 383.] [Footnote AQ: Compare the Preface to "Lyrical Ballads" (1800), in the _Prose Works_.--ED.] [Footnote AR: Compare _Simon Lee_, ll. 5-8 (vol. i. p. 263)-- Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. Also the description of Margaret, p. 60 of this volume.--ED.] [Footnote AS: Compare _Resolution and Independence_, stanza xiii. (vol. ii. p. 318).] [Footnote AT: Compare _Julius Cæsar_, act III. scene ii. l. 81-- The good is oft interred with their bones. ED. ] [Footnote AU: See Moschus's epitaph on Bion, 1-7-- Αἴλινά μοι στοναχεῖτε νάπαι καὶ Δώρεον ὕδωρ, καὶ ποταμοὶ κλαίοιτε τὸν ἰμερόεντα Βίωνα. νῦν φυτά μοι μύρεσθε, καὶ ἄλσεα νῦν γοάοισθε. ἄνθεα νῦν στυγνοῖσιν ἀποπνείοιτε κορύμβοις. νῦν ῥόδα φοινίσσεσθε τὰ πένθιμα, νῦν ἀνεμῶναι, νῦν ὑάκινθε λάλει τὰ σα γράμματα, καὶ πλέον αἲ αἲ λάμβανε τοῖς πετάλοισι καλὸς τεθνακε μελικτάς. And compare Virgil, Ecl. v. 27, 28; Georg. I. 466-488; Georg. IV. 461-463; Catullus, Carmen XXXI., _Ad Sirmionem Peninsulam_, the three last lines. See also Theocritus, Idyll 3, and compare the philosophic myths in the stories of Orpheus, Amphion, etc.--ED.] [Footnote AV: Compare δν οἱ θεοὶ ϕιλοῦσιν, ἀποθνήσκει νέος.] Whom the gods love, die young. Menander, quoted (amongst others) by Plutarch, _Consol. ad Apollonium_, cap. 34. For other authorities, see Meineke's _Comicorum Græcorum Fragmenta_.--ED.] [Footnote AW: The hand-loom was common in many of the cottages of the country, as well as in the manufacturing towns of England and Scotland, until quite recently.--ED.] [Footnote AX: Psalm ciii. 16.--ED.] [Footnote AY: Compare λύοντες οὐκ ἤκουον.--(Æsch. _Prom_. v. 447.) Also S. Matt. xiii. 13-15-- They seeing, see not; and hearing, they hear not. And Shakespeare, _Richard III_. act IV. scene iv. 1. 26-- Blind sight, dead life, poor mortal-living ghost. ED. ] [Footnote AZ: Compare _The Waggoner_, vol. iii. p. 77-- In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon! ED. ] [Footnote BA: Compare _Resolution and Independence_, stanza xiii. (vol. ii. p. 319)-- Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. ED. ] [Footnote BB: Compare Burns's _Epistle to William Simpson, Ochiltree_-- Adoun some trotting burn's meander. ED. ] [Footnote BC: Compare _Midsummer Night's Dream_, act 1. scene i. l. 211-- Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass. ED. ] [Footnote BD: _Sedum acre_.--ED.] [Footnote BE: _Statice armerium_.--ED.] [Footnote BF: _Convolvulus arvensis_.--ED.] [Footnote BG: Mr. H. H. Turner suggests that this line would be more naturally written, Bespake a hand of sleepy negligence. The change would have been an improvement.--ED.] [Footnote BH: "The scene of the first book of the poem is, I must own, laid in a tract of country not sufficiently near to that which soon comes into view in the second book, to agree with the fact. All that relates to Margaret, and the ruined cottage, etc., was taken from observations made in the south-west of England; and certainly it would require more than seven-league boots to stretch in one morning, from a common in Somersetshire, or Dorsetshire, to the heights of Furness Fells, and the deep valleys they embosom."--I. F. Compare with the first book of _The Excursion_ the first three books of _The Prelude_.--ED.] [Footnote BI: Compare stanza xi. in the _Ode, Intimations of Immortality_ (vol. viii.)-- To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. ED. ] =Book Second= THE SOLITARY ARGUMENT _The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose character is further illustrated--Morning scene, and view of a Village Wake--Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit--View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for his retreat[100]--Sound of singing from below--A funeral procession--Descent into the Valley--Observations drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a book accidentally discovered in a recess in the Valley--Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary--Wanderer's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district--Solitary contrasts with this, that of the individual carried a few minutes before from the cottage[101]--The cottage entered--Description of the Solitary's apartment--Repast there--View, from the window, of two mountain summits; and the Solitary's description of the companionship they afford him--Account of the departed inmate of the cottage--Description of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's mind--Leave[102] the house._ In days of yore how fortunately fared The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall, Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise; Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 5 Now resting with a pilgrim by the side Of a clear brook;--beneath an abbey's roof One evening sumptuously lodged; the next, Humbly in a religious hospital; Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; 10 Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared; He walked--protected from the sword of war By virtue of that sacred instrument His harp, suspended at the traveller's side; 15 His dear companion wheresoe'er he went Opening from land to land an easy way By melody, and by the charm of verse. Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts 20 From his long journeyings and eventful life, Than this obscure Itinerant had skill To gather, ranging through the tamer ground[103] Of these our unimaginative days; Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise 25 Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; And now, when free to move with lighter pace. What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, [104]Looked on this guide with reverential love? 30 Each with the other pleased, we now pursued Our journey, under[105] favourable skies. Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass, Rarely a house, that[106] did not yield to him 35 Remembrances; or from his tongue call forth Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, Which nature's various objects might inspire;[107] And in the silence of his face I read 40 His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, And the mute fish that glances in the stream, And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, The fowl domestic, and the household dog-- 45 In his capacious mind, he loved them all: Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. Oft was occasion given me to perceive How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd To happy contemplation soothed his walk; 50 [108]How the poor brute's condition, forced to run Its course of suffering in the public road, Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart With unavailing pity. Rich in love And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 55 To the degree that he desired, beloved. Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew Greeted us all day long;[109] we took our seats By many a cottage-hearth, where he received The welcome of an Inmate from afar,[110] 60 And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger.[111] --Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, Huts where his charity[112] was blest; his voice Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 64 And, sometimes--where the poor man held dispute With his own mind, unable to subdue Impatience through inaptness to perceive General distress in his particular lot; Or cherishing resentment, or in vain Struggling against it; with a soul perplexed, 70 And finding in herself[113] no steady power To draw the line of comfort that divides Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, From the injustice of our brother men-- To him appeal was made as to a judge; 75 Who, with an understanding heart, allayed The perturbation; listened to the plea; Resolved the dubious point; and sentence gave So grounded, so applied, that it was heard With softened spirit, even when it condemned. 80 Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved, Now as his choice directed, now as mine; Or both, with equal readiness of will, Our course submitting to the changeful breeze Of accident. But when the rising sun 85 Had three times called us to renew our walk, My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, Claimed absolute dominion for the day.[114] We started--and he led me toward the hills,[115] 90 Up through an ample vale, with higher hills Before us, mountains stern and desolate;[BJ] But, in the majesty of distance, now Set off, and to our ken appearing fair Of aspect, with aërial softness clad, 95 And beautified with morning's purple beams. The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 100 From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise; And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease, Shall lack not their enjoyment:--but how faint Compared with ours! who, pacing side by side, Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 105 That we beheld; and lend the listening sense To every grateful sound of earth and air; Pausing at will--our spirits braced, our thoughts Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 110 Mount slowly, sun! that we may journey long, By this dark hill protected from thy beams![116] Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish; But quickly from among our morning thoughts[117] 'Twas chased away: for, toward[118] the western side Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, 116 We saw a throng of people;--wherefore met? Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield[119] Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual Wake,[BK] 120 Which the bright season favours.--Tabor and pipe In purpose join to hasten or[120] reprove The laggard Rustic; and repay with boons Of merriment a party-coloured knot, Already formed upon the village-green. 125 --Beyond the limits of the shadow cast By the broad hill,[BL] glistened upon our sight That gay assemblage. Round them and above, Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 130 Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast Of gold, the Maypole shines; as if the rays Of morning, aided by exhaling dew, 135 With gladsome influence could re-animate The faded garlands dangling from its sides. Said I, "The music and the sprightly scene Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join These festive matins?"--He replied, "Not loth 140 To linger I would here[121] with you partake, Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, The simple pastimes of the day and place. By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set, The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed; 145 There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall[122] contend: But know we not that he, who intermits The appointed task and duties of the day, Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day; Checking the finer spirits that refuse 150 To flow, when purposes are lightly changed? A length of journey yet remains untraced: Let us proceed."[123] Then, pointing with his staff Raised toward those craggy summits,[124] his intent He thus imparted:-- "In a spot that lies 155 Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed,[BM] You will receive, before the hour of noon, Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, From sight of One who lives secluded there, Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past life, 160 (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be More faithfully collected from himself) This brief communication shall suffice. "Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 165 Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, Blossoms of piety and innocence.[125] Such grateful promises his youth displayed: 170 And, having shown in study forward zeal, He to the Ministry was duly called; And straight, incited by a curious mind Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge[126] Of Chaplain to a military troop[BN] 175 Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched In plaided vest,--his fellow-countrymen. This office filling, yet[127] by native power And force of native inclination made An intellectual ruler in the haunts 180 Of social vanity, he walked the world, Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety; Lax, buoyant--less a pastor with his flock Than a soldier among soldiers--lived and roamed 184 Where Fortune led:--and Fortune, who oft proves The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known A blooming Lady--a conspicuous flower, Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised; Whom he had sensibility to love, Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 190 "For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind, Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth, His office he relinquished; and retired From the world's notice to a rural home. Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past, 195 And she was in youth's prime. How free their love, How full their joy! 'Till, pitiable doom![128] In the short course of one undreaded year, Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew Two lovely Children--all that they possessed! 200 The Mother followed:--miserably bare The one Survivor stood; he wept, he prayed For his dismissal, day and night, compelled To hold communion with the grave, and face With pain the regions of eternity.[129] 205 An uncomplaining apathy displaced This anguish; and, indifferent to delight, To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, To private interest dead, and public care. So lived he; so he might have died. "But now, 210 To the wide world's astonishment, appeared A[130] glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, That promised everlasting joy to France![BO] Her voice of social transport[131] reached even him! He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 215 To the great City, an emporium then Of golden expectations, and receiving Freights every day from a new world of hope. Thither his popular talents he transferred; And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained 220 The cause of Christ and civil liberty, As one, and moving to one glorious end. Intoxicating service! I might say A happy service; for he was sincere As vanity and fondness for applause, 225 And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. "That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) bound, For one hostility, in friendly league,[132] Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves; Was served by rival advocates that came 230 From regions opposite as heaven and hell. One courage seemed to animate them all: And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained By their united efforts, there arose A proud and most presumptuous confidence 235 In the transcendent wisdom of the age, And her[133] discernment; not alone in rights, And in the origin and bounds of power Social and temporal; but in laws divine, Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 240 An overweening trust was raised; and fear Cast out, alike of person and of thing. Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane The strongest did not easily escape; And He, what wonder! took a mortal taint. 245 How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell That he broke faith with them[134] whom he had laid In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope! An infidel contempt of holy writ Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence 250 Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced; Vilest hypocrisy--the laughing, gay Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls; But, for disciples of the inner school, 255 Old freedom was old servitude, and they The wisest whose opinions stooped the least To known restraints; and who most boldly drew Hopeful prognostications from a creed, That,[135] in the light of false philosophy, 260 Spread like a halo round a misty moon, Widening its circle as the storms advance. "His sacred function was at length renounced; And every day and every place enjoyed The unshackled layman's natural liberty; 265 Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. I do not wish to wrong him; though the course Of private life licentiously displayed Unhallowed actions--planted like a crown Upon the insolent aspiring brow 270 Of spurious notions--worn as open signs Of prejudice subdued--still he[136] retained, 'Mid much[137] abasement, what he had received From nature, an intense and glowing mind. Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, 275 And mortal sickness on her face appeared, He coloured objects to his own desire As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods Of pain were keen as those of better men, Nay keener, as his fortitude was less: 280 And he continued, when worse days were come, To deal about his sparkling eloquence, Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal That showed like happiness. But, in despite Of all this outside bravery, within, 285 He neither felt encouragement nor hope: For moral dignity, and strength of mind, Were wanting; and simplicity of life; And reverence for himself; and, last and best, Confiding thoughts, through[138] love and fear of Him Before whose sight the troubles of this world 291 Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. "The glory of the times fading away-- The splendour, which had given a festal air To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 295 From his own sight--this gone, he forfeited[139] All joy in human nature; was consumed, And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, And fruitless indignation; galled by pride; Made desperate by contempt of men who throve 300 Before his sight in power or fame, and won, Without desert, what he desired; weak men, Too weak even for his envy or his hate! Tormented thus, after a wandering course Of discontent, and inwardly opprest[140] 305 With malady--in part, I fear, provoked By weariness of life--he fixed his home, Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells, And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 310 Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not[141] Its own voluptuousness;--on this resolved, With this content, that he will live and die Forgotten,--at safe distance from 'a world Not moving to his mind.'"[BP] These serious words 315 Closed the preparatory notices That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile[142] The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.[BQ] Diverging now (as if his quest had been[143] Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 320 Of water, or some lofty eminence,[144] Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, A steep ascent;[BR] and reached a dreary plain,[145][BS] With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 325 Before us;[BT] savage region! which I paced Dispirited:[146] when, all at once, behold! Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,[BU] A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high Among the mountains; even as if the spot 330 Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs So placed, to be shut out from all the world! Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn;[BU] With rocks encompassed, save that to the south 334 Was one small opening,[BV] where a heath-clad ridge Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close; A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,[BW] A liquid pool that glittered in the sun,[BX] And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more![BY] It seemed the home of poverty and toil, 340 Though not of want: the little fields, made green By husbandry of many thrifty years, Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house. --There crows the cock, single in his domain: The small birds find in spring no thicket there 345 To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. Ah! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here! Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 350 Upon a bed of heath;--full many a spot Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy Among the mountains; never one like this; So lonesome, and so perfectly secure; Not melancholy--no, for it is green, 355 And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself With the few needful things that[147] life requires. --In rugged arms how softly does it lie,[148] How tenderly protected! Far and near We have an image of the pristine earth, 360 The planet in its nakedness: were this Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, First, last, and single, in the breathing world, It could not be more quiet: peace is here Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale 365 Of public news or private; years that pass Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay The common penalties of mortal life, Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay 370 In silence musing by my Comrade's side,[149] He also silent; when from out the heart Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, Or several voices in one solemn sound, Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow 375 The cadence, as of psalms--a funeral dirge![BZ] We listened, looking down upon the hut,[150] But seeing no one: meanwhile from below The strain continued, spiritual as before; And now distinctly could I recognise 380 These words:--'_Shall in the grave thy love be known,_ _In death thy faithfulness?_'--"God rest his soul!"[151] Said the old man,[152] abruptly breaking silence,-- "He is departed, and finds peace at last!" This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 385 Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band Of rustic persons, from behind the hut Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which They shaped their course along the sloping side Of that small valley, singing as they moved;[CA] 390 A sober company and few, the men Bare-headed, and all decently attired! Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued Recovering, to my Friend I said, "You spake, 395 Methought, with apprehension that these rites Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat This day we purposed to intrude."--"I did so, But let us hence, that we may learn the truth: Perhaps it is not he[153] but some one else 400 For whom this pious service is performed; Some other tenant of the solitude." So, to a steep and difficult descent Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, Where passage could be won;[CB] and, as the last 405 Of the mute train, behind[154] the heathy top Of that off-sloping outlet,[CC] disappeared, I, more impatient in my downward course,[155] Had landed upon easy ground; and there Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold 410 An object that enticed my steps aside! A narrow, winding, entry opened out[156] Into a platform--that lay, sheepfold-wise, Enclosed between an upright[157] mass of rock And one old moss-grown wall;--a cool recess, 415 And fanciful! For where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed By thrusting two rude staves into the wall[158] And overlaying them with mountain sods; To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 420 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands![CD] Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show[159] Of baby-houses, curiously arranged; 425 Nor wanting ornament of walks between, With mimic trees inserted in the turf, And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 429 Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,[160] "Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,[CE] Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 435 One of those petty structures. "His it must be!" Exclaimed the Wanderer, "cannot but be his,[161] And he is gone!"[162] The book, which in my hand Had opened of itself (for it was swoln With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 440 To the injurious elements exposed From week to week,) I found to be a work In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, His famous Optimist. "Unhappy Man!" 444 Exclaimed my Friend: "here then has been to him Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place Within how deep a shelter! He had fits, Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, And loved the haunts of children: here, no doubt, Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, Or sate companionless; and here the book, 451 Left and forgotten in his careless way, Must by the cottage-children have been found:[163] Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work! To what odd purpose have the darlings turned 455 This sad memorial of their hapless friend!" "Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find Such book in such a place!"--" A book it is," He answered,"to the Person suited well, Though little suited to surrounding things: 460 'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here,[164] With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!-- Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, As from these intimations I forebode, 465 Grieved shall I be--less for my sake than yours, And least of all for him who is no more." By this, the book was in the old Man's hand; And he continued, glancing on the leaves 469 An eye of scorn:--"The lover," said he, "doomed To love when hope hath failed him--whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide, Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, And that is joy to him. When change of times Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give 475 The faithful servant, who must hide his head Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, And he too hath his comforter. How poor, Beyond all poverty how destitute, 480 Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him No dearer relique, and no better stay, Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,[CF] Impure conceits discharging from a heart 485 Hardened by impious pride!--I did not fear To tax you with this journey;"--mildly said My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped Into the presence of the cheerful light-- "For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 490 From moving spectacles;--but let us on." So speaking, on he went, and at the word I followed, till he made a sudden stand: For full in view, approaching through a[165] gate That opened from the enclosure of green fields 495 Into the rough uncultivated ground,[CG] Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead! I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress,[166] That it could be no other; a pale face, A meagre person, tall, and in a garb[167] 500 Not rustic--dull and faded like himself! He saw us not, though distant but few steps; For he was busy, dealing, from a store Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings Of red ripe currants;[168] gift by which he strove, 505 With intermixture of endearing words, To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping As if disconsolate.--"They to the grave Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, "To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain; 510 His body is at rest, his soul in heaven." More might have followed--but my honoured Friend Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank And cordial greeting.--Vivid was the light 514 That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes;[169][CH] He was all fire: no shadow on his brow Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.[170] Hands joined he with his Visitant,--a grasp, An eager grasp; and many moments' space-- When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 520 And, of the sad appearance which at once Had vanished, much was come and coming back--[171] An amicable smile retained the life Which it had unexpectedly received, Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, 525 "Nor could your coming have been better timed; For this, you see, is in our narrow[172] world A day of sorrow. I have here a charge"-- And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child-- 530 "A little mourner, whom it is my task To comfort;--but how came ye?--if yon track (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) Conducted hither your most welcome feet, Ye could not miss the funeral train--they yet 535 Have scarcely disappeared." "This blooming Child," Said the old Man, "is of an age to weep At any grave or solemn spectacle, Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, He knows not wherefore;--but the boy to-day, 540 Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you also[173] Must have sustained a loss."--"The hand of Death," He answered, "has been here; but could not well Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen Upon myself."--The other left these words 545 Unnoticed, thus continuing-- "From yon crag, Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, We heard the hymn they sang--a solemn sound Heard any where; but in a place like this 'Tis more than human! Many precious rites 550 And customs of our rural ancestry Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, Will last for ever.[CI] Oft on my way have I Stood still, though but a casual passenger, So much I felt the awfulness of life,[174] 555 In that one moment when the corse is lifted In silence, with a hush of decency; Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home, Its final home on earth.[175] What traveller--who-- 560 (How far soe'er a stranger) does not own The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, A mute procession on the houseless road; Or passing by some single tenement Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 565 The monitory voice? But most of all It touches, it confirms, and elevates, Then, when the body, soon to be consigned Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 570 Upon the shoulders of the next in love, The nearest in affection or in blood; Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt Beside the coffin, resting on its lid In silent grief their unuplifted heads,[CJ] 575 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, And that most awful scripture which declares We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed! --Have I not seen--ye likewise may have seen-- Son, husband, brothers--brothers side by side, 580 And son and father also side by side, Rise from that posture:--and in concert move, On the green turf following the vested Priest, Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, From which they do not shrink, and under which 585 They faint not, but advance towards the open grave[176] Step after step--together, with their firm Unhidden faces: he that suffers most, He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, The most serene, with most undaunted eye!-- 590 Oh! blest are they who live and die like these, Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!" "That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile Which did not please me, "must be deemed, I fear, Of the unblest; for he will surely sink 596 Into his mother earth without such pomp Of grief, depart without occasion given By him for such array of fortitude. Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark! 600 This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, And I shall miss him; scanty tribute! yet, This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, If love were his sole claim upon their care, Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 605 Without a hand to gather it." At this I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, "Can it be thus among so small a band As ye must needs be here? in such a place I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 610 Of a departing cloud."--"'Twas not for love" Answered the sick Man with a careless voice-- "That I came hither; neither have I found Among associates who have power of speech, Nor in such other converse as is here, 615 Temptation so prevailing as to change That mood, or undermine my first resolve." Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said To my benign Companion,--"Pity 'tis That fortune did not guide you to this house 620 A few days earlier; then would you have seen What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, That seems by Nature hollowed out to be The seat and bosom of pure innocence,[177] Are made of, an ungracious matter this! 625 Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too Of past discussions with this zealous friend And advocate of humble life, I now Will force upon his notice; undeterred By the example of his own pure course, 630 And that respect and deference which a soul May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched In what she most doth value, love of God[178] And his frail creature Man;--but ye shall hear. I talk--and ye are standing in the sun 635 Without refreshment!" Quickly had he spoken, And, with light steps still quicker than his words, Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot;[179] And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door, Had almost a forbidding nakedness; 640 Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair, Than it appeared when from the beetling rock[180] We had looked down upon it. All within, As left by the[181] departed company, Was silent; save the solitary clock 645 That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.--[182] Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs And reached a small apartment dark and low, Which was no sooner entered than our Host Said gaily, "This is my domain, my cell, 650 My hermitage, my cabin, what you will-- I love it better than a snail his house. But now ye shall be feasted with our best."[CK] So, with more ardour than an unripe girl Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, 655 He went about his hospitable task. My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend, As if to thank him; he returned that look, Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 660 Had we about us![183] scattered was the floor, And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers, And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some[184] 665 Scribbled with verse: a broken angling-rod And shattered telescope, together linked By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook; And instruments of music, some half-made, Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. 670 But speedily the promise was fulfilled; A feast before us, and a[185] courteous Host Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board; And was itself half-covered with a store[186] 676 Of dainties,--oaten bread, curd,[187] cheese, and cream; And cakes of butter curiously embossed, Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers A golden hue, delicate as their own 680 Faintly reflected in a lingering stream."[188] Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, Our table small parade of garden fruits, And whortle-berries from the mountain side. The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, 685 Was now[189] a help to his late comforter, And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, Ministering to our need. In genial mood, While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate Fronting the window of that little cell, 690 I could not, ever and anon, forbear To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, That from some other vale peered into this.[CL] "Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, "if here It were your lot to dwell, would soon become[190] 695 Your prized companions.--Many are the notes Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores; And well those lofty brethren bear their part In the wild concert--chiefly when the storm 700 Rides high; then all the upper air they fill With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, Like smoke, along the level of the blast, In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; 705 And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, Methinks that I have heard them echo back The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's laws Left them ungifted with a power to yield Music of finer tone;[191] a harmony, 710 So do I call it, though it be the hand Of silence, though there be no voice;--the clouds, The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, Motions of moonlight, all come thither--touch, And have an answer--thither come, and shape 715 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits:--there the sun himself, At the calm close of summer's longest day,[CM] Rests his substantial orb;--between those heights And on the top of either pinnacle, 720 More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man Than the mute agents stirring there:--alone Here do I sit and watch."--[CN] A fall of voice, 725 Regretted like the nightingale's last note, Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of rapture Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said:[192] "Now for the tale with which you threatened us!" "In truth the threat escaped me unawares: 730 Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind, As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed[193] When ye looked down upon us from the crag, Islanders mid[194] a stormy mountain sea, 735 We are not so;--perpetually we touch Upon the vulgar ordinances[195] of the world; And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day Relinquished, lived[196] dependent for his bread Upon the laws of public charity. 740 The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains As might from that occasion be distilled, Opened, as she before had done for me, Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner; The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 745 Which appetite required--a blind dull nook, Such as she had, the _kennel_ of his rest! This, in itself not ill, would yet have been Ill borne in earlier life; but his was now The still contentedness of seventy years. 750 Calm did he sit under[197] the wide-spread tree Of his old age: and yet less calm and meek, Winningly meek or venerably calm, Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise A penalty, if penalty it were, 755 For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. I loved the old Man, for I pitied him! A task it was, I own, to hold discourse With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes; 760 Mild, inoffensive, ready in _his_ way, And helpful[198] to his utmost power: and there Our housewife knew full well what she possessed He was her vassal of all labour, tilled Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine; 765 And, one among the orderly array Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun Maintained his place; or heedfully pursued His course, on errands bound, to other vales, Leading sometimes an inexperienced child 770 Too young for any profitable task. So moved he like a shadow that performed Substantial service.[CO] Mark me now, and learn For what reward!--The moon her monthly round Hath not completed since our dame, the queen 775 Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, Into my little sanctuary rushed-- Voice to a rueful treble humanised, And features in deplorable dismay. I treat the matter lightly, but, alas! 780 It is most serious: persevering rain[199] Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain tops Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides; This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake, Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend-- 785 Who at her bidding, early and alone, Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland[200] turf For winter fuel--to his noontide meal Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights[201] Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 790 'Inhuman!'--said I, 'was an old Man's life Not worth the trouble of a thought?--alas! This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw Her husband enter--from a distant vale. We sallied forth together; found the tools 795 Which the neglected veteran had dropped, But through all quarters looked for him in vain. We shouted--but no answer! Darkness fell Without remission of the blast or shower, And fears for our own safety drove us home. 800 "I, who weep little, did, I will confess, The moment I was seated here alone, Honour my little cell with some few tears Which anger and[202] resentment could not dry. All night the storm endured; and, soon as help 805 Had been collected from the neighbouring vale, With morning we renewed our quest: the wind Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist; And long and hopelessly we sought in vain: 810 'Till, chancing on that[203] lofty ridge to pass A heap of ruin--almost without walls And wholly without roof (the bleached remains Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, The peasants of these lonely valleys used 815 To meet for worship on that central height)-- We there espied the object of our search,[204] Lying full three parts buried among tufts Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, To baffle, as he might, the watery storm: 820 And there we found him breathing peaceably, Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. We spake--he made reply, but would not stir At our entreaty; less from want of power 825 Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.[CP] "So was he lifted gently from the ground, And with their freight homeward the shepherds[205] moved Through the dull mist, I following--when a step, A single step, that freed me from the skirts 830 Of the blind vapour, opened to my view Glory beyond all glory ever seen By waking sense or by the dreaming soul! The appearance,[206] instantaneously disclosed, Was of a mighty city--boldly say 835 A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a boundless[207] depth, Far sinking into splendour--without end! Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 840 And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars--illumination of all gems! 845 By earthly nature had the effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified; on them, and on the coves And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded, taking there 850 Their station under a cerulean sky. Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight! Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 855 Molten together, and composing thus, Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 860 Right in the midst, where interspace appeared Of open court, an object like a throne Under[208] a shining canopy of state Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use, 865 But vast in size, in substance glorified; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision[CQ]--forms uncouth of mightiest power For admiration and mysterious awe. This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,[209] 870 Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible-- I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I _saw_ was the revealed abode Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart 874 Swelled in my breast.--'I have been dead,' I cried, 'And now I live! Oh! wherefore _do_ I live?' And with that pang I prayed to be no more!-- --But I forget our Charge, as utterly I then forgot him:--there I stood and gazed: The apparition faded not away, 880 And I descended.[CR] "Having reached the house, I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, And in serene possession of himself, Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed met By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam 885 Of comfort, spread over his pallid face.[210] Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly Was glad to find her conscience set at ease; And not less glad, for sake of her good name, That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 890 But, though he seemed at first to have received No harm, and uncomplaining as before Went through his usual tasks, a silent change Soon showed itself: he lingered three short weeks; And from the cottage hath been borne to-day. 895 "So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am That it is ended." At these words he turned-- And, with blithe air of open fellowship, Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, 900 My grey-haired Friend said courteously--"Nay, nay, You have regaled us as a hermit ought; Now let us forth into the sun!"--Our Host Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. VARIANTS: [Footnote 100: _--feelings of the Author at the sight of it--_ Inserted from 1814 to 1832. ] [Footnote 101: _--Brief conversation--_ Inserted from 1814 to 1832. ] [Footnote 102: 1836 _Quit_ 1814. ] [Footnote 103: 1827. Than this obscure Itinerant (an obscure, But a high-souled and tender-hearted Man) Had skill to draw from many a ramble, far And wide protracted, through the tamer ground 1814. ] [Footnote 104: And pathways winding on from farm to farm, This line appeared only in 1814 and 1820. ] [Footnote 105: 1836. ... beneath ... 1814. ] [Footnote 106: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 107: 1827. ... supply: 1814. ] [Footnote 108: Along the field, and in the shady grove; This line appeared only in 1814 and 1820. ] [Footnote 109: C. and 1845. --Greetings and smiles we met with all day long From faces that he knew; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 110: 1845. ... come from far. 1814. ] [Footnote 111: This line was added in 1845.] [Footnote 112: 1827. Wherein his charity ... 1814. ] [Footnote 113: 1827. ... itself ... 1814. ] [Footnote 114: 1832. My Fellow Traveller said with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, That I must yield myself without reserve To his disposal. Glad was I of this: 1814. My Fellow traveller claim'd with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, An absolute dominion for the day. 1827. ] [Footnote 115: 1836. ... and he led towards the hills, 1814. ] [Footnote 116: 1827. Mount slowly, Sun! and may our journey lie Awhile within the shadow of this hill, This friendly hill, a shelter from thy beams! 1814. ] [Footnote 117: 1827. ... wish; And as that wish, with prevalence of thanks For present good o'er fear of future ill, Stole in among the morning's blither thoughts, 1814. ] [Footnote 118: 1827. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 119: 1827. ... ear, did to the question yield 1814. ] [Footnote 120: 1836. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 121: C. and 1845. Here would I linger, and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 122: 1827. ... will ... 1814. ] [Footnote 123: 1845. We must proceed--a length of journey yet Remains untraced." ... 1814. A length of journey yet remains untrod, Let us proceed." ... C. ] [Footnote 124: 1832. Towards those craggy summits, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 125: 1827. Upon the humblest ground of social life, Doth at this day, I trust, the blossoms bear Of piety and simple innocence. 1814. ] [Footnote 126: 1827. And, as he shewed in study forward zeal, All helps were sought, all measures strained, that He, By due scholastic discipline prepared, Might to the Ministry be called: which done, Partly through lack of better hopes--and part Perhaps incited by a curious mind, In early life he undertook the charge 1814. ] [Footnote 127: 1827. ... and, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 128: 1845. ... How full their joy, How free their love! nor did their love decay; Nor joy abate, till, pitiable doom! 1814. ... nor did that love decay, 1827. How free their love, till all by death was blasted In one undreaded year, Death swept away Two lovely ... C. ] [Footnote 129: 1845. ... compelled By pain to turn his thoughts towards the grave, And face the regions of Eternity. 1814. ... compelled To commune with the grave soul-sick, and face With pain ... C. ] [Footnote 130: 1827. The ... 1814. ] [Footnote 131: 1827. ... France! That sudden light had power to pierce the gloom In which his Spirit, friendless upon earth, In separation dwelt, and solitude. The voice of social transport ... 1814. ] [Footnote 132: 1827. That righteous Cause of freedom did, we know, Combine, for one hostility, as friends, 1814. ] [Footnote 133: 1827. ... its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 134: 1827. ... those ... 1814. ] [Footnote 135: 1827. Which, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 136: 1836. ... he still ... 1814. ] [Footnote 137: 1836. ... such ... 1814. ] [Footnote 138: 1827. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 139: 1827. ... this gone, therewith he lost 1814. ] [Footnote 140: 1827. ... hate! --And thus beset, and finding in himself Nor pleasure nor tranquillity, at last, After a wandering course of discontent In foreign Lands, and inwardly oppressed 1814. ] [Footnote 141: 1845. In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want 1814. ] [Footnote 142: 1827. With which my Fellow-traveller had beguiled 1814. ] [Footnote 143: 1827. Now, suddenly diverging, he began To climb upon its western side a Ridge Pathless and smooth, a long and steep ascent; As if the object of his quest had been 1814. ] [Footnote 144: 1845. Of water--or some boastful Eminence, 1814. ] [Footnote 145: 1827. We clomb without a track to guide our steps; And, on the summit, reached a heathy plain, 1814. A steep ascent, and reached at length a dreary plain, MS. ] [Footnote 146: ... region! and I walked In weariness: ... 1814. ] [Footnote 147: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 148: 1836. ... soft it seems to lie, 1814. ] [Footnote 149: 1827. On these and other kindred thoughts intent, In silence by my Comrade's side I lay, 1814. ] [Footnote 150: 1827. ... towards the Hut, 1814. ] [Footnote 151: 1814. ... These words, Said my companion, sighing as he spoke, Were chosen by himself, God rest his soul. C. ] [Footnote 152: 1845. The Wanderer cried, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 153: 1814. He is it not perhaps ... C. ] [Footnote 154: 1836. ... upon ... 1814. ] [Footnote 155: 1827. ... in the course I took, 1814. ] [Footnote 156: 1827. ... aside! It was an Entry, narrow as a door; A passage whose brief windings opened out 1814. ] [Footnote 157: 1827. ... a single ... 1814. ] [Footnote 158: 1827. Met in an angle, hung a tiny roof, Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been framed By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall 1814. ] [Footnote 159: 1827. Whose simple skill had thronged the grassy floor With work of frame less solid, a proud show 1814. ] [Footnote 160: 1827. Who, having entered, carelessly looked round, And now would have passed on; when I exclaimed, 1814. ] [Footnote 161: 1845. ... "Gracious Heaven!" The Wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his, 1814. ] [Footnote 162: 1814. "It cannot," said the Wanderer, "but be his, And he is gone!" ... C. ] [Footnote 163: 1827. ... here no doubt He sometimes played with them; and here hath sate Far oftener by himself. This Book, I guess, Hath been forgotten in his careless way; Left here when he was occupied in mind; And by the Cottage Children has been found. 1814. ] [Footnote 164: 1827. ... things; Nor, with the knowledge which my mind possessed, Could I behold it undisturbed: 'tis strange, I grant, and stranger still had been to see The Man, who was its Owner, dwelling here, 1814. ] [Footnote 165: 1827. ... the 1814. ] [Footnote 166: 1827. I knew, from the appearance and the dress, 1814. ] [Footnote 167: 1845. A tall and meagre person, in a garb 1814. ] [Footnote 168: 1827. Which on a leaf he carried in his hand, Strings of ripe currants; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 169: 1827. Glad was my Comrade now, though he at first, I doubt not, had been more surprized than glad. But now, recovered from the shock and calm, He soberly advanced; and to the Man Gave chearful greeting.--Vivid was the light Which flashed at this from out the Other's eyes; 1814. ] [Footnote 170: 1845. He was all fire: the sickness from his face Passed like a fancy that is swept away; 1814. ] [Footnote 171: 1840. ... more, And much of what had vanished was returned, 1814. ] [Footnote 172: 1827. ... little 1814. ] [Footnote 173: 1845. He knows not why;--but he, perchance, this day, Is shedding Orphan's tears; and you yourself 1814. ] [Footnote 174: 1836. ... Often have I stopped When on my way, I could not chuse but stop, So much I felt the awfulness of Life, 1814. ....Often have I stopped, So much I felt the awfulness of life, 1827. The text of 1832 returns to that of 1814. ] [Footnote 175: 1845. ... to its home, Its final home in earth.... 1814. ... to its home, Its final home on earth.... 1836. ] [Footnote 176: 1836. ... towards the grave 1814. ] [Footnote 177: 1827. ... in this Solitude, (That seems by Nature framed to be the seat And very bosom of pure innocence) 1814. ] [Footnote 178: 1845. In what it values most--the love of God 1814. In what she values most--the love of God 1827. And more as years are multiplied With what she most delights in, love of God C. ] [Footnote 179: 1836. ... Saying this he led Towards the Cottage;--homely was the spot; 1814. ] [Footnote 180: 1827. ... Valley's brink 1814. ] [Footnote 181: 1827. ... that ... 1814. ] [Footnote 182: 1845. Was silent; and the solitary clock Ticked, as I thought, with melancholy sound.-- 1814. ] [Footnote 183: 1845. We had around us! ... 1814. Had we around us! ... 1827. ] [Footnote 184: 1827. ... moss; and here and there Lay, intermixed with these, mechanic tools, And scraps of paper,--some I could perceive 1814. ] [Footnote 185: ... the ... MS. ] [Footnote 186: 1845. ... load 1814. ] [Footnote 187: 1827. ... curds, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 188: 1832. Butter that had imbibed a golden tinge, A hue like that of yellow meadow flowers Reflected faintly in a silent pool. 1814. From meadow flowers, hue delicate as theirs Faintly reflected in a lingering stream; 1827. ] [Footnote 189: Became ... MS. ] [Footnote 190: 1827. "Those lusty Twins on which your eyes are cast," Exclaimed our Host, "if here you dwelt, would be 1814. ] [Footnote 191: 1827. ... frame; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 192: 1845. With brightening face The Wanderer heard him speaking thus, and said, 1814. A fall of voice, Regretted like the Nightingale's last note, Had scarcely closed this high-wrought Rhapsody, 1827. Had scarcely closed this strain of thankful rapture, C. Ere with inviting voice ... MS. ] [Footnote 193: 1827. ... unawares And was forgotten. Let this challenge stand For my excuse, if what I shall relate Tire your attention.--Outcast and cut off As we seem here, and must have seemed to you 1814. ] [Footnote 194: 1845. ... of ... 1814. ] [Footnote 195: 1836. ... ordinance ... 1814. ] [Footnote 196: 1827. ... was ... 1814. ] [Footnote 197: 1836. ... beneath ... 1814. ] [Footnote 198: 1827. useful ... 1814. ] [Footnote 199: 1827. ... from mid-noon the rain 1814. ] [Footnote 200: 1827. ... mountain 1814. ] [Footnote 201: 1827. Came not, and now perchance upon the Heights 1814. ] [Footnote 202: 1827. ... or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 203: 1827. Till, chancing by yon ... 1814. ] [Footnote 204: 1827. And wholly without roof (in ancient time It was a Chapel, a small Edifice In which the Peasants of these lonely Dells For worship met upon that central height)-- Chancing to pass this wreck of stones, we there Espied at last the Object of our search, Couched in a nook, and seemingly alive. It would have moved you, had you seen the guise In which he occupied his chosen bed, 1814. ] [Footnote 205: 1836. ... the Shepherds homeward ... 1814. ] [Footnote 206: 1827. ... dreaming soul! --Though I am conscious that no power of words Can body forth, no hues of speech can paint That gorgeous spectacle--too bright and fair Even for remembrance; yet the attempt may give Collateral interest to this homely Tale. The Appearance, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 207: 1845. ... wondrous ... 1814. ] [Footnote 208: 1836. Beneath ... 1814. ] [Footnote 209: 1845. Below me was the earth; this little Vale 1814. ] [Footnote 210: 1836. Beside a genial fire; that seemed to spread A gleam of comfort o'er his pallid face. 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote BJ: In the Fenwick note Wordsworth says, "In the poem, I suppose that the Pedlar and I ascended from a plain country up the vale of Langdale, and struck off a good way above the chapel to the western side of the vale." They start from Grasmere, cross over to Langdale by Red Bank and High Close, and walk up the lower part of the valley of Great Langdale, past Elter Water and Chapel Stile.--ED.] [Footnote BK: At Chapel Stile the villagers of Langdale are seen at their annual Fair. Dorothy Wordsworth thus alludes to one of these rural Fairs in her Grasmere Journal: "Tuesday, September 2nd, 1800.--We walked to the Fair. There seemed very few people and very few stalls, yet I believe there were many cakes and much beer sold.... It was a lovely moonlight night.... The moonlight shone only upon the village. It did not eclipse the village lights, and the sound of dancing and merriment came along the still air. I walked with Coleridge and Wm. up the lane and by the church, and then lingered with Coleridge in the garden...." See also the account of the "village merry-night," in _The Waggoner_, canto ii. ll. 307-443 (vol. iii. p. 89.)--ED.] [Footnote BL: Lingmoor.--ED.] [Footnote BM: At Blea Tarn, where the Solitary lived.--ED.] [Footnote BN: "Not long after we took up our abode at Grasmere, came to reside there, from what motive I either never knew or have forgotten, a Scotchman, a little past the middle of life, who had for many years been chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was in no respect, as far as I know, an interesting character, though in his appearance there was a good deal that attracted attention, as if he had been shattered in fortune, and not happy in mind. Of his quondam position I availed myself to connect with the Wanderer, also a Scotchman, a character suitable to my purpose, the elements of which I drew from several persons with whom I had been connected, and who fell under my observation during frequent residences in London at the beginning of the French Revolution."--I. F.] [Footnote BO: Compare _The Prelude_, books ix., x., and xi., _passim_.--ED.] [Footnote BP: I have not been able to trace this quotation. Moving about in worlds not realised occurs in the _Ode, Intimations of Immortality_.--ED.] [Footnote BQ: Langdale.--ED.] [Footnote BR: The flank of Lingmoor.--ED.] [Footnote BS: The flat heathery summit of Lingmoor. Note the text of 1814.--ED.] [Footnote BT: Bowfell, Great End, Shelter Crags, and Pike o' Blisco to the west straight before them, the Langdale Pikes to the north on the right, with Wrynose, Wetherlam, and the Coniston Mountains to the south-west.--ED.] [Footnote BU: The head of Little Langdale, with Blea Tarn in the centre, as seen from the top of Lingmoor, the only point, except the summit of Blake Rigg, from which it appears "urn-like." With the six previous lines compare Beattie's _Minstrel_, book ii. stanza vi.-- It was his chance to wander far abroad, And o'er a lonely eminence to climb, Which, heretofore, his foot had never trode; A vale appeared below, a deep retired abode. ED. ] [Footnote BV: The "small opening, where a heath-clad ridge supplied a boundary," is that which leads down into Little Langdale by Fell Foot and Busk.--ED.] [Footnote BW: The "nook" is not now "treeless," but the fir-wood on the western side of the Vale adds to its "quiet," and deepens the sense of seclusion.--ED.] [Footnote BX: Blea Tarn. "The scene in which this small piece of water lies, suggested to the Author the following description (given in his poem of _The Excursion_), supposing the spectator to look down upon it, not from the road, but from one of its elevated sides." (See Wordsworth's _Description of the Scenery of the District of the Lakes_ in his _Prose Works_.)--ED.] [Footnote BY: The solitary cottage, called Blea Tarn house, which is passed on the left of the road under Side Pike.--ED.] [Footnote BZ: The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal: Wednesday, 3rd September 1800.--"I went to a funeral at John Dawson's. About 10 men and 4 women.... The dead person 56 years of age, buried by the parish.... They set the corpse down at the door; and, while we stood within the threshold, the men, with their hats off, sang, with decent and solemn countenances, a verse of a funeral psalm. The corpse was then borne down the hill, and they sang till they had passed the Town-end. I was affected to tears while we stood in the house.... There were no near kindred, no children. When we got out of the dark house the sun was shining, and the prospect looked as divinely beautiful as I ever saw it. It seemed more sacred than I had ever seen it, and yet more allied to human life.... When we came to the bridge, they began to sing again, and stopped during four lines before they entered the churchyard." Compare this with such phrases in _The Excursion_ as-- They shaped their course along the sloping side Of that small valley, singing as they moved; A sober company and few, the men Bare-headed, --(p. 84.) We heard the hymn they sang--a solemn sound Heard any where; but in a place like this 'Tis more than human! --(p. 90.)--ED. ] [Footnote CA: See the note on the preceding page.--ED.] [Footnote CB: Descending from the top of Lingmoor to Blea Tarn.--ED.] [Footnote CC: The upper part of Little Langdale, descending to Fell Foot.--ED.] [Footnote CD: A spot exactly similar to this can easily be found, about two hundred yards above the house, in the narrow gorge of Blea Tarn Ghyll, below a waterfall, where a "moss-grown wall" still approaches the rock on the other side of the stream, and where a "penthouse" might easily be made by children.--ED.] [Footnote CE: It may not be too trivial to note that, to this day, in the Cumberland and Westmoreland vales, one of the favourite games of children on the fell-sides near their cottages, is playing at mimic gardens and parterres, made out of fragments of broken pottery.--ED.] [Footnote CF: Compare Lamb's remark in a letter to Wordsworth, 14th August 1814. See _Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Canon Ainger, vol. i. p. 271.--ED.] [Footnote CG: The flat ground on the more level part of the valley near Blea Tarn cottage.--ED.] [Footnote CH: Compare _Resolution and Independence_, stanza xiii. (see vol. ii. p. 319).--ED.] [Footnote CI: Compare the note p. 83; also the Fenwick note, in which Wordsworth laments the change in the "manner in which, till lately, every one was borne to the place of sepulture."--ED.] [Footnote CJ: The custom of mourners kneeling round the coffin was, till quite lately, in common use. It is still observed in some churches in Cumberland and Westmoreland, but is gradually passing away.--ED.] [Footnote CK: Blea Tarn house is a humble cottage, resembling Anne Tyson's house at Hawkshead where Wordsworth lived when at school. On the ground-floor are a parlour, kitchen, and dairy. You ascend by nine stone steps to the upper flat, where there are four small rooms, and the window of one of them faces the north in the direction of the Langdale Pikes. The foundations of an older house may be seen a little lower down, about twenty yards nearer the tarn; but the present house was probably standing at the beginning of this century. As there are two poplars to the north of the cottage, and a sycamore near them, it is not likely that the place was _entirely_ "treeless" in Wordsworth's time. In the Fenwick memoranda he says "the cottage was called Hackett, and stands, as described, on the southern extremity of the ridge which separates the two Langdales." In this he evidently confounds Hackett cottage, near Colwith--which separates the two Langdales as you ascend them from the lower country--with the Blea Tarn cottage, which stands on "the southern extremity of the ridge which separates the Langdale" valleys as you descend them.--ED.] [Footnote CL: It is generally supposed that the two huge Peaks, That from some other vale peered into this, are the Langdale Pikes; and it is the most likely supposition. But, if the three were seated, as described, in the upper room of the cottage (which has one small window looking toward the Pikes), they could not possibly see them. Side Pike and Pike o' Blisco alone could be seen. Either then, these are the Peaks referred to; or, what is much more likely, the realism of the narrative here gives way; and the far finer pikes of Langdale are introduced--although they are not visible from the house--because they belong to the district, and can be seen from so many points around. The phrases "from some other vale" and "lusty twins" point unmistakably to those two characteristic pikes which "peer" over the crest of the ridge dividing the Langdale valleys. "Let a man," says Dr. Cradock, "as he approaches Blea Tarn from Little Langdale, see these slowly rising, and peering alone over the depression (or Haws) which divides the Langdales, and he cannot doubt that they are the 'lusty twins.' Let the Haws be in shadow, and the Pikes in sunlight, or the reverse, and the effect is one of the most striking in all the district." Compare the sonnet, _November 1, 1815_, beginning-- How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright. ED. ] [Footnote CM: This is strictly accurate. On and about the 21st June, the sun, as seen from Blea Tarn, sets just between the Langdale Pikes.--ED.] [Footnote CN: "Mark how the wind rejoices in these peaks, and they give back its wild pleasure; how all the things which touch and haunt them get their reply; how they are loved and love; how busy are the mute agents there; how proud the stars to shine on them." (Stopford A. Brooke's _Theology in the English Poets_, p. 108.)--ED.] [Footnote CO: "The account given by the Solitary, towards the close of the second book, in all that belongs to the character of the old man, was taken from a Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last house quitting the vale on the road to Ambleside."--I.F.] [Footnote CP: "The character of his hostess, and all that befell the poor man upon the mountain, belongs to Paterdale. The woman I knew well; her name was Ruth Jackson, and she was exactly such a person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel, among which the old man was found lying, may yet be traced, and stood upon the ridge that divides Paterdale from Boardale and Martindale, having been placed there for the convenience of both districts."--I.F. The following is Dorothy Wordsworth's account of the same occurrence, given in a record of what she called "a Mountainous Ramble," written in 1805. Her brother afterwards incorporated this passage, with a few alterations, in his _Description of the Scenery of the Lakes_. "Looked into Boar Dale above Sanwick--deep and bare, a stream winding down it. After having walked a considerable way on the tops of the hills, came in view of Glenridding and the mountains above Grisdale. Luff then took us aside, before we had begun to descend, to a small ruin, which was formerly a chapel or place of worship where the inhabitants of Martindale and Paterdale were accustomed to meet on Sundays. There are now no traces by which you could discover that the building had been different from a common sheepfold; the loose stones and the few which yet remain piled up are the same as those which lie about on the mountain; but the shape of the building being oblong is not that of a common sheepfold, and it stands east and west. Whether it was ever consecrated ground or not I know not; but the place may be kept holy in the memory of some now living in Paterdale; for it was the means of preserving the life of a poor old man last summer, who, having gone up the mountain to gather peats, had been overtaken by a storm, and could not find his way down again. He happened to be near the remains of the old chapel, and, in a corner of it, he contrived, by laying turf and ling and stones from one wall to the other, to make a shelter from the wind, and there he lay all night. The woman who had sent him on his errand began to grow uneasy towards night, and the neighbours went out to seek him. At that time the old man had housed himself in his nest, and he heard the voices of the men, but could not make _them_ hear, the wind being so loud, and he was afraid to leave the spot lest he should not be able to find it again, so he remained there all night; and they returned to their homes, giving him up for lost; but the next morning the same persons discovered him huddled up in the sheltered nook. He was at first stupefied and unable to move; but after he had eaten and drunk, and recollected himself a little, he walked down the mountain, and did not afterwards seem to have suffered."--ED.] [Footnote CQ: Compare Ezekiel, chap. i.--ED.] [Footnote CR: "The glorious appearance disclosed above and among the mountains, was described partly from what my friend Mr. Luff, who then lived in Paterdale, witnessed upon that melancholy occasion, and partly from what Mary and I had seen, in company with Sir George and Lady Beaumont, above Hartshope Hall, on our way from Paterdale to Ambleside."--I. F. Compare the lines 827-881 with the account of the view from the top of Snowdon, in _The Prelude_, book xiv. II. 11-62 (vol. iii. pp. 367-68), and see Charles Lamb's remarks in his letter to Wordsworth (Aug. 14, 1814) on receiving a copy of _The Excursion_. (_Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 271.) In his _Table Talk_ Coleridge expresses a wish "that the first two books of _The Excursion_ had been published separately under the name of 'The Deserted Cottages.' They would have formed, what indeed they are, one of the most beautiful poems in the language." This advice has been followed more than once--ED.] =Book Third= DESPONDENCY ARGUMENT _Images in the Valley--Another Recess in it entered and described--Wanderer's sensations--Solitary's excited by the same objects--Contrast between these--Despondency of the Solitary gently reproved--Conversation exhibiting the Solitary's past and present opinions and feelings, till he enters upon his own History at length--His domestic felicity--Afflictions--Dejection--Roused by the French Revolution--Disappointment and disgust--Voyage to America--Disappointment and disgust pursue him--His return--His languor and depression of mind, from want of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want of confidence in the virtue of Mankind._ A HUMMING BEE--a little tinkling rill-- A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing, In clamorous agitation, round the crest Of a tall rock, their airy citadel-- By each and all of these the pensive ear 5 Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, When through the cottage threshold we had passed, And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood Once more beneath the concave of a[211] blue And cloudless sky.--Anon exclaimed our Host, 10 Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt The shade of discontent which on his brow Had gathered,--"Ye have left my cell,--but see How Nature hems you in with friendly arms! And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 15 But which way shall I lead you?--how contrive, In spot so parsimoniously endowed, That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap Some recompense of knowledge or delight?" So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed; 20 And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired Friend Said--"Shall we take this pathway for our guide?-- Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats, Its line had first been fashioned by the flock Seeking a place of refuge[212] at the root 25 Of yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded boughs Darken the silver bosom of the crag,[CS] From which she draws her[213] meagre sustenance. There in commodious shelter may we rest. Or let us trace this streamlet to its[214] source; 30 Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound, And a few steps may bring us to the spot Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs, The mountain infant to the sun comes forth, Like human life from darkness."--A quick turn[215] 35 Through a strait passage of encumbered ground, Proved that such hope was vain:--for now we stood Shut out from prospect of the open vale, And saw the water, that composed this rill, Descending, disembodied, and diffused 40 O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag, Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. All further progress here was barred;--And who, Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, Here would not linger, willingly detained? 45 Whether to such wild objects he were led When copious rains have magnified the stream Into a loud and white-robed waterfall, Or introduced at this more quiet time. Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 50 The hidden nook discovered to our view A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay Right at the foot of that moist precipice, A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests Fearless of winds and waves. Three several stones 55 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike To monumental pillars: and, from these Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen, That with united shoulders bore aloft A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth: 60 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared[216] A tall and shining holly, that[217] had found A hospitable chink, and stood upright, As if inserted by some human hand In mockery, to wither in the sun, 65 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, The first that entered. But no breeze did now Find entrance;--high or low appeared no trace Of motion, save the water that descended, Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock, 70 And softly creeping, like a breath of air, Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen, To brush the still breast of a crystal lake.[CT] "Behold a cabinet for sages built, Which kings might envy!"--Praise to this effect 75 Broke from the happy old Man's reverend lip; Who to the Solitary turned, and said, "In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, You have decried the wealth which is your own.[218] Among these rocks and stones, methinks, I see 80 More than the heedless impress that belongs To lonely nature's casual work: they bear A semblance strange of power intelligent, And of design not wholly worn away. Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 85 How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth From its fantastic birth-place! And I own, Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, That in these shows[219] a chronicle survives Of purposes akin to those of Man,[CU] 90 But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails. --Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf With timid lapse;--and lo! while in this strait I stand--the chasm of sky above my head Is heaven's profoundest azure; no domain 95 For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, Or to pass through; but rather an abyss In which the everlasting stars abide; And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might tempt The curious eye to look for them by day.[CV] 100 --Hail Contemplation! from the stately towers, Reared by the industrious hand of human art To lift thee high above the misty air And turbulence of murmuring cities vast; From academic groves, that have for thee 105 Been planted, hither come and find a lodge To which thou mayst resort for holier peace,-- From whose calm centre thou, through height or depth, Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead; Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 110 Of time and conscious nature disappear, Lost in unsearchable eternity!"[CW] A pause ensued; and with minuter care We scanned the various features of the scene: And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 115 With courteous voice thus spake-- "I should have grieved Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach,[220] If from my poor retirement ye had gone Leaving this nook unvisited: but, in sooth, Your unexpected presence had so roused 120 My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise; And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot, Or, shall I say?--disdained, the game that lurks[221] At my own door. The shapes before our eyes, And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed 125 The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man. And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn stone, From Fancy, willing to set off her stores By sounding titles, hath acquired the name 130 Of Pompey's pillar; that I gravely style My Theban obelisk; and, there, behold A Druid cromlech!--thus I entertain The antiquarian humour, and am pleased To skim along the surfaces of things, 135 Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. But if the spirit be oppressed by sense Of instability, revolt, decay, And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature And her blind helper Chance, do _then_ suffice 140 To quicken, and to aggravate--to feed Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss Of mortal power unquestionably sprung)[CX] Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 145 Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and round Eddying within its vast circumference, On Sarum's naked plain--than pyramid Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved-- Or Syria's marble ruins towering high[CY] 150 Above the sandy desert, in the light Of sun or moon.--Forgive me, if I say That an appearance which hath raised your minds To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause Different effect producing) is for me 155 Fraught rather with depression than delight, Though shame it were, could I not look around,[222] By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. Yet happier, in my judgment, even than you With your bright transports, fairly may be deemed 160 The wandering Herbalist,[223]--who, clear alike From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts, Casts, if he ever chance to enter here, Upon these uncouth Forms[224] a slight regard Of transitory interest, and peeps round 165 For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant Of craggy fountain; what he hopes for wins, Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won: Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 170 Through wood or open field, the harmless Man Departs, intent upon his onward quest!-- Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft By scars which his activity has left 175 Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven! This covert nook reports not of his hand) He who with pocket-hammer smites the edge Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature 180 With her first growths,[225] detaching by the stroke A chip or splinter--to resolve his doubts; And, with that ready answer satisfied, The substance classes by some barbarous name, And[226] hurries on; or from the fragments picks 185 His specimen, if but haply interveined[227] With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube Lurk in its cells--and thinks himself enriched, Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before! Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 190 Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill Range;[228] if it please them, speed from clime to clime; The mind is full--and free from pain their pastime."[229] "Then," said I, interposing, "One is near, Who cannot but possess in your esteem 195 Place worthier still of envy. May I name, Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy? Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, Youngest apprentice in the school of art! Him, as we entered from the open glen, 200 You might have noticed, busily engaged, Heart, soul, and hands,--in mending the defects Left in the fabric of a leaky dam Raised[230] for enabling this penurious stream To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 205 For his delight--the happiest he of all!" "Far happiest," answered the desponding Man, "If, such as now he is, he might remain! Ah! what avails imagination high Or question deep? what profits all that earth, 210 Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put forth Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul To quit the beaten track of life, and soar Far as she finds a yielding element In past or future; far as she can go 215 Through time or space--if neither in the one, Nor in the other region, nor in aught That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things, Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds, Words of assurance can be heard; if nowhere 220 A habitation, for consummate good, Or for[231] progressive virtue, by the search Can be attained,--a better sanctuary From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave?" "Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said, "The voice, which we so lately overheard, 226 To that same child, addressing tenderly The consolations of a hopeful mind? '_His body is at rest, his soul in heaven._' These were your words; and, verily, methinks 230 Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop Than when we soar."-- The Other, not displeased, Promptly replied--"My notion is the same. And I, without reluctance, could decline All act of inquisition whence we rise, 235 And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become. Here are we, in a bright and breathing world. Our origin, what matters it? In lack Of worthier explanation, say at once With the American (a thought which suits 240 The place where now we stand) that certain men Leapt out together from a rocky cave;[CZ] And these were the first parents of mankind: Or, if a different image be recalled By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 245 Of insects chirping out their careless lives On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf, Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit As sound--blithe race! whose mantles were bedecked With golden grasshoppers,[DA] in sign that they 250 Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil Whereon their endless generations dwelt.[232] But stop!--these theoretic fancies jar On serious minds: then, as the Hindoos draw[233] Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount,[DB] 255 Even so deduce the stream of human life From seats of power divine; and hope, or trust, That our existence winds her[234] stately course Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part Of a living ocean; or, to sink engulfed,[235] 260 Like Niger, in impenetrable sands And utter darkness:[DC] thought which may be faced, Though comfortless!-- "Not of myself I speak; Such acquiescence neither doth imply, In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 265 By natural piety; nor a lofty mind, By philosophic discipline prepared For calm subjection to acknowledged law; Pleased to have been, contented not to be. Such palms I boast not;--no! to me, who find, 270 Reviewing my past way, much to condemn, Little to praise, and nothing to regret, (Save some remembrances of dream-like joys That scarcely seem to have belonged to me) If I must take my choice between the pair 275 That rule alternately the weary hours, Night is than day more acceptable; sleep Doth, in my estimate of good, appear A better state than waking; death than sleep: Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 280 Though under covert of the wormy ground! "Yet be it said, in justice to myself, That in more genial times, when I was free To explore the destiny of human kind (Not as an intellectual game pursued 285 With curious subtilty, from wish[236] to cheat Irksome sensations; but by love of truth Urged on, or haply by intense delight In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed) I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 290 For to my judgment such they then appeared, Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) Who, in this frame of human life, perceive An object whereunto their souls are tied In discontented wedlock; nor did e'er, 295 From me, those dark impervious shades, that hang Upon the region whither we are bound, Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams Of present sunshine.--Deities that float On wings, angelic Spirits! I could muse 300 O'er what from eldest time we have been told Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, And with the imagination rest[237] content, Not wishing more; repining not to tread The little sinuous path of earthly care, 305 By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed.[238] --'Blow winds of autumn!--let your chilling breath Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip The shady forest of its green attire,-- And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 310 The gentle brooks!--Your desolating sway, Sheds,' I exclaimed, 'no sadness upon me,[239] And no disorder in your rage I find. What dignity, what beauty, in this change From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 315 Alternate and revolving! How benign, How rich in animation and delight, How bountiful these elements--compared With aught, as more desirable and fair, Devised by fancy for the golden age; 320 Or the perpetual warbling that prevails In Arcady,[DE] beneath unaltered skies, Through the long year in constant quiet bound, Night hushed as night, and day serene as day!' --But why this tedious record?--Age, we know, 325 Is garrulous; and solitude is apt To anticipate the privilege of Age. From far ye come; and surely with a hope Of better entertainment:--let us hence!" Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 330 To be diverted from our present theme, I said, "My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with yours, Would push this censure farther;--for, if smiles Of scornful pity be the just reward Of Poesy thus courteously employed 335 In framing models to improve the scheme Of Man's existence, and recast the world, Why should not grave Philosophy be styled, Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull? 340 Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts[240] Establish sounder titles of esteem For her, who (all too timid and reserved For onset, for resistance too inert, Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame) 345 Placed, among[241] flowery gardens curtained round With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood Of soft Epicureans,[DF] taught--if they The ends of being would secure, and win The crown of wisdom--to yield up their souls 350 To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring Tranquillity to all things. Or is she," I cried, "more worthy of regard, the Power, Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed The Stoic's[DG] heart against the vain approach 355 Of admiration, and all sense of joy?" His countenance gave notice that my zeal Accorded little with his present mind; I ceased, and he resumed.--"Ah! gentle Sir, Slight, if you will, the _means_; but spare to slight 360 The _end_ of those, who did, by system, rank, As the prime object of a wise man's aim, Security from shock of accident, Release from fear; and cherished peaceful days For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good, 365 And only reasonable felicity. What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, Through a long course of later ages, drove The hermit to his cell in forest wide; Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 370 Took their last farewell of the sun and stars, Fast anchored in the desert?--Not alone Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged And unavengeable, defeated pride, 375 Prosperity subverted, maddening want, Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, Love with despair, or grief in agony;-- Not always from intolerable pangs 379 He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed For independent happiness; craving peace, The central feeling of all happiness, Not as a refuge from distress or pain, A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce, But for its absolute self; a life of peace, 385 Stability without regret or fear; That hath been, is, and shall be evermore!-- Such the reward he sought; and wore out life, There, where on few external things his heart Was set, and those his own; or, if not his, 390 Subsisting under nature's stedfast law. "What other yearning was the master tie Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aërial, or in green secluded vale, One after one, collected from afar, 395 An undissolving fellowship?--What but this, The universal instinct of repose, The longing for confirmed tranquillity, Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime: The life where hope and memory are as one; 400 Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged Save by the simplest toil of human hands Or seasons' difference; the immortal Soul[242] Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed To meditation in that quietness!-- 405 Such was their scheme: and though the wished for end By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained By none, they for the attempt, and pains employed,[243] Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed From the unqualified disdain, that once 410 Would have been cast upon them by my voice Delivering her[244] decisions from the seat Of forward youth--that scruples not to solve Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 415 To overweening faith; and is inflamed, By courage, to demand from real life The test of act and suffering, to provoke Hostility--how dreadful when it comes, Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt! 420 "A child of earth, I rested, in that stage Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, Upon earth's native energies; forgetting That mine was a condition which required Nor energy, nor fortitude--a calm 425 Without vicissitude; which, if the like Had been presented to my view elsewhere, I might have even been tempted to despise. But no--for the serene[245] was also bright; Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing, 430 With joy, and--oh! that memory should survive To speak the word--with rapture! Nature's boon, Life's genuine inspiration, happiness Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign; Abused, as all possessions _are_[246] abused 435 That are not prized according to their worth. And yet, what worth? what good is given to men, More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven? What joy more lasting than a vernal flower? None! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 440 In solitude: and mutually addressed From each to all, for wisdom's sake:--This truth The priest announces from his holy seat: And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove, The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 445 Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained, Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom Of this same life, compelling us to grieve[247] That the prosperities of love and joy Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 450 So long, and be at once cast down for ever. Oh! tremble, ye, to whom hath been assigned A course of days composing happy months, And they as happy years; the present still So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 455 Of a congenial future, that the wheels Of pleasure move without the aid of hope: For Mutability is Nature's bane; And slighted Hope _will_[248] be avenged; and, when Ye need her favours, ye shall find her not; 460 But in her stead--fear--doubt--and agony!" This was the bitter language of the heart: But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice, Though discomposed and vehement, were such As skill and graceful nature might suggest 465 To a proficient of the tragic scene Standing before the multitude, beset With dark events. Desirous to divert[249] Or stem the current of the speaker's thoughts, We signified a wish to leave that place 470 Of stillness and close privacy, a nook That seemed for self-examination made;[250] Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, Hidden from all men's view.[DH] To our attempt He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope 475 Of mossy turf defended from the sun, And on that couch inviting us to rest, Full on[251] that tender-hearted Man he turned A serious eye, and his speech thus[252] renewed. "You never saw, your eyes did never look 480 On the bright form of Her whom once I loved:-- Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, A sound unknown to you; else, honoured Friend! Your heart had borne a pitiable share Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss, 485 And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought That I remember, and can weep no more.-- Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts Of self-reproach familiarly assailed; 490 Yet would I not be[253] of such wintry bareness But that some leaf of your regard should hang Upon my naked branches:--lively thoughts Give birth, full often, to unguarded words; I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 495 Too much of frailty hath already dropped; But that too much demands still more. "You know, Revered Compatriot--and to you, kind Sir, (Not to be deemed a stranger, as you come Following the guidance of these welcome feet 500 To our secluded vale) it may be told-- That my demerits did not sue in vain To One on whose mild radiance many gazed With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride-- In the devotedness of youthful love, 505 Preferring me to parents, and the choir Of gay companions, to the natal roof, And all known places and familiar sights (Resigned with sadness gently weighing down Her trembling expectations, but no more 510 Than did to her due honour, and to me Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime In what I had to build upon)--this Bride, Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led To a low cottage in a sunny bay, 515 Where the salt sea innocuously breaks, And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, On Devon's leafy shores;[DI]--a sheltered hold, In a soft clime encouraging the soil To a luxuriant bounty!--As our steps 520 Approach the embowered abode--our chosen seat-- See, rooted in the earth, her[254] kindly bed, The unendangered myrtle, decked with flowers, Before the threshold stands to welcome us! While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbourhood, 525 Not overlooked but courting no regard, Those native plants, the holly and the yew, Gave modest intimation to the mind How willingly their aid[255] they would unite With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 530 Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. --Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs,[DJ] Track leading into track; how marked, how worn Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse, Winding away its never ending line 535 On their smooth surface, evidence was none: But, there, lay open to our daily haunt A range of unappropriated earth, Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large; Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 540 The shining giver of the day diffuse His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land Gay as our spirits, free as our desires; As our enjoyments, boundless.--From those heights We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs;[DJ] 545 Where arbours of impenetrable shade, And mossy seats, detained us side by side, With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 'That all the grove and all the day was ours.' "O happy time! still happier was at hand; 550 For Nature called my Partner to resign Her share in the pure freedom of that life,[256] Enjoyed by us in common.--To my hope, To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became The thankful captive of maternal bonds; 555 And those wild paths were left to me alone. There could I meditate on follies past; And, like a weary voyager escaped From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt, 560 And self-indulgence--without shame pursued. There, undisturbed, could think of and could thank Her whose submissive spirit was to me Rule and restraint--my guardian--shall I say That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 565 Within a port of rest had lodged me safe; Safe from temptation, and from danger far? Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed To an Authority enthroned above 569 The reach of sight; from whom, as from their source, Proceed all visible ministers of good That walk the earth--Father of heaven and earth, Father, and king, and judge, adored and feared! These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, And spirit--interrupted and relieved 575 By observations transient as the glance Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form Cleaving with power inherent and intense, As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 579 On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup It draws its nourishment imperceptibly--[257] Endeared my wanderings; and the mother's kiss And infant's smile awaited my return. "In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair, Companions daily, often all day long; 585 Not placed by fortune within easy reach Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, The twain within our happy cottage born, Inmates, and heirs of our united love; 590 Graced mutually by difference of sex, And with[258] no wider interval of time Between their several births than served for one To establish something of a leader's sway; Yet left them joined by sympathy in age; 595 Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. On these two pillars rested as in air Our solitude. "It soothes me to perceive, Your courtesy withholds not from my words Attentive audience. But, oh! gentle Friends, 600 As times of quiet and unbroken peace, Though, for a nation, times of blessedness, Give back faint echoes from the historian's page; So, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse, Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 605 Which those most blissful days reverberate. What special record can, or need, be given To rules and habits, whereby much was done, But all within the sphere of little things; Of humble, though, to us, important cares, 610 And precious interests? Smoothly did our life Advance, swerving not[259] from the path prescribed; Her annual, her diurnal, round alike Maintained with faithful care. And you divine The worst effects that[260] our condition saw 615 If you imagine changes slowly wrought, And in their progress[261] unperceivable;[262] Not wished for; sometimes noticed with a sigh, (Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring) Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 620 And loveliness endeared which they removed. "Seven years of occupation undisturbed Established seemingly a right to hold That happiness; and use and habit gave To what an alien spirit had acquired 625 A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, I lived and breathed; most grateful--if to enjoy Without repining or desire for more, For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 630 (Only except some impulses of pride With no determined object, though upheld By theories with suitable support)-- Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy Be proof of gratitude for what we have; 635 Else, I allow, most thankless.--But, at once, From some dark seat of fatal power was urged A claim that shattered all.--Our blooming girl, Caught in the gripe of death, with such brief time To struggle in as scarcely would allow 640 Her cheek to change its colour, was conveyed From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions[263] Where height, or depth, admits not the approach Of living man, though longing to pursue. --With even as brief a warning--and how soon, 645 With what short interval of time between, I tremble yet to think of--our last prop, Our happy life's only remaining stay-- The brother followed; and was seen no more![DK] "Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless winds 650 Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky, The Mother now remained; as if in her, Who, to the lowest region of the soul, Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed, This second visitation had no power 655 To shake; but only to bind up and seal; And to establish thankfulness of heart In Heaven's determinations, ever just. The eminence whereon[264] her spirit stood, Mine was unable to attain. Immense 660 The space that severed us! But, as the sight Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs Incalculably distant; so, I felt That consolation may descend from far (And that is intercourse, and union, too,) 665 While, overcome with speechless gratitude, And, with a holier love inspired, I looked On her--at once superior to my woes And partner of my loss.--O heavy change! Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 670 Insensibly;--the immortal and divine Yielded to mortal reflux; her pure glory, As from the pinnacle of worldly state Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell Into a gulf obscure of silent grief, 675 And keen heart-anguish--of itself ashamed, Yet obstinately cherishing itself: And, so consumed, she melted from my arms; And left me, on this earth, disconsolate! "What followed cannot be reviewed in thought; 680 Much less, retraced in words. If she, of life Blameless, so intimate with love and joy And all the tender motions of the soul, Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand-- Infirm, dependent, and now destitute? 685 I called on dreams and visions, to disclose That which is veiled from waking thought; conjured Eternity, as men constrain a ghost To appear and answer; to the grave I spake Imploringly;--looked up, and asked the Heavens 690 If Angels traversed their cerulean floors, If fixed or wandering star could tidings yield Of the departed spirit--what abode It occupies--what consciousness retains Of former loves and interests. Then my soul 695 Turned inward,--to examine of what stuff Time's fetters are composed; and life was put To inquisition, long and profitless! By pain of heart--now checked--and now impelled-- The intellectual power, through words and things, 700 Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way![DL] And from those transports, and these toils abstruse, Some trace am I enabled to retain Of time, else lost;--existing unto me Only by records in myself not found. 705 "From that abstraction I was roused,--and how? Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave Of these wild hills. For, lo! the dread Bastile,[DM] With all the chambers in its horrid towers, 710 Fell to the ground:--by violence overthrown Of indignation; and with shouts that drowned The crash it made in falling! From the wreck A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, The appointed seat of equitable law 715 And mild paternal sway. The potent shock I felt: the transformation I perceived, As marvellously seized as in that moment When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld Glory--beyond all glory ever seen, 720 Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps In every grove were ringing, 'War shall cease; Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured? Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 725 The tree of Liberty.'[DN]--My heart rebounded; My melancholy voice the chorus joined; --'Be joyful all ye nations; in all lands, Ye that are capable of joy be glad! Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 730 In others ye shall promptly find;--and all, Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, Shall with one heart honour their common kind.'[265] "Thus was I reconverted to the world; Society became my glittering bride, 735 And airy hopes my children.--From the depths Of natural passion, seemingly escaped, My soul diffused herself[266] in wide embrace Of institutions, and the forms of things, As they exist, in mutable array, 740 Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 745 In sober conclave met, to weave a web Of amity, whose living threads should stretch Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise And acclamation, crowds in open air 750 Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song I left not uninvoked; and, in still groves, Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay Of thanks and expectation, in accord 755 With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule Returned,--a progeny of golden years Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. --With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem: I felt their[267] invitation; and resumed 760 A long-suspended office in the House Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase Of ancient inspiration serving me, I promised also,--with undaunted trust Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy; 765 The admiration winning of the crowd; The help desiring of the pure devout. "Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed! But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell How rapidly the zealots of the cause 770 Disbanded--or in hostile ranks appeared; Some, tired of honest service; these, outdone, Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims Of fiercer zealots--so confusion reigned, And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, 775 As Brutus did to Virtue, 'Liberty, I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade!'[DO] "Such recantation had for me no charm, Nor would I bend to it; who should have grieved At aught, however fair, that[268] bore the mien 780 Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. Why then conceal, that, when the simply[269] good In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought Other support, not scrupulous whence it came; And, by what compromise it stood, not nice? 785 Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched, And qualities determined.--Among men So charactered did I maintain a strife[270] Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour; But, in the process, I began to feel 790 That, if the emancipation of the world Were missed, I should at least secure my own, And be in part compensated. For rights, Widely--inveterately usurped upon, I spake with vehemence; and promptly seized 795 All that[271] Abstraction furnished for my needs Or purposes;[DP] nor scrupled to proclaim, And propagate, by liberty of life, Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced, Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course, 800 For its own sake; but farthest from the walk Which I had trod in happiness and peace, Was most inviting to a troubled mind; That, in a struggling and distempered world, Saw a seductive image of herself.[272] 805 Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man Is still the sport! Here Nature was my guide, The Nature of the dissolute; but thee, O fostering Nature! I rejected--smiled At others' tears in pity; and in scorn 810 At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew From my unguarded heart.--The tranquil shores Of Britain circumscribed me; else, perhaps I might have been entangled among deeds, Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor-- 815 Despise, as senseless: for my spirit relished Strangely the exasperation of that Land, Which turned an angry beak against the down Of her own breast; confounded into hope Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings.[273] 820 "But all was quieted by iron bonds Of military sway. The shifting aims, The moral interests, the creative might, The varied functions and high attributes Of civil action, yielded to a power 825 Formal, and odious, and contemptible. --In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change; The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced; And, from the impulse of a just disdain, Once more did I retire into myself. 830 There feeling no contentment, I resolved To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, Remote from Europe; from her blasted hopes; Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 834 "Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main The ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew; And who among them but an Exile, freed From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit Among the busily-employed, not more With obligation charged, with service taxed, 840 Than the loose pendant--to the idle wind Upon the tall mast streaming. But, ye Powers Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, O, never let the Wretched, if a choice Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 845 To a long voyage on the silent deep! For, like a plague, will memory break out; And, in the blank and solitude of things, Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength, Will conscience prey.--Feebly must they have felt 850 Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips The vengeful Furies. _Beautiful_ regards Were turned on me--the face of her I loved; The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing Tender reproaches, insupportable! 855 Where now that boasted liberty? No welcome From unknown objects I received; and those, Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky Did, in the placid clearness of the night, Disclose, had accusations to prefer 860 Against my peace. Within the cabin stood That volume--as a compass for the soul-- Revered among the nations. I implored Its guidance; but the infallible support Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 865 To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds; Perplexed with currents; of his weakness sick; Of vain endeavours tired; and by his own, And by his nature's, ignorance, dismayed! 869 "Long wished-for sight, the Western World appeared; And, when the ship was moored, I leaped ashore Indignantly--resolved to be a man, Who, having o'er the past no power, would live No longer in subjection to the past, With abject mind--from a tyrannic lord 875 Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured: So, like a fugitive, whose feet have cleared Some boundary, which his followers may not cross In prosecution of their deadly chase, Respiring I looked round.--How bright the sun, 880 The breeze how soft! Can any thing produced[274] In the old World compare, thought I, for power And majesty with this gigantic stream, Sprung from the desert?[DQ] And behold a city 884 Fresh, youthful, and aspiring![DR] What are these To me, or I to them? As much at least As he desires that they should be, whom winds And waves have wafted to this distant shore, In the condition of a damaged seed, Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 890 Here may I roam at large;--my business is, Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel And, therefore, not to act--convinced that all Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er Beginning, ends in servitude--still painful, 895 And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say, On nearer view, a motley spectacle Appeared, of high pretensions--unreproved But by the obstreperous voice of higher still; Big passions strutting on a petty stage; 900 Which a detached spectator may regard Not unamused.--But ridicule demands Quick change of objects; and, to laugh alone, At a composing distance[275] from the haunts Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 905 As choice as musing Leisure can bestow; Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, Howe'er to airy Demons suitable, Of all unsocial courses, is least fit[276] 910 For the gross spirit of mankind,--the one That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns Into vexation. "Let us, then, I said, Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge Of her[277] own passions; and to regions haste, 915 Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe, Or soil endured a transfer in the mart Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides, Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak In combination, (wherefore else driven back 920 So far, and of his old inheritance So easily deprived?) but, for that cause, More dignified, and stronger in himself; Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. True, the intelligence of social art 925 Hath overpowered his forefathers, and soon Will sweep the remnant of his line away; But contemplations, worthier, nobler far Than her destructive energies, attend His independence, when along the side 930 Of Mississippi, or that northern stream[DS] That[278] spreads into successive seas,[DT] he walks; Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life, And his innate capacities of soul, There imaged: or when, having gained the top 935 Of some commanding eminence, which yet Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys Regions of wood and wide savannah, vast Expanse of unappropriated earth, With mind that sheds a light on what he sees; 940 Free as the sun, and lonely as the sun, Pouring above his head its radiance down Upon a living and rejoicing world! "So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated woods I bent my way; and, roaming far and wide, 945 Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird;[DU] And, while the melancholy Muccawiss (The sportive bird's companion in the grove) Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry,[DV] I sympathised at leisure with the sound; 950 But that pure archetype of human greatness, I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure; Remorseless, and submissive to no law But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 955 "Enough is told! Here am I--ye have heard What evidence I seek, and vainly seek; What from my fellow-beings I require, And either they have not to give, or I Lack virtue to receive; what I myself, 960 Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost[279] Nor can regain. How languidly I look Upon this visible fabric of the world, May be divined--perhaps it hath been said:-- But spare your pity, if there be in me 965 Aught that deserves respect: for I exist, Within myself, not comfortless.--The tenour Which my life holds, he readily may conceive Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain brook In some still passage of its course, and seen, 970 Within the depths of its capacious breast, Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky;[280] And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, And conglobated bubbles undissolved, Numerous as stars; that, by their onward lapse, 975 Betray to sight the motion of the stream, Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard A softened roar, or murmur;[281] and the sound Though soothing, and the little floating isles Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 980 With the same pensive office; and make known Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt Precipitations, and untoward straits, The earth-born wanderer hath passed; and quickly, That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 985 Must he again encounter.[282]--Such a stream Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares In the best quiet to her[283] course allowed; And such is mine,--save only for a hope That my particular current soon will reach 990 The unfathomable gulf, where all is still!" VARIANTS: [Footnote 211: 1827. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 212: 1836. A place of refuge seeking ... 1814. ] [Footnote 213: 1827. ... it draws its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 214: 1814. ... his ... 1832. 1845 returns to 1814. ] [Footnote 215: 1827. ... At the word We followed where he led:--a sudden turn 1814. ] [Footnote 216: 1827. ...yet thereon appeared Conspicuously stationed, one fair Plant, 1814. ] [Footnote 217: 1827. ...which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 218: 1827. You have decried, in no unseemly terms Of modesty, that wealth which is your own. 1814. ] [Footnote 219: 1827. I cannot but incline to a belief That in these shows ... 1814. ] [Footnote 220: 1827. ... should perhaps have blamed myself, 1814. ] [Footnote 221: 1827. ... lurked 1814. ] [Footnote 222: 1827. ... look around me, 1814. ] [Footnote 223: 1827. ... deemed, Is He (if such have ever entered here) The wandering Herbalist,-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 224: 1827. ... vexing thoughts, Casts on these uncouth Forms ... 1814. ] [Footnote 225: 1827. Of every luckless rock or stone that stands Before his sight, by weather-stains disguised, Or crusted o'er with vegetation thin, Nature's first growth, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 226: 1827. Doth to the substance give some barbarous name, Then ... 1814. ] [Footnote 227: 1845. ... if haply interveined 1814. ] [Footnote 228: 1827. This earnest Pair may range from hill to hill, And, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 229: 1845. ... no pain is in their sport." 1814. ] [Footnote 230: 1827. Framed ... 1814. ] [Footnote 231: 1814. Nor for ... 1827. The text of 1845 returns to that of 1814.] [Footnote 232: 1827. As sound; with that blithe race who wore erewhile Their golden Grasshoppers, in sign that they Had sprung from out the soil whereon they dwelt. 1814. ] [Footnote 233: 1827. On serious minds; for doubtless, in one sense, The theme _is_ serious; then, as Hindoos draw 1814. ] [Footnote 234: 1827. ... its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 235: 1827. ... or, if such may seem Its tendency, to be engulphed and lost 1814. ] [Footnote 236: 1827. ... thereby ... 1814. ] [Footnote 237: 1845. ... be ... 1814. ] [Footnote 238: 1814. Embellished by sweet flowers, by springs refreshed. C. ] [Footnote 239: 1836. Thus I exclaimed, "no sadness sheds on me, 1814. ] [Footnote 240: 1827. Yes," said I, "shall the immunities to which She doth lay claim, the precepts she bestows, 1814. ] [Footnote 241: 1827. Did place, in ... 1814. ] [Footnote 242: 1845. ... memory are as one; Earth quiet and unchanged; the human Soul 1814. ] [Footnote 243: 1845. Such was their scheme:--thrice happy he who gained The end proposed! And,--though the same were missed By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none,-- They, for the attempt, and for the pains employed, 1814. ] [Footnote 244: 1832. ... its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 245: 1836. But that which was serene ... 1814. ] [Footnote 246: Italics were first used in 1836.] [Footnote 247: 1827. Sharp contradictions hourly shall arise To cross the way; and we, perchance, by doom Of this same life, shall be compelled to grieve 1814. ] [Footnote 248: Italics were first used in 1832.] [Footnote 249: 1827. With sorrowful events; and we, who heard And saw, were moved. Desirous to divert, 1814. With trouble, conflict that he seeks and shuns With the same breath, desirous to divert C. ] [Footnote 250: 1827. ... which seemed A nook for self-examination framed, 1814. ] [Footnote 251: 1827. Towards ... 1814. ] [Footnote 252: 1836. ... thus his speech ... 1814. ] [Footnote 253: 1836. I would not yet be ... 1814. ] [Footnote 254: 1827. ... its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 255: 1827. Of willingness with which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 256: 1845. But in due season Nature interfered, And called my Partner to resign her share In the pure freedom of that wedded life, 1814. But Nature called my Partner to resign Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 1827. ] [Footnote 257: 1845. Draws imperceptibly its nourishment,-- 1814. ] [Footnote 258: 1845. ... of sex, By the endearing names of nature bound, And with ... 1814. ] [Footnote 259: 1836. ... not swerving ... 1814. ] [Footnote 260: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 261: 1814. ... process ... 1850. ] [Footnote 262: 1845. ... imperceptible, 1814. ] [Footnote 263: 1845. From us, to regions inaccessible; 1814. ] [Footnote 264: 1845. ... on which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 265: 1832. "Be rich by mutual and reflected wealth." 1814. ] [Footnote 266: 1827. ... itself ... 1814. ] [Footnote 267: 1840. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 268: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 269: 1827. ... simple ... 1814. ] [Footnote 270: 1827. And qualities determined.--Ruling such, And with such herding, I maintained a strife 1814. ] [Footnote 271: 1836. Whate'er 1814. ] [Footnote 272: 1827. Beheld a cherished image of itself. 1814. Beheld a seductive image of herself. MS. ] [Footnote 273: 1827. ... for I strangely relished The exasperated spirit of that Land, Which turned an angry beak against the down Of its own breast; as if it hoped, thereby, To disencumber its impatient wings. 1814. ] [Footnote 274: 1845. How promising the Breeze! Can aught produced 1814. ] [Footnote 275: 1827. ... and, to laugh alone, In woods and wilds, or any lonely place, At a composing distance ... 1814. ] [Footnote 276: 1827. May suit an airy Demon; but, of all Unsocial courses, 'tis the one least fit 1814. ] [Footnote 277: 1827. ... its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 278: 1827. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 279: 1845. ... I require, And cannot find; what I myself have lost, 1814. ] [Footnote 280: 1836. Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky; 1814. ] [Footnote 281: 1836. Perchance, a roar or murmur; ... 1814. A softened roar, a murmur; ... 1827. ... Meanwhile, a roar Is heard or soften'd murmur; ... MS. ] [Footnote 282: 1845. Must be again encountered.-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 283: 1836. ... its ... 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote CS: There is still a single "yew-tree" high up the eastern side of the valley on the face of Lingmoor Fell, Darkening the silver bosom of the crag. ED. ] [Footnote CT: The local allusions in this passage, and in what follows, are most exact and literal. The three men are supposed to leave the cottage, and to cross to the west side of the tarn, just a little to the north of the fir-wood which overshadows it. The "barrier of steep rock" is the low perpendicular crag to the west of the tarn, immediately below the fir-wood, and the "semicirque of turf-clad ground" is apparent at a glance, whether seen from below the rock or from above it. There are many fragments of ice-borne rock, high up the flank of Blake Rigg to the west, and on the slopes of Lingmoor to the east, which might at first sight be mistaken for the stone, like A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests Fearless of winds and waves, or the fragment, like an altar; but this particular mass of rock lay Right at the foot of that moist precipice, and there it still lies, obvious enough even to the casual eye. The "semicirque" is the cup-shaped recess between the fir-wood and the cliff; and on entering it, the mass of rock is seen lying north-west to north-east. It is not ice-borne, but a fragment dislodged from the crag above it. It is now broken into three smaller fragments, by the weathering of many years. Cracked probably when it fell, the rents have widened, and the fragments are separated by the frosts of many winters. A sycamore of average size is now growing at its side; its root being in the cleft, where the stone is broken. Holly grows luxuriantly all along the face of the crag above; so that the existence of the bush, described as growing in the stone which resembled an altar, is easily explained. The brook is a short one, flowing through the meadow-pastures of the wood, and after a hundred yards is lost in the turfy slope, but is seen again upon the face of the "moist precipice," "softly creeping"--precisely as described in the poem. The "three several stones" that "stand near" are, I think, the one to the front, in a line with the keel of the ship; and the other two to the right and left respectively. The "pair," with the "fragment like an altar, flat and smooth," are to the left, and close at hand. In connection with all this a remark of Southey's to J. Neville White may be quoted. "Keswick, September 7, 1814.... Have you read Wordsworth's poem? If not, read it, if you can, before you see the author. You will see him with the more pleasure, and look with more interest at the scenery he describes." (_Selections from the Letters of Robert Southey_, vol. ii. p. 376.)--ED.] [Footnote CU: Lady Richardson writes thus of a visit Wordsworth paid to Lancrigg in 1841:--"We took a walk on the terrace, and he went as usual to his favourite points. On our return he was struck with the berries on the holly tree, and said, 'Why should not you and I go and pull some berries from the other side of the tree, which is not seen from the window? and then we can go and plant them in the rocky ground behind the house.' We pulled the berries, and set forth with our tools. I made the holes, and the poet put in the berries. He was as earnest and eager about it as if it had been a matter of importance, and, as he put the seeds in, he every now and then muttered, in his low, solemn tone, that beautiful verse from Burns' _Vision_:-- 'And wear thou this,' she solemn said, And bound the holly round my head: The polish'd leaves, and berries red, Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. He clambered to the highest rocks in the 'Tom Intak,' and put in the berries in such situations as Nature sometimes does, with such true and beautiful effect. He said, 'I like to do this for posterity.'"--ED.] [Footnote CV: --Voiceless the stream descends ... With timid lapse ... is a perfect description of this tiniest and gentlest of rills, flowing through the meadow-grass; while the "chasm of sky above," of which the Wanderer speaks, though an obvious exaggeration, is more appropriate to this spot than to any other in the vale.--ED.] [Footnote CW: See Wordsworth's note, p. 385.--ED.] [Footnote CX: Stonehenge. Old legends gave it a mythic origin. Geoffrey of Monmouth attributed it to Merlin, the stones having been brought over from Ireland by magic. It was not a Druid Temple, but a Saxon ring, set up--after the Romans had left Britain--for parliamentary and coronation purposes. "Roman pottery and coins have been found under the stones, and they are fitted with mortice and tenon, an art unknown in Britain till it was taught by the Romans." Compare Dryden's _Epistle to Dr. Charleton_ (Ep. II.) Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found A throne, where kings, our earthly Gods, were crown'd. and Henry Crabb Robinson's account of a visit to Stonehenge, in the second volume of his _Diary and Correspondence_, p. 230.--ED.] [Footnote CY: This must refer to Palmyra. The Baalbec ruins are, for the most part, not marble, but limestone.--ED.] [Footnote CZ: The Navagos and several other American tribes have this legend; but see Note B in the Appendix to this volume, p. 392.--ED.] [Footnote DA: Before the time of Solon, the Athenians wore golden τέττιγες--probably either brooches, or pins with a golden cicada for the head--as a sign that they considered themselves αὐτόχθονες, since the grasshopper τέττιξ (cicada) was supposed to spring out of the ground.--ED.] [Footnote DB: The Ganges--sacred river of India--rising in the snow-clad Himalaya, was believed to have a celestial origin.--ED.] [Footnote DC: The great river of Western Africa, which was supposed, until recent geographical discovery, to lose itself in the sand.--ED.] [Footnote DE: Compare _The Prelude_, book viii. I. 133 (see vol. iii. p. 276). Also _In Memoriam_, stanza xxiii.-- And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. ED. ] [Footnote DF: The end sought by Epicurus, the _summum bonum_ of the Epicurean school, was ἀταραξία, repose or peace of mind. This was to be obtained by freedom from pain of body or distraction of mind; but it consisted in the harmony or equilibrium that resulted, when disturbing influences were withdrawn. To attain to it, little was needed--mental enjoyments being superior to bodily ones, and the social joys of friendship the highest of all. Public life was renounced, and private friendship became the bond of union amongst the members of the Epicurean confraternity: but the root principle of the system was emotional, not intellectual.--ED.] [Footnote DG: Rational self-control being regarded as the chief good by the Stoics, the emotion of happiness was looked upon as an interruption of the equilibrium in which the wise man should live. All the emotions were diseases, or disturbances of human nature less or more. They had therefore to be uprooted, rather than regulated: and virtue consisted in being emotionless, passionless, apathetic, with life conformed to the laws of the pure reason, so that one came to be A reasoning self-sufficing thing, An intellectual all-in-all. ED. ] [Footnote DH: Compare the No. vi. Sonnet on _The Trosachs_ (ll. 1-5), in "Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems" (1831).--ED.] [Footnote DI: These are reminiscences of Wordsworth's life at Racedown and Alfoxden. His sister wrote thus of their residence at Alfoxden:--"We are three miles from Stowey, and not two miles from the sea. Wherever we turn we have woods, smooth downs, and valleys with small brooks running down them, through green meadows, hardly ever intersected with hedgerows, but scattered over with trees. The hills that cradle these valleys are either covered with fern and bilberries, or oak woods, which are cut for charcoal.... Walks extend for miles over the hill-tops; the great beauty of which is their wild simplicity: they are perfectly smooth, without rocks."--_Memoirs of William Wordsworth_, by his nephew Christopher Wordsworth, late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. i. p. 103.--ED.] [Footnote DJ: See the note on the preceding page.--ED.] [Footnote DK: Wordsworth's own children, Catherine and Thomas, were removed by death, in a manner very similar to this, in June and December 1812, while they were living in the Grasmere Parsonage. Compare the two sonnets-- Surprised by joy--impatient as the Wind, (1815) and Desponding Father! mark this altered bough, (1835).--ED.] [Footnote DL: Compare _The Borderers_, act IV. 11. 124, 125 (see vol. i. p. 198)-- Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way. ED. ] [Footnote DM: See _The Prelude_, book ix. 1. 68 (vol. iii. p. 295).--ED.] [Footnote DN: During the American War of Independence, trees were planted as symbols of freedom. This custom passed over to France. The Jacobins planted the first tree of Liberty in Paris in 1790, and the practice spread rapidly. At each revolutionary period it was revived, and during the Empire again suppressed. A treatise has been written on the custom, by the Abbé Grégoire.--ED.] [Footnote DO: It is recorded by Dion Cassius (see _Dionis Cassii Cocceiani Historiarum Romanarum quae supersunt_, lib. xlvii. § 49) that Brutus before his death repeated this saying of Hercules, O misera virtus, nomen inane. Te quidem Ceu rem colebam; at serva tu Fortunae eras. ED. ] [Footnote DP: "At the commencement of the French Revolution, in the remotest villages every tongue was employed in echoing and enforcing the almost geometrical abstractions of the physiocratic politicians and economists. The public roads were crowded with armed enthusiasts disputing on the inalienable sovereignty of the people, the imprescriptible laws of the pure reason, and the universal constitution, which, as rising out of the nature and rights of man as man, all nations alike were under the obligation of adopting."-S.T. Coleridge, _The Statesman's Manual, a Lay Sermon_ (1816), p. 19.--ED.] [Footnote DQ: The Hudson river, some of the sources of which rise in the Adirondack wilderness.--ED.] [Footnote DR: New York.--ED.] [Footnote DS: See Wordsworth's note, p. 386.--ED.] [Footnote DT: The St. Lawrence.--ED.] [Footnote DU: "The Mocking Bird (_Turdus polyglottus_, Linn.), the American nightingale. He has a voice full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear mellow tones of the Wood Thrush, to the savage scream of the Bald Eagle. In measure and accent he faithfully follows his originals. In force and sweetness of expression he greatly improves upon them. In his native groves, his song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. Neither is his strain altogether imitative. His notes are bold and full, and varied seemingly beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or, at the most, five or six syllables; generally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undiminished ardour for half an hour, or an hour at a time."--_American Ornithology_, by Wilson, Bonaparte, and Jardine, vol. i. p. 164, etc.--ED.] [Footnote DV: I was indebted to Mr. Edward B. Tylor, and also to the Rev. Charles M. Addison, of Arlington, Mass., for identifying the "melancholy Muccawiss" as the Whip-poor-will (_Caprimulgus vociferus_, or _Antrostomus vociferus_). "Their melancholy night song has led some Indians to consider them the souls of ancestors killed in battle."--Mr. Tylor. For letters in reference to the Muccawiss, see Note C in the Appendix to this volume, p. 393; and compare Charles Waterton's _Wanderings in South America_, etc. etc. (1828), and Wordsworth's poem, _A Morning Exercise_, written in 1828. Since Messrs. Tylor, Addison, and Col. Trumbull identified the Muccawiss with the Whip-poor-will, I have had access to the original MSS. of _The Excursion_; and have found that the point which is discussed--in the above note and in Note C in the Appendix--is set conclusively at rest, by one of the earlier (discarded) readings of the text in Wordsworth's own handwriting. "and verily was cheered By the blithe Mocking Bird, and heard alone The melancholy cry of whip-pow-will." Another version of the last line is also given, "The plaintive cry repeated whip-poor-will." I entertain no doubt that Wordsworth first of all met with the name of this bird, whip-pow-will, in Waterton's _Wanderings_ (a copy of which he possessed), and that he afterwards exchanged it--before sending his _Excursion_ to press, in 1814--for the more musical Indian name, Muccawiss. It is also worthy of note that Southey had transferred to his _Commonplace Book_ (see vol. ii. p. 567), Carver's account of the Whipper-will, or as it is termed by the Indians, Muckawiss. "As soon as night comes on these birds will place themselves on the fences, stumps, or stones that lie near some house, and repeat their melancholy note without any variation till midnight." (_Travels_, by Jonathan Carver, p. 467.)--ED.] =Book Fourth= DESPONDENCY CORRECTED ARGUMENT _State of feeling produced by the foregoing Narrative--A belief in a superintending Providence the only adequate support under affliction--Wanderer's ejaculation[284]--Acknowledges the difficulty of a lively faith--Hence immoderate sorrow[285]--Exhortations--How received--Wanderer applies[286] his discourse to that other cause of dejection in the Solitary's mind--Disappointment from[287] the French Revolution--States grounds[288] of hope, and insists[289] on the necessity of patience and fortitude with respect to the course of great revolutions[290]--Knowledge the source of tranquillity--Rural Solitude favourable to[291] knowledge of the inferior Creatures; Study of their habits and ways recommended;[292] exhortation to bodily exertion and communion[293] with Nature--Morbid Solitude pitiable[294]--Superstition better than apathy--Apathy and destitution unknown in the infancy of society--The various modes of Religion prevented it--Illustrated[295] in the Jewish, Persian, Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian modes of belief--Solitary interposes--Wanderer[296] points out the influence of religious and imaginative feeling in the humble ranks of society, illustrated[297] from present and past times--These principles[298] tend to recal exploded superstitions and popery--Wanderer rebuts this charge, and contrasts the dignities of the Imagination with the presumptuous[299] littleness of certain modern Philosophers--Recommends[300] other lights and guides--Asserts the power of the Soul to regenerate herself; Solitary asks how[301]--Reply--Personal appeal[302]-- Exhortation to activity of body renewed--How to commune with Nature--Wanderer concludes with a[303] legitimate union of the imagination, affections, understanding, and reason[304]--Effect of his discourse[305]--Evening; return to the Cottage._ Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale His mournful narrative--commenced in pain, In pain commenced, and ended without peace: Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with strains Of native feeling, grateful to our minds; 5 And yielding surely[306] some relief to his, While we sate listening with compassion due. A pause of silence followed; then, with voice That did not falter though the heart was moved,[307] The Wanderer said:-- "One adequate support 10 For the calamities of mortal life Exists--one only; an assured belief That the procession of our fate, howe'er Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being Of infinite benevolence and power; 15 Whose everlasting purposes embrace All accidents, converting them to good. --The darts of anguish _fix_ not where the seat Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified By acquiescence in the Will supreme 20 For time and for eternity; by faith, Faith absolute in God, including hope, And the defence that lies in boundless love Of his perfections; with habitual dread Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 25 Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone, To the dishonour of his holy name. Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world! Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart; Restore their languid spirits, and recal 30 Their lost affections unto thee and thine!"[DW] Then, as we issued from that covert nook, He thus continued, lifting up his eyes To heaven:--"How beautiful this dome of sky; And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 35 At thy command, how awful! Shall the Soul, Human and rational, report of thee Even less than these?--Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice: My lips, that may forgot[*printer's error?] thee in the crowd, 40 Cannot forget thee here; where thou hast built, For thy own glory, in the wilderness! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, In such a temple as we now behold Reared for thy presence: therefore, am I bound 45 To worship, here, and every where--as one Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, From childhood up, the ways of poverty; From unreflecting ignorance preserved, And from debasement rescued.--By thy grace 50 The particle divine remained unquenched; And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, From paradise transplanted: wintry age Impends; the frost will gather round my heart; 55 If the flowers wither,[308] I am worse than dead! --Come, labour, when the worn-out frame requires Perpetual sabbath; come, disease and want; And sad exclusion through decay of sense; But leave me unabated trust in thee-- 60 And let thy favour, to the end of life, Inspire me with ability to seek Repose and hope among eternal things-- Father of heaven and earth! and I am rich, And will possess my portion in content! 65 "And what are things eternal?--powers depart," The grey-haired Wanderer stedfastly replied, Answering the question which himself had asked, "Possessions vanish, and opinions change, And passions hold a fluctuating seat: 70 But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, And subject neither to eclipse nor[309] wane, Duty exists;--immutably survive, For our support, the measures and the forms, Which an abstract intelligence supplies; 75 Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not.[DX] Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart, Do, with united urgency, require, What more that may not perish?--Thou, dread source, Prime, self-existing cause and end of all 80 That in the scale of being fill their place; Above our human region, or below, Set and sustained;--thou, who didst wrap the cloud Of infancy around us, that thyself, Therein, with our simplicity awhile 85 Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed;[DY] Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, And touch as gentle as the morning light, Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 90 And reason's stedfast rule--thou, thou alone Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, Which thou includest, as the sea her waves: For adoration thou endur'st; endure For consciousness the motions of thy will; 95 For apprehension those transcendent truths Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws (Submission constituting strength and power) Even to thy Being's infinite majesty! This universe shall pass away--a work[310] 100 Glorious! because the shadow of thy might, A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. Ah! if the time must come, in which my feet No more shall stray where meditation leads, By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 105 Loved haunts like these; the unimprisoned Mind May yet have scope to range among her own, Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. If the dear faculty of sight should fail, Still, it may be allowed me to remember 110 What visionary powers of eye and soul In youth were mine; when, stationed on the top Of some huge hill--expectant, I beheld The sun rise up,[DZ] from distant climes returned Darkness to chase, and sleep; and bring the day 115 His bounteous gift! or saw him toward the deep[311] Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds Attended; then, my spirit was entranced With joy exalted to beatitude;[EA] The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 120 And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with light, With pomp, with glory, with magnificence! "Those fervent raptures are for ever flown;[EB] And, since their date, my soul hath undergone Change manifold, for better or for worse: 125 Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire[312] Heavenward; and chide the part of me that flags, Through sinful choice; or dread necessity On human nature from above imposed. 'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 130 Earth to despise;[EC] but, to converse with heaven-- This is not easy:--to relinquish all We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, And stand in freedom loosened from this world, I deem not arduous; but must needs confess 135 That 'tis a thing impossible to frame Conceptions equal to the soul's desires; And the most difficult of tasks to _keep_ Heights which the soul is competent to gain. --Man is of dust: ethereal hopes are his, 140 Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft, Want due consistence; like a pillar of smoke, That with majestic energy from earth Rises; but, having reached the thinner air, Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 145 From this infirmity of mortal kind Sorrow proceeds, which else were not; at least, If grief be something hallowed and ordained, If, in proportion, it be just and meet, Yet, through this weakness of the general heart, 150 Is it enabled to maintain its hold[313] In that excess which conscience disapproves. For who could sink and settle to that point Of selfishness; so senseless who could be As long[314] and perseveringly to mourn 155 For any object of his love, removed From this unstable world, if he could fix A satisfying view upon that state Of pure, imperishable, blessedness, Which reason promises, and holy writ 160 Ensures to all believers?--Yet mistrust Is of such incapacity, methinks, No natural branch; despondency far less;[315] And, least of all, is absolute despair.[316] 164 --And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped Even to the dust; apparently, through weight Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power An agonizing sorrow to transmute; Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld[317] When wanted most; a confidence impaired 170 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love Of what is lost, and perish through regret. Oh! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees[318] Too clearly; feels too vividly; and longs 175 To realize the vision, with intense And over-constant yearning;--there--there lies The excess, by which the balance is destroyed. Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 180 Though inconceivably endowed, too dim For any passion of the soul that leads To ecstasy; and, all the crooked paths Of time and change disdaining, takes its course Along the line of limitless desires. 185 I, speaking now from such disorder free, Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled peace, I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore Are glorified; or, if they sleep, shall wake From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 190 Hope, below this, consists not with belief In mercy, carried infinite degrees Beyond the tenderness of human hearts: Hope, below this, consists not with belief In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power, 195 That finds no limits but her own pure will.[319] "Here then we rest; not fearing for our creed The worst that human reasoning can achieve, To unsettle or perplex it:[320] yet with pain Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 200 That, though immovably convinced, we want Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith As soldiers live by courage; as, by strength Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. Alas! the endowment of immortal power 205 Is matched unequally with custom, time,[ED] And domineering faculties of sense In _all;_ in most with superadded foes, Idle temptations; open vanities, Ephemeral offspring[321] of the unblushing world; 210 And, in the private regions of the mind, Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, Immoderate wishes, pining discontent, Distress and care. What then remains?--To seek Those helps for his occasions ever near 215 Who lacks not will to use them; vows, renewed On the first motion of a holy thought; Vigils of contemplation; praise; and prayer-- A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 220 Without access of unexpected strength. But, above all, the victory is most sure For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives To yield entire submission to the law Of conscience--conscience reverenced and obeyed, 225 As God's most intimate presence in the soul, And his most perfect image in the world. --Endeavour thus to live; these rules regard; These helps solicit; and a stedfast seat Shall then be yours among the happy few 230 Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air, Sons of the morning.[EE] For your nobler part, Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains, Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away; With only such degree of sadness left 235 As may support longings of pure desire; And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly In the sublime attractions of the grave." While, in this strain, the venerable Sage Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 240 His judgments, near that lonely house we paced A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved By nature's care from wreck of scattered stones, And from encroachment[322] of encircling heath: Small space! but, for reiterated steps, 245 Smooth and commodious; as a stately deck Which to and fro the mariner is used To tread for pastime, talking with his mates, Or haply thinking of far-distant friends, While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 250 Stillness prevailed around us: and the voice That spake was capable to lift the soul Toward[323] regions yet more tranquil. But, methought, That he, whose fixed despondency had given Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 255 Was less upraised in spirit than abashed; Shrinking from admonition, like a man Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. Yet not to be diverted from his aim, The Sage continued:-- "For that other loss, 260 The loss of confidence in social man, By the unexpected transports of our age Carried so high, that every thought, which looked Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind, To many seemed superfluous--as, no cause 265 Could e'er for such exalted confidence[324] Exist; so, none is now for fixed[325] despair: The two extremes are equally disowned By reason: if, with sharp recoil, from one You have been driven far as its opposite, 270 Between them seek the point whereon to build Sound expectations. So doth he advise[326] Who shared at first the illusion; but was soon Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fields; 275 Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking To the inattentive children of the world: 'Vain-glorious Generation! what new powers On you have been conferred? what gifts, withheld From your progenitors, have ye received, 280 Fit recompense of new desert? what claim Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees For you should undergo a sudden change; And the weak functions of one busy day, Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 285 What all the slowly-moving years of time, With their united force, have left undone? By nature's gradual processes be taught; By story be confounded! Ye aspire Rashly, to fall once more; and that false fruit, 290 Which, to your over-weening spirits, yields Hope of a flight celestial, will produce[327] Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons Shall not the less, though late, be justified.'[EF] 294 "Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, "gave That visionary voice; and, at this day, When a Tartarean darkness overspreads The groaning nations; when the impious rule, By will or by established ordinance, Their own dire agents, and constrain the good 300 To acts which they abhor; though I bewail This triumph, yet the pity of my heart Prevents me not from owning, that the law, By which mankind now suffers, is most just. For by superior energies; more strict 305 Affiance in each other; faith more firm In their unhallowed principles; the bad Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, The vacillating, inconsistent good. Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait--in hope 310 To see the moment, when the righteous cause Shall gain defenders zealous and devout As they who have opposed her; in which Virtue Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds That are not lofty as her rights; aspiring 315 By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. That spirit only can redeem mankind; And when that sacred spirit shall appear, Then shall _our_ triumph be complete as theirs. Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the wise 320 Have still the keeping of their proper peace; Are guardians of their own tranquillity. They act, or they recede, observe, and feel; 'Knowing[328] the heart of man is set to be[EG] The centre of this world, about the which 325 Those revolutions of disturbances Still roll; where all the aspècts of misery Predominate; whose strong effects are such As he must bear, being powerless to redress; _And that unless above himself he can 330 Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man_!'[EH] "Happy is he who lives to understand, Not human nature only, but explores All natures,--to the end that he may find The law that governs each; and where begins 335 The union, the partition where, that makes Kind and degree, among all visible Beings; The constitutions, powers, and faculties, Which they inherit,--cannot step beyond,-- And cannot fall beneath; that do assign 340 To every class its station and its office, Through all the mighty commonwealth of things Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man. Such converse, if directed by a meek, Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love: 345 For knowledge is delight; and such delight Breeds love: yet, suited as it rather is To thought and to the climbing intellect, It teaches less to love, than to adore; If that be not indeed the highest love!" 350 "Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, "The dignity of life is not impaired By aught that innocently satisfies The humbler cravings of the heart; and he Is a still happier man, who, for those heights 355 Of speculation not unfit, descends; And such benign affections cultivates Among the inferior kinds; not merely those That he may call his own, and which depend, As individual objects of regard, 360 Upon his care, from whom he also looks For signs and tokens of a mutual bond; But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 365 And solitude, that they do favour most, Most frequently call forth, and best sustain, These pure sensations; that can penetrate The obstreperous city; on the barren seas Are not unfelt; and much might recommend, 370 How much they might inspirit and endear, The loneliness of this sublime retreat!" "Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse Again directed to his downcast Friend, "If, with the froward will and grovelling soul 375 Of man, offended, liberty is here, And invitation every hour renewed, To mark _their_ placid state, who never heard Of a command which they have power to break, Or rule which they are tempted to transgress: 380 These, with a soothed or elevated heart, May we behold; their knowledge register; Observe their ways; and, free from envy, find Complacence there:--but wherefore this to you? I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 385 The redbreast, ruffled up by winter's cold Into a 'feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand:[329] A box, perchance, is from your casement hung For the small wren to build in;--not in vain, The barriers disregarding that surround 390 This deep abiding place, before your sight Mounts on the breeze the butterfly; and soars, Small creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers, Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns In the waste wilderness: the Soul ascends 395 Drawn towards her native firmament of heaven,[330] When the fresh eagle, in the month of May, Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing, This shaded valley leaves;[331][EI] and leaves the dark Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 400 A proud communication with the sun Low sunk beneath the horizon!--List!--I heard, From yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent forth[332] As if the visible mountain made the cry. Again!"--The effect upon the soul was such 405 As he expressed: from out the mountain's heart The solemn voice appeared to issue, startling The blank air--for the region all around Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent Save for that single cry, the unanswer'd bleat 410 Of a poor lamb--left somewhere to itself,[333] The plaintive spirit of the solitude![EJ] He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, Through consciousness that silence in such place Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 415 But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves, And, in soft tone of speech, thus he[334] resumed. "Ah! if the heart, too confidently raised, Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled Too easily, despise or overlook 420 The vassalage that binds her to the earth, Her sad dependence upon time, and all The trepidations of mortality, What place so destitute and void--but there The little flower her vanity shall check; 425 The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless pride? "These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds, Does that benignity pervade, that warms The mole contented with her darksome walk In the cold ground; and to the emmet gives 430 Her foresight, and intelligence[335] that makes The tiny creatures strong by social league; Supports the generations, multiplies Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills-- 435 Their labour, covered, as a lake with waves;[EK] Thousands of cities, in the desert place Built up of life, and food, and means of life! Nor wanting here, to entertain the thought, Creatures that in communities exist, 440 Less, as might seem, for general guardianship Or through dependence upon mutual aid, Than by participation of delight And a strict love of fellowship, combined. What other spirit can it be that prompts 445 The gilded summer flies to mix and weave Their sports together in the solar beam, Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy? More obviously the self-same influence rules 449 The feathered kinds; the fieldfare's pensive flock,[336][EL] The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, Hovering above these inland solitudes, By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call Up through the trenches of the long-drawn vales Their voyage was begun:[337] nor is its power 455 Unfelt among the sedentary fowl That seek yon pool,[EM] and there prolong their stay In silent congress; or together roused Take flight; while with their clang the air resounds. And, over all, in that ethereal vault,[338] 460 Is the mute company of changeful clouds; Bright apparition, suddenly put forth, The rainbow smiling on the faded storm; The mild assemblage of the starry heavens; And the great sun, earth's universal lord! 465 "How bountiful is Nature! he shall find Who seeks not; and to him, who hath not asked, Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath-days Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights; 470 And what a marvellous and heavenly show Was suddenly revealed![339]--the swains moved on, And heeded not: you lingered, you perceived And felt, deeply as living man could feel. There is a luxury[340] in self-dispraise; 475 And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast. Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert, You judge unthankfully: distempered nerves Infect the thoughts: the languor of the frame 480 Depresses the soul's vigour. Quit your couch-- Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell; Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed from heaven Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye Look down upon your taper, through a watch 485 Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways That run not parallel to nature's course. 490 Rise with the lark! your matins shall obtain Grace, be their composition what it may, If but with hers performed;[EN] climb once again, Climb every day, those ramparts;[EO] meet the breeze Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 495 That from your garden thither soars, to feed On new-blown heath; let yon commanding rock Be your frequented watch-tower; roll the stone In thunder down the mountains; with all your might Chase the wild goat; and if the bold red deer 500 Fly to those[341] harbours, driven by hound and horn Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit; So, wearied to your hut shall you return, And sink at evening into sound repose." The Solitary lifted toward[342] the hills 505 A kindling eye:--accordant feelings rushed Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth:[343] "Oh! what a joy it were, in vigorous health, To have a body (this our vital frame With shrinking sensibility endued, 510 And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) And to the elements surrender it As if it were a spirit!--How divine, The liberty, for frail, for mortal, man To roam at large among unpeopled glens 515 And mountainous retirements, only trod By devious footsteps; regions consecrate To oldest time! and, reckless of the storm That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, Be as a presence or a motion--one 520 Among the many there; and while the mists Flying, and rainy vapours, call out shapes And phantoms from the crags and solid earth As fast as a musician scatters sounds Out of an instrument; and while the streams 525 (As at a first creation and in haste To exercise their untried faculties) Descending from the region of the clouds, And starting from the hollows of the earth More multitudinous every moment, rend 530 Their way before them--what a joy to roam An equal among mightiest energies; And haply sometimes with articulate voice, Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 535 'Rage on ye elements! let moon and stars Their aspects lend, and mingle in their turn With this commotion (ruinous though it be) From day to night, from night to day, prolonged!'"[344] "Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 540 The strain of transport, "whosoe'er in youth Has, through ambition of his soul, given way To such desires, and grasped at such delight, Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long,[345] In spite of all the weakness that life brings, 545 Its cares and sorrows; he, though taught to own The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness-- Loving the sports[346] which once he gloried in. "Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's hills, 550 The streams far distant of your native glen; Yet is their form and image here expressed With brotherly resemblance.[347] Turn your steps Wherever fancy leads; by day, by night, Are various engines working, not the same 555 As those with[348] which your soul in youth was moved, But by the great Artificer endowed[349] With no inferior power. You dwell alone; You walk, you live, you speculate alone; Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign prince, 560 For you a stately gallery maintain Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen, Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed With no incurious eye; and books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 565 Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in[350] ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will: 570 And music waits upon your skilful touch, Sounds which the wandering shepherd from these heights Hears, and forgets his purpose;--furnished thus, How can you droop, if willing to be upraised?[351] "A piteous lot it were to flee from Man-- 575 Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose hours Are by domestic pleasures uncaressed And unenlivened; who exists whole years Apart from benefits received or done 'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd; 580 Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, Of the world's interests--such a one hath need Of a quick fancy and an active heart, That, for the day's consumption, books may yield Food not unwholesome; earth and air correct 585 His morbid humour, with delight supplied Or solace, varying as the seasons change.[352] --Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease And easy contemplation; gay parterres, And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 590 And shady groves in studied contrast--each, For recreation, leading into each:[353] These may he range, if willing to partake Their soft indulgences, and in due time May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 595 And course of service Truth requires from those Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne, And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and feels, And recognises ever and anon The breeze of nature stirring in his soul, 600 Why need such man go desperately astray, And nurse 'the dreadful appetite of death?' If tired with systems, each in its degree Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn, Let him build systems of his own, and smile 605 At the fond work, demolished with a touch; If unreligious, let him be at once, Among ten thousand innocents, enrolled A pupil in the many-chambered school, Where superstition weaves her airy dreams. 610 "Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's verge; And daily lose what I desire to keep: Yet rather would I instantly decline To the traditionary sympathies Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 615 A fearful apprehension from the owl Or death-watch: and as readily rejoice, If two auspicious magpies crossed my way;-- To this would rather bend[354] than see and hear The repetitions wearisome of sense, 620 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place; Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark On outward things, with formal inference ends; Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils At once--or, not recoiling, is perplexed-- 625 Lost in a gloom of uninspired research;[355] Meanwhile, the heart within the heart, the seat Where peace and happy consciousness should dwell, On its own axis restlessly revolving, Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of truth.[356][EQ] 630 "Upon the breast of new-created earth Man walked; and when and wheresoe'er he moved, Alone or mated, solitude was not. He heard, borne on the wind,[357] the articulate voice Of God;[ER] and Angels to his sight appeared 635 Crowning the glorious hills of paradise; Or through the groves gliding like morning mist Enkindled by the sun. He sate--and talked With winged Messengers;[ES] who daily brought To his small island in the ethereal deep 640 Tidings of joy and love.--From those pure heights[358] (Whether of actual vision, sensible To sight and feeling, or that in this sort Have condescendingly been shadowed forth Communications spiritually maintained, 645 And intuitions moral and divine) Fell Human-kind--to banishment condemned[ET] That flowing years repealed not: and distress And grief spread wide;[EU] but Man escaped the doom Of destitution;--solitude was not. 650 --Jehovah[EV]--shapeless Power above all Powers, Single and one, the omnipresent God, By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, Or cloud of darkness, localised in heaven;[EW] On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark;[EX] 655 Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne Between the Cherubim[EY]--on the chosen Race Showered miracles,[EZ] and ceased not to dispense Judgments, that filled the land from age to age With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear;[FA] 660 And with amazement smote;--thereby to assert His scorned, or unacknowledged, sovereignty. And when the One, ineffable of name, Of[359] nature indivisible, withdrew From mortal adoration or regard, 665 Not then was Deity engulfed; nor Man, The rational creature, left, to feel the weight Of his own reason, without sense or thought Of higher reason and a purer will, To benefit and bless, through mightier power:-- 670 Whether the Persian--zealous to reject Altar and image, and the inclusive walls And roofs of temples built by human hands--[FB] To[360] loftiest heights ascending, from their tops, With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow,[361] 675 Presented sacrifice to moon and stars, And to the winds and mother elements, And the whole circle of the heavens, for him A sensitive existence, and a God,[FC] With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise: 680 Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed For influence undefined a personal shape; And, from the plain, with toil immense, upreared Tower eight times planted on the top of tower, 685 That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch Descending, there might rest;[FD] upon that height Pure and serene, diffused--to overlook[362] Winding Euphrates, and the city vast Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched, 690 With grove and field and garden interspersed; Their town, and foodful region for support Against the pressure of beleaguering war. "Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 695 Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude, Looked on the polar star, as on a guide And guardian of their course, that never closed His stedfast eye. The planetary Five[FE] With a submissive reverence they beheld; 700 Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocks, Those radiant Mercuries,[FF] that seemed to move Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, Decrees and resolutions of the Gods; And, by their aspects, signifying works 705 Of dim futurity, to Man revealed. --The imaginative faculty was lord Of observations natural; and, thus Led on, those shepherds made report of stars In set rotation passing to and fro, 710 Between the orbs of our apparent sphere And its invisible counterpart, adorned With answering constellations, under earth, Removed from all approach of living sight But present to the dead; who, so they deemed, 715 Like those celestial messengers beheld All accidents, and judges were of all. "The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,--[FG] Under a cope of sky more variable,[363] 720 Could find commodious place for every God, Promptly received, as prodigally brought, From the surrounding countries, at the choice Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, As nicest observation furnished hints 725 For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed[364] On fluent operations a fixed shape; Metal or stone, idolatrously served. And yet--triumphant o'er this pompous show Of art, this palpable array of sense, 730 On every side encountered; in despite Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets By wandering Rhapsodists;[FH] and in contempt Of doubt and bold denial[365] hourly urged Amid the wrangling schools--a SPIRIT hung, 735 Beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms, Statues and temples, and memorial tombs; And emanations were perceived; and acts Of immortality, in Nature's course, Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 740 As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed And armed warrior; and in every grove A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, When piety more awful had relaxed. 744 --'Take, running river, take these locks of mine'-- Thus would the Votary say--'this severed hair, 'My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 'Thankful for my beloved child's return. 'Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod,[FI] 749 'Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph 'With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 'And, all day long, moisten[366] these flowery fields!' And, doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired; 755 That hath been, is, and where it was and is There shall endure,--existence unexposed[367] To the blind walk of mortal accident; From diminution safe and weakening age; While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays; 760 And countless generations of mankind Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod. "We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend. 765 But what is error?"--"Answer he who can!" The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed: "Love, Hope, and Admiration--are they not Mad Fancy's favourite vassals? Does not life Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 770 Guides to destruction? Is it well to trust Imagination's light when reason's fails, The unguarded taper where the guarded faints? --Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare What error is; and, of our errors, which 775 Doth most debase the mind; the genuine seats Of power, where are they? Who shall regulate, With truth, the scale of intellectual rank?" "Methinks," persuasively the Sage replied, "That for this arduous office you possess 780 Some rare advantages. Your early days A grateful recollection must supply Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed To dignify the humblest state.[368]--Your voice Hath, in my hearing, often testified 785 That poor men's children, they, and they alone, By their condition taught, can understand The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks For daily bread. A consciousness is yours How feelingly religion may be learned 790 In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue-- Heard while the dwelling vibrates to the din Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength At every moment--and, with strength, increase Of fury; or, while snow is at the door, 795 Assaulting and defending, and the wind, A sightless labourer, whistles at his work-- Fearful; but resignation tempers fear, And piety is sweet to infant minds. 799 --The Shepherd-lad, that[369] in the sunshine carves, On the green turf, a dial[FJ]--to divide The silent hours; and who to that report Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, Throughout a long and lonely summer's day His round[370] of pastoral duties, is not left 805 With less intelligence for _moral_ things Of gravest import. Early he perceives, Within himself, a measure and a rule, Which to the sun of truth he can apply, That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 810 Experience daily fixing his regards On nature's wants, he knows how few they are, And where they lie, how answered and appeased. This knowledge ample recompense affords For manifold privations; he refers 815 His notions to this standard; on this rock Rests his desires; and hence, in after life, Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. Imagination--not permitted here To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 820 On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, And trivial ostentation--is left free And puissant to range the solemn walks Of time and nature, girded by a zone That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 825 Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred[371] (Take from him what you will upon the score Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 830 For noble purposes of mind: his heart Beats to the heroic song of ancient days; His eye distinguishes, his soul creates, And those illusions, which excite the scorn Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 835 Are they not mainly outward ministers Of inward conscience? with whose service charged They came and go, appeared and disappear,[372] Diverting evil purposes, remorse Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 840 Or pride of heart abating: and, whene'er For less important ends those phantoms move, Who would forbid them, if their presence serve, On thinly-peopled mountains and wild heaths,[373] Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 845 The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers? "Once more to distant ages of the world Let us revert, and place before our thoughts The face which rural solitude might wear To the unenlightened swains of pagan Greece.[374] 850 --In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched On the soft grass through half a summer's day, With music lulled his indolent repose: And, in some fit of weariness, if he, When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 855 A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched, Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute,[FK] And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 860 The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye Up towards the crescent moon,[375] with grateful heart Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed That timely light, to share his joyous sport:[376] And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs,[FL] 865 Across the lawn and through the darksome grove, Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes By echo multiplied from rock or cave, Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and stars Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven,[377] 870 When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked The Naiad.[FM] Sunbeams, upon distant hills Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 875 Into fleet Oreads[FM] sporting visibly. The Zephyrs[FM] fanning, as they passed, their wings, Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque, Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, 880 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth In the low vale, or on steep mountain side; And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard,-- These were the lurking Satyrs,[FM] a wild brood 885 Of gamesome Deities; or Pan himself, The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God!" The strain was aptly chosen; and I could mark[378] Its kindly influence, o'er[379] the yielding brow Of our Companion, gradually diffused; 890 While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream Detains; but tempted now to interpose, He with a smile exclaimed:-- "'Tis well you speak At a safe distance from our native land, 895 And from the mansions where our youth was taught. The true descendants of those godly men Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles That harboured them,--the souls retaining yet 900 The churlish features of that after-race Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks,[380] In deadly scorn of superstitious rites, Or what their scruples construed to be such-- How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 905 Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain Uprooted; would re-consecrate our wells To good Saint Fillan[FN] and to fair Saint Anne; 910 And from long banishment recal Saint Giles,[FO] To watch again with tutelary love O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags? A blessed restoration,[FP] to behold The patron, on the shoulders of his priests, 915 Once more parading through her crowded streets Now simply guarded by the sober powers Of science, and philosophy, and sense!" This answer followed.--"You have turned my thoughts Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 920 Against idolatry with warlike mind, And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk In woods, and dwell under impending rocks Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and food;[381] Why?--for this very reason that they felt, 925 And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved, A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived, But still a high dependence, a divine Bounty and government, that filled their hearts With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love; 930 And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise, That through the desert rang.[382] Though favoured less, Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree, Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. Beyond their own poor natures and above 935 They looked; were humbly thankful for the good Which the warm sun solicited, and earth Bestowed; were gladsome,--and their moral sense They fortified with reverence for the Gods; And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave. 940 "Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed, Raising his voice triumphantly, "obtain From sense and reason less than these obtained, Though far misled? Shall men for whom our age Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared, 945 To explore the world without and world within, Be joyless as the blind? Ambitious spirits--[383] Whom earth, at this late season, hath produced To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh The planets in the hollow of their hand; 950 And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains Have solved the elements, or analysed The thinking principle--shall they in fact Prove a degraded Race? and what avails Renown, if their presumption make them such? 955 Oh! there is laughter at their work in heaven! Inquire of ancient Wisdom; go, demand Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant That we should pry far off yet be unraised; That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 960 Viewing all objects unremittingly In disconnexion dead and spiritless; And still dividing, and dividing still, Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied With the perverse attempt, while littleness 965 May yet become more little; waging thus An impious warfare with the very life Of our own souls! "And if indeed there be An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom Our dark foundations rest, could he design 970 That this[384] magnificent effect of power, The earth we tread, the sky that[385] we behold By day, and all the pomp which night reveals; That these--and that superior mystery Our vital frame, so fearfully devised, 975 And the dread soul within it--should exist Only to be examined, pondered, searched, Probed, vexed, and criticised?[FR]--Accuse me not Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am, If, having walked with Nature threescore years, 980 And offered, far as frailty would allow, My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, Whom I have served, that their DIVINITY Revolts, offended at the ways of men 985 Swayed by such motives, to such ends[386] employed; Philosophers, who, though the human soul Be[387] of a thousand faculties composed, And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize This soul, and the transcendent universe, 990 No more than as a mirror that reflects To proud Self-love her own intelligence; That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly! "Nor higher place can be assigned to him 995 And his compeers--the laughing Sage of France.--[FS] Crowned was he, if my memory do[388] not err, With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, In sign of conquest by his wit achieved And benefits his wisdom had conferred; 1000 His stooping body tottered with wreaths of flowers[FT] Opprest, far less becoming ornaments Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree;[389] Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man, And a most frivolous people. Him I mean 1005 Who penned,[390] to ridicule confiding faith, This sorry Legend; which by chance we found Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem, Among more innocent rubbish."--Speaking thus, With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 1010 We had espied the book, he drew it forth; And courteously, as if the act removed, At once, all traces from the good Man's heart Of unbenign aversion or contempt, Restored it to its owner. "Gentle Friend," 1015 Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, "You have known lights and guides better than these.[391] Ah! let not aught amiss within dispose A noble mind to practise on herself, And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 1020 Of passion: whatsoe'er be[392] felt or feared, From higher judgment-seats make no appeal To lower: can you question that the soul Inherits an allegiance, not by choice To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 1025 By each new upstart notion? In the ports Of levity no refuge can be found, No shelter, for a spirit in distress. He, who by wilful disesteem of life And proud insensibility to hope, 1030 Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn That her mild nature can be terrible; That neither she nor Silence lack the power To avenge their own insulted majesty. "O blest seclusion! when the mind admits 1035 The law of duty; and can therefore move[393] Through each vicissitude of loss and gain, Linked in entire complacence with her choice; When youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down, And manhood's vain anxiety dismissed; 1040 When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit, Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops To drink with gratitude the crystal stream Of unreproved enjoyment; and is pleased 1045 To muse, and be saluted by the air Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride And chambers of transgression, now forlorn. O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights! 1050 Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive To reconcile his manhood to a couch Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise, Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past For fixed annoyance; and full oft beset 1055 With floating dreams, black and disconsolate,[394] The vapoury phantoms of futurity? "Within the soul a faculty abides, That with interpositions, which would hide And darken, so can deal that they become 1060 Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt Her native brightness. As the ample moon, In the deep stillness of a summer even Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light, 1065 In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil Into a substance glorious as her own, Yea, with her own incorporated, by power Capacious and serene. Like power abides 1070 In man's celestial spirit; virtue thus Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, From the encumbrances of mortal life, From error, disappointment--nay, from guilt; 1075 And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, From palpable oppressions of despair." The Solitary by these words was touched With manifest emotion, and exclaimed; "But how begin? and whence?--'The Mind is free-- Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 1081 'This single act is all that we demand.' Alas! such wisdom bids a creature fly Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn His natural wings!--To friendship let him turn 1085 For succour; but perhaps he sits alone On stormy waters, tossed in a little boat[395] That holds but him, and can contain no more! Religion tells of amity sublime Which no condition can preclude; of One 1090 Who sees all suffering, comprehends all wants, All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs: But is that bounty absolute?--His gifts, Are they not, still, in some degree, rewards For acts of service? Can his love extend 1095 To hearts that own not him? Will showers of grace, When in the sky no promise may be seen, Fall to refresh a parched and withered land? Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load At the Redeemer's feet?" In rueful tone, 1100 With some impatience in his mien, he spake: Back to my mind rushed all that had been urged To calm the Sufferer when his story closed; I looked for counsel as unbending now; But a discriminating sympathy 1105 Stooped to this apt reply:--[396] "As men from men Do, in the constitution of their souls, Differ, by mystery not to be explained; And as we fall by various ways, and sink One deeper than another, self-condemned, 1110 Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame; So manifold and various are the ways Of restoration, fashioned to the steps Of all infirmity, and tending all To the same point, attainable by all-- 1115 Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. For you, assuredly, a hopeful road[397] Lies open: we have heard from you a voice At every moment softened in its course By tenderness of heart; have seen your eye, 1120 Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven, Kindle before us.--Your discourse this day, That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades Of death and night, has caught at every turn 1125 The colours of the sun. Access for you Is yet preserved to principles of truth, Which the imaginative Will upholds In seats of wisdom, not to be approached By the inferior Faculty that moulds, 1130 With her minute and speculative pains, Opinion, ever changing! "I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; 1135 To which, in silence hushed,[398] his very soul Listened intensely; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy; for from within were heard Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed[399] Mysterious union with its native sea. 1140 Even such a shell[FU] the universe itself Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things; Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 1145 And central peace, subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation. Here you stand, Adore, and worship, when you know it not; Pious beyond the intention of your thought; Devout above the meaning of your will. 1150 --Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. The estate of man would be indeed forlorn If false conclusions of the reasoning power Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 1154 Through which the ear converses with the heart. Has not the soul, the being of your life, Received a shock of awful consciousness, In some calm season, when these lofty rocks At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky, To rest upon their circumambient walls; 1160 A temple framing of dimensions vast, And yet not too enormous for the sound Of human anthems,--choral song, or burst Sublime of instrumental harmony, To glorify the Eternal! What if these 1165 Did never break the stillness that prevails Here,--if the solemn nightingale[FV] be mute, And the soft woodlark here did never chant Her vespers,[FW]--Nature fails not to provide Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 1170 Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, And blind recesses of the caverned rocks; The little rills, and waters numberless, Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes With the loud streams: and often, at the hour 1175 When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, Within the circuit of this fabric huge, One voice--the solitary raven, flying Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, Unseen, perchance above all[400] power of sight-- 1180 An iron knell! with echoes from afar Faint--and still fainter--as the cry, with which The wanderer accompanies her flight Through the calm region, fades upon the ear, Diminishing by distance till it seemed 1185 To expire; yet from the abyss is caught again, And yet again recovered![FX] "But descending From these imaginative heights, that yield Far-stretching views into eternity, Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 1190 Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend Even here, where her amenities are sown With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields, Where on the labours of the happy throng 1195 She smiles, including in her wide embrace City, and town, and tower,--and sea with ships Sprinkled;--be our Companion while we track Her rivers populous with gliding life; 1199 While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, Or[401] pierce the gloom of her majestic woods; Roaming, or resting under grateful shade In peace and meditative cheerfulness; Where living things, and things inanimate, 1204 Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, And speak to social reason's inner sense, With inarticulate language. "For, the Man-- Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms Of nature, who with understanding heart Both knows and loves[402] such objects as excite 1210 No morbid passions, no disquietude, No vengeance, and no hatred--needs must feel The joy of that pure principle of love So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 1215 But seek for objects of a kindred love In fellow-natures and a kindred joy. Accordingly he by degrees perceives His feelings of aversion softened down; A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 1220 His sanity of reason not impaired, Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear, From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round And seeks for good; and finds the good he seeks: Until abhorrence and contempt are things 1225 He only knows by name; and, if he hear, From other mouths, the language which they speak, He is compassionate; and has no thought, No feeling, which can overcome his love. "And further; by contemplating these Forms 1230 In the relations which they bear to man, He shall discern, how, through the various means Which silently they yield, are multiplied The spiritual presences of absent things. Trust me,[403] that for the instructed, time will come 1235 When they shall meet no object but may teach Some acceptable lesson to their minds Of human suffering, or of human joy. So shall they learn, while all things speak of man, Their duties from all forms;[404] and general laws, 1240 And local accidents, shall tend alike To rouse, to urge; and, with the will, confer The ability to spread the blessings wide Of true philanthropy. The light of love Not failing, perseverance from their steps 1245 Departing not, for them shall be confirmed[405] The glorious habit by which sense is made Subservient still to moral purposes, Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 1250 The burthen of existence. Science then Shall be a precious visitant; and then, And only then, be worthy of her name: For then her heart shall kindle; her dull eye, Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 1255 Chained to its object in brute slavery; But taught with patient interest to watch The processes of things, and serve the cause Of order and distinctness, not for this Shall it forget that its most noble use, 1260 Its most illustrious province, must be found In furnishing clear guidance, a support Not treacherous, to the mind's _excursive_ power. --So build we up the Being that we are; Thus deeply drinking--in the soul of things, 1265 We shall be wise perforce; and, while inspired By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, Shall move unswerving, even as if impelled[406] By strict necessity, along the path Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 1270 Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine; Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength, Earthly desires; and raise, to loftier heights Of divine love, our intellectual soul."[407] Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue, 1275 Poured forth with fervour in continuous stream, Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness, An Indian Chief discharges from his breast Into the hearing of assembled tribes,[408] In open circle seated round, and hushed 1280 As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf Stirs in the mighty woods.--So did he speak: The words he uttered shall not pass away Dispersed, like music that the wind takes up By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten; 1285 No--they sank into me,[409] the bounteous gift Of one whom time and nature had made wise, Gracing his doctrine[410] with authority Which hostile spirits silently allow; Of one accustomed to desires that feed 1290 On fruitage gathered from the tree of life; To hopes on knowledge and experience built; Of one in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition; whence the Soul, 1295 Though bound to earth by ties of pity and love, From all injurious servitude was free. The Sun, before his place of rest were reached, Had yet to travel far, but unto us, To us who stood low in that hollow dell, 1300 He had become invisible,--a pomp Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread Over[411] the mountain sides, in contrast bold With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 1304 Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest; A dispensation of his evening power. --Adown the path that[412] from the glen had led The funeral train, the Shepherd and his Mate Were seen descending:--forth to greet them ran[413] Our little Page: the rustic pair approach; 1310 And in the Matron's countenance may be read Plain indication[414] that the words, which told How that neglected Pensioner was sent Before his time into a quiet grave, Had done to her humanity no wrong: 1315 But we are kindly welcomed--promptly served With ostentatious zeal.--Along the floor Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell A grateful couch was spread for our repose; Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we lay,[415] 1320 Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound Of far-off torrents charming the still night, And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts, Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.[416] VARIANTS: [Footnote 284: 1827. _Wanderer's ejaculation to the supreme Being--_ 1814. 1836. _Account of his own devotional feelings in youth involved in it--_ 1814. _account of his own devotional feelings in youth involved_-- 1827. 1827. _Implores that he may retain in age the power to find repose among enduring and eternal things_-- 1814. _What he wishes for in age_-- MS. 1827. _What these latter are_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 285: 1836. _sorrow--but doubt or despondence not therefore to be inferred_-- 1814. _sorrow--doubt_ 1827. 1836. _And proceeds to administer consolation to the Solitary_-- 1814. _Consolation to the Solitary_-- 1827. _Consolation administered to the Solitary_-- MS. ] [Footnote 286: 1827. _How these are received--Wanderer resumes--and applies_ 1814. ] [Footnote 287: 1827. --_the disappointment of his expectations from_ 1814. ] [Footnote 288: 1827. _States the rational grounds_ 1814. ] [Footnote 289: 1814. _hope--insists_ 1827. The text of 1836 returns to that of 1814.] [Footnote 290: 1827. _to the great revolutions of the world_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 291: 1827. _Rural life and Solitude particularly favourable to a_ 1814. ] [Footnote 292: 1827. _recommended for its influence on the affections and the imagination_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 293: 1827 _and an active Communion_ 1814. ] [Footnote 294: 1827 _a pitiable thing--If the elevated imagination cannot be exerted--try the humbler fancy--_ 1814. ] [Footnote 295: 1827. _--this illustrated_ 1814. ] [Footnote 296: 1827. _Wanderer, in answer,_ 1814. ] [Footnote 297: 1827. _feeling on the mind in the humble ranks of society, in rural life especially--This illustrated_ 1814. ] [Footnote 298: 1827. _Observation that these principles_ 1814. ] [Footnote 299: 1845. _presumptive_ 1814. The text of 1847 reverts to that of 1814.] [Footnote 300: 1827. _Philosophers, whom the Solitary appears to esteem-- Recommends to him_ 1814. _Recommends to the Solitary--_ MS. ] [Footnote 301: 1827. _Solitary agitated, and asks how--_ 1814. ] [Footnote 302: 1836. _Happy for us that the imagination and affections in our own despite mitigate the evils of that state of intellectual Slavery which the calculating understanding is so apt to produce--_ 1814. _is apt to_ MS. _Happy that the imagination and the affections mitigate the evils of that intellectual slavery which the calculating understanding is apt to produce--_ 1827. ] [Footnote 303: 1827. _How Nature is to be communed with--Wanderer concludes with a prospect of a_ 1814. ] [Footnote 304: 1827. _the affections, the understanding, and the reason--_ 1814. ] [Footnote 305: 1827. _Effect of the Wanderer's discourse--_ 1814. ] [Footnote 306: 1845. And doubtless yielding ... 1814. ] [Footnote 307: 1845. Such pity yet surviving, with firm voice, That did not falter though the heart was moved, 1814. Such pity yet surviving, with clear voice That falter'd not, albeit the heart was moved, 1836. ] [Footnote 308: 1836. And, if they wither, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 309: 1827. ... or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 310: 1827. ... frame 1814. ] [Footnote 311: 1827. ... tow'rds the Deep 1814. ] [Footnote 312: 1827. ... and to aspire 1814. ] [Footnote 313: 1836. ... it be just and meet, Through this, 'tis able to maintain its hold, 1814. ] [Footnote 314: 1827. ... so senseless who could be In framing estimates of loss and gain, As long ... 1814. In making estimates ... MS. ] [Footnote 315: 1836. ... less. 1814. ] [Footnote 316: This line was added in 1836.] [Footnote 317: 1836. Infer not hence a hope from those withheld 1814. ] [Footnote 318: 1836. Oh! no, full oft the innocent Sufferer sees 1814. ] [Footnote 319: 1827 ... its own pure Will. 1814. ] [Footnote 320: 1827 Here then we rest: not fearing to be left In undisturbed possession of our creed For aught that human reasoning can achieve, To unsettle or perplex us: ... 1814. ] [Footnote 321: 1827. ... open vanities Of dissipation; countless, still-renewed, Ephemeral offspring ... 1814. ] [Footnote 322: 1827. And from the encroachment ... 1814. ] [Footnote 323: 1827. Tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 324: 1845. For such exalted confidence could e'er 1814. ] [Footnote 325: 1827. ... such 1814. ] [Footnote 326: 1827. The two extremes are equally remote From Truth and Reason;--do not, then, confound One with the other, but reject them both; And choose the middle point, whereon to build Sound expectations. This doth he advise 1814. ... despair Tho' transcient sadness were as natural As that a cloud albeit silver bright Should fling yon dark spot on the mountain side. Forced by sharp recoil from one extreme MS. ] [Footnote 327: 1814. Which to your over-weening spirits feeds Hope of a godlike flight, ... C. ] [Footnote 328: 1827. "Knowing"--(to adopt the energetic words Which a time-hallowed Poet hath employed) "Knowing ... 1814. ] [Footnote 329: 1836. The Redbreast feeds in winter from your hand; 1814. ] [Footnote 330: 1836. Towards her native firmament of heaven, 1814. ] [Footnote 331: 1820. This shady valley leaves,-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 332: 1845. ... a solemn bleat; Sent forth as if it were the Mountain's voice, 1814. ] [Footnote 333: 1845. As he expressed; for, from the mountain's heart The solemn bleat appeared to come; there was No other--and the region all around Stood silent, empty of all shape of life. --It was a Lamb--left somewhere to itself, 1814. As he expressed; from out the mountain's heart The solemn bleat appeared to issue, startling The blank air--for the region all around Stood silent, empty of all shape of life: 1827. As he described, the regions all around Stood silent, empty of all shape of life. And from the mountain's stony heart the voice Appeared to come, though but the unanswered bleat C. Again! in the surrounding vacancy The effect upon the soul was ... C. ] [Footnote 334: 1836. ... he thus ... 1814. ] [Footnote 335: 1827. Her foresight; and the intelligence ... 1814. ] [Footnote 336: 1827. ... flocks, 1814. ] [Footnote 337: 1836. Unscattered by the wind, at whose loud call Their voyage was begun: ... 1814. By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call Their voyage was begun: ... 1827. Their voyage they began: ... C. ] [Footnote 338: 1832. ... etherial arch 1814. ] [Footnote 339: 1836. Was to your sight revealed! ... 1814. ] [Footnote 340: 1836. ... and perceived. There is a luxury ... 1814. ] [Footnote 341: 1836. ... these ... 1814. ] [Footnote 342: 1827. ... towards ... 1814. ] [Footnote 343: 1845. An animated eye; and thoughts were mine Which this ejaculation clothed in words-- 1814. A kindling eye;--poetic feelings rushed Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth: 1827. ] [Footnote 344: 1845. ... exclaim aloud Be this continued so from day to day, Nor let it have an end from month to month!" 1814. 'Be this continued so from day to day, Nor let the fierce commotion have an end, Ruinous though it be, from month to month!'" 1827. May this wild uproar last from day to day Nor let from month to month the fierce commotion, Ruinous though it be, abate its rage. C. ] [Footnote 345: 1827. Shall feel the stirrings of them late and long; 1814. ] [Footnote 346: 1827. ... spots[EP] ... 1814. ] [Footnote 347: 1827. ... expressed As by a duplicate, at least set forth With brotherly resemblance.... 1814. ] [Footnote 348: 1836. ... by ... 1814. ] [Footnote 349: 1836. ... endued 1814. ] [Footnote 350: 1836. The Sultan hides within ... 1814. ] [Footnote 351: 1836. ... raised? 1814. ] [Footnote 352: 1845. A not unwholesome food, and earth and air Supply his morbid humour with delight. 1814. Food not unwholesome; earth and air correct His morbid humour, with delight supplied. 1836. ] [Footnote 353: 1836. And shady groves, for recreation framed: 1814. ] [Footnote 354: 1827. This rather would I do ... 1814. ] [Footnote 355: 1836. Or if the Mind turn inward 'tis perplexed, Lost in a gloom of uninspired research; 1814. ] [Footnote 356: 1845. ... restlessly revolves, Yet nowhere finds the cheering light of truth. 1814. Rests not but on its axis, evermore Revolving, nowhere finds the light of truth. C. Seeks, yet can nowhere find the light of truth. C. ] [Footnote 357: 1836. He heard, upon the wind, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 358: 1836. ... these pure Heights 1814. ] [Footnote 359: 1827. In ... 1814. ] [Footnote 360: 1827. The ... 1814. ] [Footnote 361: 1827. ... brows-- 1814. ] [Footnote 362: 1827. ... and, from that Height Pure and serene, the Godhead overlook 1814. ] [Footnote 363: 1836. ... of variegated sky, 1814. ] [Footnote 364: 1836. ... did his hand bestow 1814. ] [Footnote 365: 1836. ... denials 1814. ] [Footnote 366: 1845. "And moisten all day long ... 1814. ] [Footnote 367: 1827. There shall be,--seen, and heard, and felt, and known, And recognized,--existence unexposed 1814. ] [Footnote 368: 1827. Of much exalted good that may attend Upon the very humblest state.-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 369: 1836. ... who ... 1814. ] [Footnote 370: 1836. ... and adapt His round ... 1814. ] [Footnote 371: 1827. ... a Man like this 1814. ] [Footnote 372: 1827. They come and go, appear and disappear; 1814. ... disappear'd, MS. ] [Footnote 373: 1845. Among wild mountains and unpeopled heaths, 1814. Among wild hills, and thinly-peopled shores, C. ] [Footnote 374: 1814. Once more to distant ages of the world Let us revert and contemplate the face, That face which rural solitude might wear To the unenlightened sons of pagan Greece. C. Which Nature in her solitudes might wear. C. ] [Footnote 375: 1836. ... lifting up his eyes Towards the crescent Moon, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 376: 1814. Helped by the reflection of her own fair face, Or rather say the lover at her side, Looking with earnest eyes into the depth Of a still lake amid the glimmering growth Of plants that there were nourished. C. Helped by reflection of her own fair face, Or, if not she, the lover at her side, Some beautiful inhabitant who there Might dwell in calm security unknown To mortal credence. Hence the green haired brood. C. ] [Footnote 377: 1827. ... heavens, 1814. ] [Footnote 378: 1845. No apter Strain could have been chosen: I marked 1814. As this apt strain proceeded, I could mark 1827. ] [Footnote 379: 1827. ... on ... 1814. ] [Footnote 380: 1836. Who fled to caves, and woods, and naked rocks 1814. ] [Footnote 381: 1845. In caves, and woods, and under dismal rocks, Deprived of shelter, covering, fire, and food; 1814. In woods, and dwell beneath impending rocks Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and food; 1836. ] [Footnote 382: 1827. With which the desarts rang ... 1814. ] [Footnote 383: 1836. ... Souls-- 1814. ] [Footnote 384: 1827. ... could He design, Or will his rites and services permit, That this ... 1814. ] [Footnote 385: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 386: 1836. ... end ... 1814. ] [Footnote 387: 1827. ... when the human soul Is ... 1814. ] [Footnote 388: 1827. ... doth ... 1814. ] [Footnote 389: 1840. His tottering Body was oppressed with flowers; Far less becoming ornaments than those With which Spring often decks a mouldering Tree! 1814. His tottering Body was with wreaths of flowers Opprest, far less becoming ornaments Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering Tree; 1827. ] [Footnote 390: 1827. ... framed, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 391: 1845. ... better Lights and Guides than these-- 1814. ] [Footnote 392: 1827. ... is ... 1814. ] [Footnote 393: 1827. ... and thereby can live, 1814. ] [Footnote 394: 1836. ... disconsolate and black, 1814. ] [Footnote 395: 1836. On stormy waters, in a little Boat 1814. ] [Footnote 396: 1827. In rueful tone, With some impatience in his mien he spake; And this reply was given.-- 1814. ] [Footnote 397: 1827. --For Him, to whom I speak, an easy road 1814. Then do not droop, a hopeful road for you. MS. ] [Footnote 398: 1814. And while in silence hushed ... C. ] [Footnote 399: 1845. Brightened with joy; for murmurings from within Were heard,--sonorous cadences! whereby, To his belief, the Monitor expressed 1814. ] [Footnote 400: 1827. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 401: 1827. And ... 1814. ] [Footnote 402: 1836. Doth know and love ... 1814. ] [Footnote 403: 1827. ... of absent Things, Convoked by knowledge; and for his delight Still ready to obey the gentle call. Trust me, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 404: 1827. For them shall all things speak of Man, they read Their duties in all forms; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 405: 1827. Departing not, they shall at length obtain ... 1814. ] [Footnote 406: 1836. Unswerving shall we move, as if impelled 1814. ] [Footnote 407: 1845. ... Whate'er we see, Whate'er we feel, by agency direct Or indirect shall tend to feed and nurse Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights Of love divine, our intellectual Soul." 1814. Whate'er we feel, shall tend to feed and nurse, By agency direct or indirect, Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights Of divine love, ... 1836. ... Whate'er we see Or feel shall tend to quicken and refine The humbler functions of corporeal sense. C. ... or refine The humblest ... MS. ] [Footnote 408: 1827. ... of the assembled Tribes, 1814. ] [Footnote 409: 1836. ... shall not pass away; For they sank into me-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 410: 1836. ... language ... 1814. ] [Footnote 411: 1836. Upon ... 1814. ] [Footnote 412: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 413: 1827. ... forth in transport ran 1814. ] [Footnote 414: 1845. ... aspect may be read A plain assurance ... 1814. ] [Footnote 415: 1845. ... slept, 1814. ] [Footnote 416: Added in C. Till every thought as gently as a flower, That shuts its eyes at close of every day Had folded up itself in dreamless sleep.[FY] ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote DW: In January 1849, the year before Wordsworth's death, he was asked by Mr. Francis C. Yarnall of Philadelphia for his autograph, for a lady in America; and, in reply, he wrote the four lines, beginning Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world! They were doubtless suggested to him at the time by the death of his own daughter. See Mr. Yarnall's paper on "Wordsworth's Influence in America," in the _Transactions of the Wordsworth Society_, No. v.--ED.] [Footnote DX: With this whole passage compare the teaching of Kant's three _Kritiken_.--ED.] [Footnote DY: Compare the _Ode, Intimations of Immortality_-- Trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home. ED.] [Footnote DZ: Compare book i. l. 200.--ED.] [Footnote EA: Compare book i. ll. 215-16.--ED.] [Footnote EB: Compare _Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey_, ll. 83-85 (vol. ii. p. 54)-- That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. ED. ] [Footnote EC: See Matthew Sylvester's _Reliquiæ Baxterianæ_, _or the Life of Richard Baxter_, book i. part i. l. 213, p. 32: "To despise earth is easy to me; but not so easy to be acquainted and conversant in Heaven. I have nothing in this world which I could not easily let go: but to get satisfying apprehension of the other world is the great and grievous difficulty." See also Wordsworth's note, p. 387.--ED.] [Footnote ED: See Wordsworth's note, p. 387.--ED.] [Footnote EE: Compare Milton's _Ode on the Nativity_, l. 119.--ED.] [Footnote EF: St. Matt. xi. 19.--ED.] [Footnote EG: See Wordsworth's note, p. 387.--ED.] [Footnote EH: Samuel Daniel; from his poem, _To the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland_. In his note Wordsworth says, "The two last lines printed in italics, are by him" (_i.e._ Daniel) "translated from Seneca." The passage is: "O quam contempta res est homo, nisi supra humana surrexerit" (_Natur. quaest._ lib. i. praef. 4). The discovery of this passage cost the late Bishop of St. Andrews several long days' hunting through Seneca's works. He wrote me afterwards: "The passage has nothing to do with moral elevation, the next words are 'quam diu cum affectibus colluctamur quid magnifici facimus.'" The following occurs in _The Soul's Conflict_, by Richard Sibbes (1635), ch. ix.--"We see likewise hence a necessity of having something in the soul above itself. It must be partaker of a diviner nature than itself; otherwise, when the most refined part of our souls, the very spirit of our minds, is out of frame, what shall bring it in again?" See also the extract from Bacon's Essay, XVI., prefixed to _The White Doe of Rylstone_ (vol. iv. p. 105).--ED.] [Footnote EI: The fact of the eagle having once haunted the Cumbrian and Westmoreland valleys is proved by the number of rocks, crags, etc., that are named from it.--ED.] [Footnote EJ: The following occurs in the Fenwick note to the lines addressed _To Joanna_ in the "Poems on the naming of Places" (vol. ii. p. 157): "The effect of the reverberation of voices in some parts of the mountains is very striking. There is, in _The Excursion_, an allusion to the bleat of a lamb thus re-echoed, and described without any exaggeration, as I heard it, on the side of Stickle Tarn, from the precipice that stretches on to Langdale Pikes." The "precipice" referred to is Pavy Ark.--ED.] [Footnote EK: There are many ant-hills in this district of Westmoreland. Note that the description here is of the effect of a lake seen from above, looking down on it.--ED.] [Footnote EL: The fieldfares have a habit of settling together, and sitting perfectly still, till they are disturbed; when they fly off, and settling again, sit silently as before.--ED.] [Footnote EM: Blea Tarn.--ED.] [Footnote EN: Compare "Rules and Lessons" in Henry Vaughan's _Silex Scintillans_.--ED.] [Footnote EO: The heights of Blake Rigg and Lingmoor.--ED.] [Footnote EP: Possibly a misprint in the editions of 1814 and 1820.--ED.] [Footnote EQ: Compare the _Poet's Epitaph_ (vol. ii. p. 75).--ED.] [Footnote ER: Compare Genesis iii. 8.--ED.] [Footnote ES: Genesis xviii. 1, 2.--ED.] [Footnote ET: Genesis iii. 24.--ED.] [Footnote EU: Genesis iii. 16, 17.--ED.] [Footnote EV: Exodus vi. 3.--ED.] [Footnote EW: Exodus xxxiii. 9; xxxiv. 5.--ED.] [Footnote EX: Exodus xxxvii. 1; Hebrews ix. 4.--ED.] [Footnote EY: Exodus xxv. 22.--ED.] [Footnote EZ: Exodus xv. 25; xvi. 4, etc. etc.--ED.] [Footnote FA: Exodus vii.-xi.--ED.] [Footnote FB: The ancient Persian religion was nature worship.--ED.] [Footnote FC: Compare _Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey_, II. 100-102 (vol. ii. p. 55)-- A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. ED. ] [Footnote FD: Herodotus thus describes the temple of Belus:--"... A square enclosure two furlongs each way, with gates of solid brass; which were also remaining in my time. In the middle of the precinct there was a tower of solid masonry, a furlong in length and breadth, upon which was raised a second tower, and on that a third, and so up to eight. The ascent to the top is on the outside, by a path which winds round all the towers. When one is about half way up, one finds a resting place and seats, where persons are wont to sit some time in their way to the summit. On the topmost tower there is a spacious Temple, and inside the Temple stands a couch of unusual size, richly adorned, with a golden table by its side. There is no statue of any kind set up in the place.... The Chaldeans, the priests of this God, declare--but I, for my part, do not credit it--that the God comes down nightly into this chamber and sleeps upon the couch."--Herodotus, i. 181. See Rawlinson's version, vol. i. pp. 319, 320. Compare also Josephus, _Ant. Jud._ x. 11, and Strabo, 16.--ED.] [Footnote FE: Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Mercury--the only planets known to the ancients, the Earth not being included.--ED.] [Footnote FF: The reference here is still apparently to the "planetary Five," which are _all_ described as "radiant Mercuries" (although one of them was Mercury), because they all-- seemed to move Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, Decrees and resolutions of the Gods; And, by their aspects, signifying works Of dim futurity. This astrological allusion makes it clear that the reference is to the supposed "planetary influence," and to the movements of these bodies--controlled by the gods--with which the fate of mortals was believed to be upbound. For an account of the Gods of the Five Planets, see _Chaldean Magic_, by François Lenormant, pp. 26 and 118.--ED.] [Footnote FG: Compare _Lycidas_, 1. 154-- Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas, and note that Charles Lamb, who was familiar with _The Excursion_, quotes the above line ("Distant Correspondents") thus-- Aye me! while thee the seas and sounding shores. ED. ] [Footnote FH: The strolling Greek minstrels from Homer onwards, predecessors of the Troubadours.--ED.] [Footnote FI: The reference is doubtless to Pausanias, i. 37, 3. "Before you cross the Cephisus, there is the monument of Theodorus, who excelled all his contemporaries as an actor in tragedy; and near to the river, there are [two] statues, one of Mnesimache, another of her son, in the act of cutting off his hair [over the stream and presenting it] as a votive offering to the Cephisus." See Note D in the Appendix to this volume, p. 396.--ED.] [Footnote FJ: Compare _King Henry VI._, Part III. act ii. scene v. ll. 23-35-- To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run. ED. ] [Footnote FK: Apollo.--ED.] [Footnote FL: Diana.--ED.] [Footnote FM: The ναἴάδες (water-nymphs) and ὁρειάδες (mountain-nymphs), with others of the meadows woods and dales, sprung from the fertile imagination of the Greeks. Wordsworth's explanation of the origin of these myths from natural causes is not peculiar to him, although his lines are a _locus classicus_ on the subject; but his explanation of the "lurking Satyrs," as due to the sight of the horns of the deer, or the goats, in the woods, is probably his own.--ED.] [Footnote FN: St. Fillan. There were two Scottish saints of that name. The first, and most famous, the particulars of whose life are recorded in the Breviary of Aberdeen, Felanus, or Fœlanus, Fælan, Fillanus, Filane, or Phillane, the son of Kentigern. In Perthshire, the scene of his labours, a river and a strath are called after him, and a Church dedicated to him. He was associated with the battle of Bannockburn. (See _Kalendars of Scottish Saints_, by A. P. Forbes, Bishop of Brechin.)--ED.] [Footnote FO: For the legendary History of St. Giles see the Breviary of the Roman Church. (It has been translated recently by the Marquis of Bute.) Dr. Cameron Lees, minister of St. Giles' Cathedral Church, Edinburgh, sends me the following notice of the Saint:--"How St. Giles became the patron Saint of Edinburgh is not known. His 'hind' is upon the arms of the city.[FQ] An arm bone of St. Giles was one of the chief treasures of the church. It was brought from France by Preston of Gorton, who procured it by the 'assistance of the King of France.' This relic was contained in a richly jewelled shrine, and carried through Edinburgh in procession on the Saint's day, the 1st September. An account of this procession is given by Sir D. Lindsay and by Knox. The only other church in Scotland under the dedication of St. Giles was at Elgin."--ED.] [Footnote FP: Now happily accomplished through the labour and the munificence of the late Dr. Chambers.--ED.] [Footnote FQ: For reference to the "Hind," see the Breviary.--ED.] [Footnote FR: Compare the _Poet's Epitaph_ (vol. ii. p. 75).--ED.] [Footnote FS: Voltaire.--ED.] [Footnote FT: In his eighty-fourth year, Voltaire went up to Paris from Ferney in Switzerland (where he had lived for twenty years), and amid the tumultuous enthusiasm of the Parisians, he was crowned at the Comédie Française, as the Athenian poets used to be. "The Court of the Louvre, vast as it is, was full of people waiting for him. As soon as his notable vehicle came in sight, the cry arose, _Le voilà!_ The Savoyards, the apple-women, all the rabble of the quarter had assembled there, and the acclamations _Vive Voltaire!_ resounded as if they would never end.... There was no end till he placed himself on the front seat, beside the ladies. Then rose a cry _La Couronne!_ and Brizard, the actor, came and put the garland on his head. _Ah Dieu! vous voulez donc me faire mourir?_ cried M. de Voltaire, weeping with joy, and resisting the honour.... The Prince de Beauvan, seizing the laurel, replaced it on the head of our Sophocles, who could refuse no longer." (_Memoires sur Voltaire_, par Longchamp et Wagnière.)--ED.] [Footnote FU: Compare Walter Savage Landor, _Gebir_, book i. l. 159-- But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the Sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave: Shake one and it awakens, then apply Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. Compare also the Fenwick note to the _Evening Voluntary_, beginning-- What mischief cleaves ED. ] [Footnote FV: The nightingale is not heard farther north than the Trent valley, and there are no woodlarks in the Lake country, as hawks are numerous.--ED.] [Footnote FW: See note FV on previous page.] [Footnote FX: The following occurs in Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, July 27, 1800:--"After tea we rowed down to Loughrigg Fell, visited the white foxglove, gathered wild strawberries, and walked up to view Rydale. We lay a long time looking at the lake; the shores all dim with the scorching sun. The ferns were turning yellow, that is, here and there one was quite turned. We walked round by Benson's wood home. The lake was now most still, and reflected the beautiful yellow and blue and purple and grey colours of the sky. We heard a strange sound in the Bainriggs wood, as we were floating on the water: it _seemed_ in the wood, but it must have been above it, for presently we saw a raven very high above us. It called out, and the dome of the sky seemed to echo the sound. It called again and again as it flew onwards, and the mountains gave back the sound, seeming as if from their centre; a musical bell-like answering to the bird's hoarse voice. We heard both the call of the bird, and the echo, after we could see him no longer." Compare the Fenwick note to the _Evening Voluntary_ (1834), beginning-- The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill. ED. ] Book Fifth THE PASTOR ARGUMENT _Farewell to the Valley--Reflections--A large and populous Vale described[417]--The Pastor's Dwelling, and some account of him[418]--Church and Monuments--The Solitary musing, and where--Roused--In the Churchyard the Solitary communicates the thoughts which had recently passed through his mind--Lofty tone of the Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to--Rite of Baptism, and the professions accompanying it, contrasted with the real state of human life--Apology for the Rite[419]--Inconsistency of the best men--Acknowledgment that practice falls far below the injunctions of duty as existing in the mind--General complaint of a falling off in the value of life after the time of youth--Outward appearances of content and happiness in degree illusive--Pastor approaches--Appeal made to him--His answer--Wanderer in sympathy with him--Suggestion that the least ambitious enquirers may be most free from error--The Pastor is desired to give some portraits of the living or dead from his own observation of life among these Mountains--and for what purpose--Pastor consents--Mountain cottage--Excellent qualities of its Inhabitants--Solitary expresses his pleasure; but denies the praise of virtue to worth of this kind--Feelings of the Priest before he enters upon his account of persons interred in the Churchyard--Graves of unbaptised Infants[420]--Funeral and sepulchral observances, whence--Ecclesiastical Establishments, whence derived--Profession of belief in the doctrine of Immortality_ "Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, And its small lot of life-supporting fields, And guardian rocks!--Farewell, attractive seat![421] To the still influx of the morning light Open, and[422] day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled 5 From human observation,[FZ] as if yet Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark Impenetrable shade; once more farewell, Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss, By Nature destined from the birth of things 10 For quietness profound!" Upon the side Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale[GA] Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt, Lingering[423] behind my comrades, thus I breathed A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 15 Like the fixed centre of a troubled world. Again I halted with reverted eyes; The chain that would not slacken, was at length Snapt,--and, pursuing leisurely my way, How vain, thought I, is it by change of place[424] 20 To seek that comfort which the mind denies; Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned Wisely; and by such tenure[425] do we hold Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 25 Might, by the promise that is here, be won To steal from active duties, and embrace Obscurity, and undisturbed repose.[426] --Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times, Should be allowed a privilege to have 30 Her anchorites, like piety of old;[GB] Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained By war, might, if so minded, turn aside Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few Living to God and nature, and content 35 With that communion. Consecrated be The spots where such abide! But happier still The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends That meditation and research may guide His privacy to principles and powers 40 Discovered or invented; or set forth, Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth, In lucid order; so that, when his course Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 45 His unobtrusive merit; but his life, Sweet to himself, was exercised in good That shall survive his name and memory. Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere Accompanied these musings; fervent thanks 50 For my own peaceful lot and happy choice; A choice that from the passions of the world Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat; Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, Secluded, but not buried; and with song 55 Cheering my days, and with industrious thought; With the ever-welcome[427] company of books; With[428] virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, And with the blessings of domestic love. Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 60 Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel Worn in the moorland,[GC] till I overtook My two Associates, in the morning sunshine Halting together on a rocky knoll, Whence the bare road[429] descended rapidly 65 To the green meadows of another vale.[GD] Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand In sign of farewell. "Nay," the old Man said, "The fragrant air its coolness still retains; The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 70 The dewy grass; you cannot leave us now, We must not part at this inviting hour." He yielded,[430] though reluctant; for his mind Instinctively disposed him to retire To his own covert; as a billow, heaved 75 Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. --So we descend: and winding round a rock Attain a point that showed the valley--stretched In length before us;[GE] and, not distant far, Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower,(GE) 80 Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed A copious stream with boldly-winding course; Here traceable, there hidden--there again 85 To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. On the stream's bank, and every where, appeared Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots; Some scattered o'er the level, others perched On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 90 Now in its morning purity arrayed. "As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps," Said I, "once happy, ere tyrannic power, Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth, 95 A popular equality reigns here, Save for yon stately House[GF] beneath whose roof A rural lord might dwell."--"No feudal pomp, Or power," replied the Wanderer, "to that House Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 100 Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest,[431] The shepherd of his flock; or, as a king Is styled, when most affectionately praised, The father of his people. Such is he; And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice 105 Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed[432] To me some portion of a[433] kind regard; And something also of his inner mind Hath he imparted--but I speak of him As he is known to all. The calm delights 110 Of unambitious piety he chose, And learning's solid dignity; though born Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. Hither,[434] in prime of manhood, he withdrew From academic bowers. He loved the spot-- 115 Who does not love his native soil?--he prized The ancient rural character, composed Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest And undisguised, and strong and serious thought; A character reflected in himself, 120 With such embellishment as well beseems His rank and sacred function. This deep vale Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, And one a turreted manorial hall Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors 125 Have dwelt through ages--Patrons of this Cure. To them, and to his own judicious pains,[435] The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain, Owes that presiding aspect which might well Attract your notice; statelier than could else 130 Have been bestowed, through[436] course of common chance, On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." This said, oft pausing,[437] we pursued our way; Nor reached the village-churchyard[GG] till the sun Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 135 Above the summits of the highest hills, And round our path darted oppressive beams. As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile Stood open; and we entered. On my frame, At such transition from the fervid air, 140 A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike The heart, in concert with that temperate awe And natural reverence which the place inspired.[GH] Not raised in[438] nice proportions was the pile; But large and massy; for duration built; 145 With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld By naked rafters intricately crossed, Like leafless underboughs, in some thick wood,[439] All withered by the depth of shade above. Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 150 Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed; Each also crowned with winged heads--a pair Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, Was occupied by oaken benches ranged 155 In seemly rows; the chancel only showed Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state By immemorial privilege allowed; Though with the Encincture's special sanctity But ill according. An heraldic shield, 160 Varying its tincture with the changeful light, Imbued the altar-window; fixed aloft A faded hatchment hung, and one by time Yet undiscoloured.[440] A capacious pew Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined; 165 And marble monuments were here displayed Thronging the walls;[441] and on the floor beneath Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small And shining effigies of brass inlaid.[GI] 170 The tribute by these various records claimed, Duly we paid, each after each, and read[442] The ordinary chronicle of birth, Office, alliance, and promotion--all Ending in dust; of upright magistrates, 175 Grave doctors strenuous for the mother-church, And uncorrupted senators, alike To king and people true. A brazen plate, Not easily deciphered, told of one Whose course of earthly honour was begun 180 In quality of page among the train Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas His royal state to show, and prove his strength In tournament, upon the fields of France. Another tablet registered the death, 185 And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. Near this brave Knight his father lay entombed; And, to the silent language giving voice, I read,--how in his manhood's earlier day 190 He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine war, And rightful government subverted, found One only solace--that he had espoused A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved For her benign perfections; and yet more 195 Endeared to him, for this,[443] that, in her state Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard, She with a numerous issue filled his house, Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm That laid their country waste. No need to speak 200 Of less particular notices assigned To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old; Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed In modest panegyric. "These dim lines, 205 What would they tell?" said I,--but, from the task Of puzzling out that faded narrative, With whisper soft my venerable Friend Called me; and, looking down the darksome aisle, I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 210 Standing apart; with curvèd arm reclined On the baptismal font; his pallid face Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost In some abstraction; gracefully he stood, The semblance bearing of a sculptured form 215 That leans upon a monumental urn In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse; Who entered, humming carelessly a tune,[GJ] Continuation haply of the notes 220 That had beguiled the work from which he came, With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung; To be deposited, for future need, In their appointed place. The pale Recluse Withdrew; and straight we followed,--to a spot 225 Where sun and shade were intermixed; for there A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms From an adjoining pasture, overhung Small space of that green churchyard with a light And pleasant awning.[GK] On the moss-grown wall 230 My ancient Friend and I together took Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake, Standing before us:-- "Did you note the mien Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl, 234 Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbour's grave, Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay, All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf, Or plant a tree.[GL] And did you hear his voice?[444] I was abruptly summoned by the sound[445] From some affecting images and thoughts, 240 Which then were silent; but crave utterance now. "Much," he continued, with dejected look, "Much, yesterday,[446] was said in glowing phrase Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes For future states of being; and the wings 245 Of speculation, joyfully outspread, Hovered above our destiny on earth: But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul In sober contrast with reality, And man's substantial life. If this mute earth 250 Of what it holds could speak, and every grave Were as a volume, shut, yet capable Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame, To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 255 That which is done accords with what is known To reason, and by conscience is enjoined; How idly, how perversely, life's whole course, To this conclusion, deviates from the line, Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 260 At her[447] aspiring outset. "Mark the babe Not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp With tiny finger[448]--to let fall a tear; 265 And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem, The outward functions of intelligent man; A grave proficient in amusive feats Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 270 His expectations, and announce his claims To that inheritance which millions rue That they were ever born to! In due time A day of solemn ceremonial comes; When they, who for this Minor hold in trust 275 Rights that transcend the loftiest[449] heritage Of mere humanity, present their Charge, For this occasion daintily adorned, At the baptismal font. And when the pure And consecrating element hath cleansed 280 The original stain, the child is there received Into the second ark, Christ's church, with trust That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float Over the billows of this troublesome world To the fair land of everlasting life. 285 Corrupt affections, covetous desires, Are all renounced; high as the thought of man Can carry virtue, virtue is professed; A dedication made, a promise given For due provision to control and guide, 290 And unremitting progress to ensure In holiness and truth." "You cannot blame," Here interposing fervently I said, "Rites which attest that Man by nature lies Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 295 Fearfully low; nor will your judgment scorn Those services, whereby attempt is made To lift the creature toward[450] that eminence On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty He stood; or if not so, whose top serene 300 At least he feels 'tis given him to descry; Not without aspirations, evermore Returning, and injunctions from within Doubt to cast off and weariness; in trust That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost, 305 May be, through pains and persevering hope, Recovered; or, if hitherto unknown, Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained." "I blame them not," he calmly answered--"no; The outward ritual and established forms 310 With which communities of men invest These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows To which the lips give public utterance Are both a natural process; and by me Shall pass uncensured; though the issue prove, 315 Bringing from age to age its own reproach, Incongruous, impotent, and blank.--But, oh! If to be weak is to be wretched--miserable,[GM] As the lost Angel by a human voice Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 320 Far better not to move at all than move By impulse sent from such illusive power,-- That finds and cannot fasten down; that grasps And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps; That tempts, emboldens--for a time sustains,[451] 325 And then betrays; accuses and inflicts Remorseless punishment; and so retreads The inevitable circle; better far Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace, By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed! 330 "Philosophy! and thou more vaunted name Religion! with thy statelier retinue, Faith, Hope, and Charity--from the visible world Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find Of safest guidance or[452] of firmest trust-- 335 The torch, the star, the anchor; nor except The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet The generations of mankind have knelt Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, And through that conflict seeking rest--of you, 340 High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask, Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky In faint reflection of infinitude Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet A subterraneous magazine of bones, 345 In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid, Where are your triumphs? your dominion where? And in what age admitted and confirmed? --Not for a happy land do I enquire, Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 350 Who, with obedience willing and sincere, To your serene authorities conform; But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked ways, Inspired, and thoroughly fortified?--If the heart 355 Could be inspected to its inmost folds By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, Who shall be named--in the resplendent line Of sages, martyrs, confessors--the man Whom the best might of faith, wherever fix'd,[453] 360 For one day's little compass, has preserved From painful and discreditable shocks Of contradiction, from some vague desire Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse To some unsanctioned fear?" "If this be so, 365 And Man," said I, "be in his noblest shape Thus pitiably infirm; then, he who made, And who shall judge the creature, will forgive. --Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint Is all too true; and surely not misplaced: 370 For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thoughts Rise to the notice of a serious mind By natural exhalation. With the dead In their repose, the living in their mirth, Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 375 Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, By which, on Christian lands, from age to age Profession mocks performance? Earth is sick, And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 380 Of truth and justice. Turn to private life And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves; A light of duty shines on every day For all; and yet how few are warmed or cheered! How few who mingle with their fellow-men 385 And still remain self-governed, and apart, Like this our honoured Friend; and thence acquire Right to expect his vigorous decline, That promises to the end a blest old age!" "Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 390 The Solitary, "in the life of man, If to the poetry of common speech Faith may be given, we see as in a glass A true reflection of the circling year, With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there, 395 In spite of many a rough untoward blast, Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers; Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day, That _ought_ to follow faithfully expressed? And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit, 400 Where is she imaged? in what favoured clime Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence? --Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse In man's autumnal season is set forth With a resemblance not to be denied, 405 And that contents him; bowers that hear no more The voice of gladness, less and less supply Of outward sunshine and internal warmth; And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves, Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway.[454] 410 "How gay the habitations that bedeck[455] This fertile valley! Not a house but seems To give assurance of content within;[GN] Embosomed happiness, and placid love; As if the sunshine of the day were met 415 With answering brightness in the hearts of all Who walk this favoured ground. But chance-regards, And notice forced upon incurious ears; These, if these only, acting in despite Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 420 On humble life, forbid the judging mind To trust the smiling aspect of this fair And noiseless commonwealth. The simple race Of mountaineers (by nature's self removed From foul temptations, and by constant care 425 Of a good shepherd tended as themselves Do tend their flocks) partake man's general lot[456] With little mitigation. They escape, Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; feel not[457] The tedium of fantastic idleness: 430 Yet life, as with the multitude, with them Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale; That on the outset wastes its gay desires, Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, And pleasant interests--for the sequel leaving 435 Old things repeated with diminished grace; And all the laboured novelties at best Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." While in this serious mood we held discourse, 440 The reverend Pastor toward[458] the church-yard gate Approached; and, with a mild respectful air Of native cordiality, our Friend Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 445 Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess That he, who now upon the mossy wall Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish Could have transferred him to the flying clouds, Or the least penetrable hiding-place 450 In his own valley's rocky guardianship.[459] --For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased: Nature had framed them both, and both were marked By circumstance, with intermixture fine Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 455 Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak, Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, One might be likened: flourishing appeared, Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, The other--like a stately sycamore,[GO] 460 That spreads, in gentle[460] pomp, its honied shade. A general greeting was exchanged; and soon The Pastor learned that his approach had given A welcome interruption to discourse Grave, and in truth too[461] often sad.--"Is Man 465 A child of hope? Do generations press On generations, without progress made? Halts the individual, ere his hairs be grey, Perforce? Are we a creature in whom good Preponderates, or evil? Doth the will 470 Acknowledge reason's law? A living power Is virtue, or no better than a name, Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound? So that the only substance which remains, (For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 475 Among so many shadows, are the pains And penalties of miserable life, Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust! --Our cogitations this way have been drawn, 479 These are the points," the Wanderer said, "on which Our inquest turns.--Accord, good Sir! the light Of your experience to dispel this gloom: By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered. "Our nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 485 "Angels may weigh and fathom: they perceive, With undistempered and unclouded spirit, The object as it is; but, for ourselves, That speculative height _we_ may not reach. The good and evil are our own; and we 490 Are that which we would contemplate from far. Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain-- Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep-- As virtue's self; like virtue is beset With snares; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 495 Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, Blind were we without these; through these alone Are capable to notice or discern Or to record; we judge, but cannot be Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 500 Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man An effort only, and a noble aim; A crown, an attribute of sovereign power, Still to be courted--never to be won. --Look forth, or each man dive into himself; 505 What sees he but a creature too perturbed; That is transported to excess; that yearns, Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much; Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils; Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair? 510 Thus comprehension fails, and truth is missed; Thus darkness[462] and delusion round our path Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks Within the very faculty of sight. "Yet for the general purposes of faith 515 In Providence, for solace and support, We may not doubt that who can best subject The will to reason's law, can[463] strictliest live And act in that obedience, he shall gain The clearest apprehension of those truths, 520 Which unassisted reason's utmost power Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this, And our regards confining within bounds Of less exalted consciousness, through which The very multitude are free to range, 525 We safely may affirm that human life Is either fair and[464] tempting, a soft scene Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, Or a forbidden[465] tract of cheerless view; Even as the same is looked at, or approached. 530 Thus, when in changeful April fields are white With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen north Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, filled With mounds[466] transversely lying side by side 535 From east to west, before you will appear An unillumined, blank, and dreary, plain,[467] With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back; Look,[468] from the quarter whence the lord of light, 540 Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense His beams; which, unexcluded in their fall, Upon the southern side of every grave Have gently exercised a melting power; _Then_ will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 545 All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, Hopeful and cheerful:--vanished is the pall That overspread and chilled the sacred turf, Vanished or hidden;[469] and the whole domain, To some, too lightly minded, might appear 550 A meadow carpet for the dancing hours.[GP] --This contrast, not unsuitable to life, Is to that other state more apposite, Death and its two-fold aspect! wintry--one, Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out; 555 The other, which the ray divine hath touched, Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." "We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus With a complacent animation spake, "And in your judgment, Sir! the mind's repose 560 On evidence is not to be ensured By act of naked reason. Moral truth Is no mechanic structure, built by rule; And which, once built, retains a stedfast shape And undisturbed proportions; but a thing 565 Subject, you deem, to vital accidents; And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 570 By your authority. But how acquire The inward principle that gives effect To outward argument; the passive will Meek to admit; the active energy, Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 575 To keep and cherish? how shall man unite With[470] self-forgetting tenderness of heart An[471] earth-despising dignity of soul? Wise in that union, and without it blind!" "The way," said I, "to court, if not obtain 580 The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright; This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you Declared at large; and by what exercise From visible nature, or the inner self Power may be trained, and renovation brought 585 To those who need the gift. But, after all, Is aught so certain as that man is doomed To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance? The natural roof of that dark house in which His soul is pent! How little can be known-- 590 This is the wise man's sigh; how far we err-- This is the good man's not unfrequent pang! And they perhaps err least, the lowly class Whom a benign necessity compels To follow reason's least ambitious course; 595 Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt, And unincited by a wish to look Into high objects farther than they may, Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, The narrow avenue of daily toil 600 For daily bread." "Yes," buoyantly exclaimed The pale Recluse--"praise to the sturdy plough, And patient spade; praise to the simple crook,[472] And ponderous loom--resounding while it holds Body and mind in one captivity; 605 And let the light mechanic tool be hailed With honour; which, encasing by the power Of long companionship, the artist's hand, Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, From a too busy commerce with the heart! 610 --Inglorious implements of craft and toil, Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, By slow solicitation, earth to yield Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth With wise reluctance; you would I extol, 615 Not for gross good alone which ye produce, But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife Of proofs and reasons ye preclude--in those Who to your dull society are born, And with their humble birthright rest content. 620 --Would I had ne'er renounced it!" A slight flush Of moral anger previously had tinged The old Man's cheek; but, at this closing turn Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, "That which we feel we utter; as we think 625 So have we argued; reaping for our pains No visible recompense. For our relief You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, "Have kindly interposed. May I entreat Your further help? The mine of real life 630 Dig for us; and present us, in the shape Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains Fruitless as those of aëry alchemists, Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies Around us a domain where you have long 635 Watched both the outward course and inner heart:[473] Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts; For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man He is who cultivates yon hanging field; What qualities of mind she bears, who comes, 640 For morn and evening service, with her pail, To that green pasture;[GQ] place before our sight The family who dwell within yon house Fenced round with glittering laurel;[GR] or in that Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. 645 Or rather, as we stand on holy earth, And have the dead around us,[GS] take from them Your instances; for they are both best known, And by frail man most equitably judged. Epitomise the life; pronounce, you can, 650 Authentic epitaphs on some of these Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet: So, by your records, may our doubts be solved; And so, not searching higher, we may learn 655 _To prize the breath we share with human kind; And look upon the dust of man with awe._"[474] The Priest replied--"An office you impose For which peculiar requisites are mine; Yet much, I feel, is wanting--else the task 660 Would be most grateful. True indeed it is That they whom death has hidden from our sight Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with these The future cannot contradict the past: Mortality's last exercise and proof 665 Is undergone; the transit made that shows The very Soul, revealed as she[475] departs. Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, Ere we descend into these silent vaults, One picture from the living. "You behold, 670 High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark With stony barrenness,[GT] a shining speck Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower Brush it away, or cloud pass over it; 674 And such it might be deemed--a sleeping sunbeam; But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground, Cut off, an island in the dusky waste; And that attractive brightness is its own. The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 680 The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen, For opportunity presented, thence Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land And ocean, and look down upon the works, The habitations, and the ways of men, 685 Himself unseen! But no tradition tells That ever hermit dipped his maple dish In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields; And no such visionary views belong To those who occupy and till the ground, 690 High on that mountain where they long have dwelt[476] A wedded pair in childless solitude. A house of stones collected on the spot, By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 695 Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top; A rough abode--in colour, shape, and size,[477] Such as in unsafe times of border-war Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude The eye of roving plunderer--for their need 700 Suffices; and unshaken bears the assault Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west In anger blowing from the distant sea. --Alone within her solitary hut; There, or within the compass of her fields, 705 At any moment may the Dame be found, True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles By intermingled work of house and field The summer's day, and winter's; with success 710 Not equal, but sufficient to maintain, Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content, Until the expected hour at which her Mate From the far-distant quarry's vault returns; And by his converse crowns a silent day 715 With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind, In scale of culture, few among my flock[478] Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair: But true humility descends from heaven;[479] And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on them; 720 Abundant recompense for every want. --Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these! Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear The voice of wisdom whispering scripture texts For the mind's government, or temper's peace; 725 And recommending for their mutual need, Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity!" "Much was I pleased," the grey-haired Wanderer said, "When to those shining fields our notice first You turned; and yet more pleased have from your lips Gathered this fair report of them[480] who dwell 731 In that retirement; whither, by such course Of evil hap and good as oft awaits A tired way-faring man, once _I_ was brought While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 735 Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell,[481] And night succeeded with unusual gloom,[482] So hazardous that feet and hands became[483] Guides better than mine eyes--until a light High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 740 For human habitation; but I longed To reach it, destitute of other hope. I looked with steadiness as sailors look On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, And saw the light--now fixed--and shifting now--[GU] 745 Not like a dancing meteor, but in line Of never-varying motion, to and fro. It is no night-fire of the naked hills, Thought I[484]--some friendly covert must be near. With this persuasion thitherward my steps 750 I turn, and reach at last the guiding light; Joy to myself! but to the heart of her Who there was standing on the open hill, (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) Alarm and disappointment! The alarm 755 Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I came, And by what help had gained those distant fields. Drawn from her cottage, on that aëry[485] height, Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, Or paced the ground--to guide her Husband home, 760 By that unwearied signal, kenned afar;[GV] An anxious duty! which the lofty site, Traversed but by a few irregular paths,[486] Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance Detains him after his accustomed hour 765 Till night lies black upon the ground. 'But come, Come,' said the Matron, 'to our poor abode; Those dark rocks hide it!'[487] Entering, I beheld A blazing fire--beside a cleanly hearth Sate down; and to her office, with leave asked, 770 The Dame returned. "Or ere[488] that glowing pile Of mountain turf required the builder's hand Its wasted splendour to repair, the door Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, 775 Frank conversation, made the evening's treat: Need a bewildered traveller wish for more? But more was given; I studied as we sate By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face Not less than beautiful;[489] an open brow 780 Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek Suffused with something of a feminine hue;[GW] Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard; But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, Expression slowly varying, that evinced 785 A tardy apprehension. From a fount Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, But honoured once, those[490] features and that mien May have descended, though I see them here. In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 790 Withal so graceful in his gentleness, A race illustrious for heroic deeds, Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld By sundry recollections of such fall 795 From high to low, ascent from low to high, As books record, and even the careless mind Cannot but notice among men and things) Went with me to the place of my repose.[491] "Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 800 I yet had risen too late to interchange A morning salutation with my Host, Gone forth already to the far-off seat Of his day's work. 'Three dark mid-winter months 'Pass,' said the Matron, 'and I never see, 805 'Save when the sabbath brings its kind release, 'My helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 'His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 'And, through Heaven's[492] blessing, thus we gain the bread 'For which we pray; and for the wants provide 810 'Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 'Companions have I many; many friends, 'Dependants, comforters--my wheel, my fire, 'All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, 'The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, 815 'And the wild birds that gather round my porch. 'This honest sheep-dog's countenance I read; 'With him can talk; nor blush to[493] waste a word 'On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 'And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds 820 'Care not for me, he lingers round my door, 'And makes me pastime when our tempers suit;-- 'But, above all, my thoughts are my support, 'My comfort:--would that they were oftener fixed 'On what, for guidance in the way that leads 825 'To heaven, I know, by my Redeemer taught.' The Matron ended[494]--nor could I forbear To exclaim--'O happy! yielding to the law Of these privations, richer in the main!-- While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged 830 By ease and leisure; by the very wealth And pride of opportunity made poor; While tens of thousands falter in their path, And sink, through utter want of cheering light; For you the hours of labour do not flag; 835 For you each evening hath its shining star, And every sabbath-day its golden sun.'" "Yes!" said the Solitary with a smile That seemed to break from an expanding heart, "The untutored bird may found, and so construct, 840 And with such soft materials line, her nest Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake, That the thorns wound her not; they only guard. Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 845 Shares with her species, nature's grace sometimes Upon the individual doth confer, Among her[495] higher creatures born and trained To use of reason. And, I own that, tired Of the ostentatious world--a swelling stage 850 With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, And from the private struggles of mankind Hoping far[496] less than I could wish to hope, Far less than once I trusted and believed-- I love to hear of those, who, not contending 855 Nor summoned to contend for virtue's prize, Miss not the humbler good at which they aim, Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn Into their contraries the petty plagues 860 And hindrances with which they stand beset. In early youth, among my native hills, I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed A few small crofts of stone-encumbered ground; Masses of every shape and size, that lay 865 Scattered about under[497] the mouldering walls Of a rough precipice; and some, apart, In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, As if the moon had showered them down in spite. But he repined not. Though the plough was scared 870 By these obstructions, 'round the shady stones A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 'Gathers, and is preserved; and feeding dews 'And damps, through all the droughty summer day 'From out their substance issuing, maintain 875 'Herbage that never fails: no grass springs up 'So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine!' But[498] thinly sown these natures; rare, at least, The mutual aptitude of seed and soil That yields such kindly product. He, whose bed 880 Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, If living now, could otherwise report Of rustic loneliness: that grey-haired Orphan-- 885 So call him, for humanity to him No parent was--feelingly could[499] have told, In life, in death, what solitude can breed Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice; Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 890 --But your compliance, Sir! with our request My words too long have hindered." Undeterred, Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, In no ungracious opposition, given To the confiding spirit of his own 895 Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said, Around him looking; "Where shall I begin? Who shall be first selected from my flock Gathered together in their peaceful fold?" He paused--and having lifted up his eyes 900 To the pure heaven, he cast them down again Upon the earth beneath his feet; and spake:-- "To a mysteriously-united pair[500] This place is consecrate; to Death and Life, And to the best affections that proceed 905 From their conjunction; consecrate to faith In him who bled for man upon the cross; Hallowed to revelation; and no less[501] To reason's mandates; and the hopes divine Of pure imagination;--above all, 910 To charity, and love, that have provided, Within these precincts, a capacious bed And receptacle, open to the good And evil, to the just and the unjust; In which they find an equal resting-place: 915 Even as the multitude of kindred brooks And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, Whether their course be turbulent or smooth, Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 920 And end their journey in the same repose! "And blest are they who sleep; and we that know, While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, That all beneath us by the wings are covered Of motherly humanity, outspread 925 And gathering all within their tender shade, Though loth and slow to come! A battle-field, In stillness left when slaughter is no more, With this compared, makes[502] a strange spectacle! A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn 930 With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old Wandering about in miserable search Of friends or kindred,[503] whom the angry sea Restores not to their prayer! Ah! who would think That all the scattered subjects which compose 935 Earth's melancholy vision through the space Of all her climes--these wretched, these depraved, To virtue lost, insensible of peace, From the delights of charity cut off, To pity dead, the oppressor and the opprest; 940 Tyrants who utter the destroying word, And slaves who will consent to be destroyed-- Were of one species with the sheltered few, Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot,[504] 945 This file of infants; some that never breathed The vital air; others, which, though allowed[505] That privilege, did yet expire too soon, Or with too brief a warning, to admit Administration of the holy rite 950 That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. These that in trembling hope are laid apart; And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired Till he begins to smile upon the breast 955 That feeds him; and the tottering little-one Taken from air and sunshine when the rose Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek; The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy; the bold youth Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid 960 Smitten while all the promises of life Are opening round her; those of middle age, Cast down while confident in strength they stand, Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem, And more secure, by very weight of all 965 That, for support, rests on them; the decayed And burthensome; and lastly, that poor few Whose light of reason is with age extinct; The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last, The earliest summoned and the longest spared-- 970 Are here deposited, with tribute paid Various, but unto each some tribute paid;[506] As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, Society were touched with kind concern, And gentle 'Nature grieved, that one should die;'[GX] Or, if the change demanded no regret, 976 Observed the liberating stroke--and blessed. "And whence that tribute? wherefore these regards?[GY] Not from the naked _Heart_ alone of Man (Though claiming high[507] distinction upon earth 980 As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, His own peculiar utterance for distress Or gladness)--No," the philosophic Priest Continued, "'tis not in the vital seat Of feeling to produce them, without aid 985 From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure; With her two faculties of eye and ear, The one by which a creature, whom his sins Have rendered prone, can upward[508] look to heaven; The other that empowers him to perceive 990 The voice of Deity, on height and plain, Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Word, To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims. Not without such assistance could the use Of these benign observances prevail: 995 Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus[509] maintained; And by the care prospective of our wise Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks The fluctuation and decay of things, Embodied and established these high truths 1000 In solemn institutions:--men convinced That life is love and immortality, The being one, and one the element. There lies the channel, and original bed, From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped 1005 For Man's affections--else betrayed and lost, And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite! This is the genuine course, the aim, and end Of prescient reason; all conclusions else Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 1010 The faith partaking of those holy times, Life, I repeat, is energy of love Divine or human; exercised in pain, In strife, in tribulation; and ordained, If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 1015 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy."[GZ] VARIANTS: [Footnote 417: 1836. _Sight of a large and populous Vale--Solitary consents to go forward--Vale described_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 418: 1836. _The Church-yard_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 419: _Apology for the Rite_-- First inserted in the edition of 1836.] [Footnote 420: 1836. _What sensations they excite_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 421: 1827. And guardian rocks!--With unreverted eyes I cannot pass thy bounds, attractive Seat! 1814. ] [Footnote 422: Open, to ... MS. ] [Footnote 423: 1836. Upon the side Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the Vale, Lingering 1814. Of that brown Slope, ... 1827. ] [Footnote 424: 1836. ... of a troubled World. And now, pursuing leisurely my way, How vain, thought I, it is by change of place 1814. ] [Footnote 425: 1827. ... tenor ... 1814. ] [Footnote 426: 1845. Obscurity, and calm forgetfulness. 1814. ] [Footnote 427: 1814. With ever-welcome ... 1827. The text of 1836 returns to that of 1814.] [Footnote 428: 1836. By ... 1814. ] [Footnote 429: 1845. From which the road ... 1814. ] [Footnote 430: 1827. To that injunction, earnestly expressed, He yielded, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 431: 1845. A popular equality doth seem Here to prevail; and yet a House of State Stands yonder, one beneath whose roof, methinks, A rural Lord might dwell." "No feudal pomp," Replied our Friend, a Chronicler who stood Where'er he moved upon familiar ground, "Nor feudal power is there; but there abides, In his allotted Home a genuine Priest, 1814. A popular equality reigns here Save for one House of State beneath whose roof A rural Lord ... 1827. ] [Footnote 432: 1827. Under his spiritual sway, collected round him In this sequestered Realm. He hath vouchsafed 1814. ] [Footnote 433: 1827. ... his ... 1814. ] [Footnote 434: 1827. This good to reap, these pleasures to secure, Hither, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 435: 1836. ... This deep vale Is lengthened out by many a winding reach, Not visible to us; and one of these A turretted manorial Hall adorns; In which the good Man's Ancestors have dwelt From age to age, the Patrons of this Cure. To them, and to his decorating hand, 1814. To them, and to his own judicious hand, MS. ... This deep vale Winds far in reaches hidden from our eyes, 1827. ] [Footnote 436: 1827. ... in ... 1814. ] [Footnote 437: 1836. ... halting, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 438: 1827. Not framed to ... 1814. Nor shaped in ... MS. ] [Footnote 439: 1845. ... in some thick grove, 1814. ... mid some thick grove, 1827. ] [Footnote 440: 1845. ... the chancel only shewed Some inoffensive marks of earthly state And vain distinction.... 1814. The Chancel only shewed So privileged of yore, without offence To piety, some marks of earthly state And vain distinction, Allowed by ancient privilege; though in sooth With the pure sanctity the place should breathe But ill according. A capacious pew Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined And curtained closely round. Obnoxious less To blame or unavoidable regret, A high fixed hatchment, time-discoloured, told Of man's mortality and its own decay. C. Some vain distinctions, an heraldic shield, In tincture varying as the sun might shine, Imbued its eastern window, and aloft A faded hatchment hung, and one by time Yet undiscoloured, marks of earthly state. C. ] [Footnote 441: 1827. Upon the walls; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 442: 1845. Without reluctance did we pay; and read 1814. We paid to each with due respect, C. ] [Footnote 443: 1827. ... and for this Yet more endeared to him, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 444: 1836. As unconcerned as when he plants a tree? 1814. ] [Footnote 445: 1836. ... by his voice 1814. ] [Footnote 446: 1845. ... images and thoughts, And from the company of serious words. Much, yesterday, ... 1814. And from the company of serious words, Which then were silent; but crave utterance now. Much," he continued, with dejected looks, "Much, yesterday, ... 1836. ] [Footnote 447: 1827. At its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 448: 1836. With tiny fingers, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 449: 1845. ... unblest ... 1814. ... humblest ... 1827. ] [Footnote 450: 1827. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 451: 1836. ... doth a while sustain, 1814. ] [Footnote 452: 1845. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 453: 1845. Whom the best might of Conscience, Truth, and Hope, 1814. ] [Footnote 454: 1845. Foretelling total Winter, blank and cold. 1814. Foretelling aged Winter's dreary sway. 1840. Prelude to coming Winter's desolate sway. C. ] [Footnote 455: 1827. ... adorn 1814. ] [Footnote 456: 1827. Do tend their flocks, These share Man's general lot 1814. ] [Footnote 457: 1836. Perchance, guilt's heavier woes; and do not feel 1814. ] [Footnote 458: 1827. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 459: 1836. Could have transferred him to his lonely House Within the circuit of those guardian rocks. 1814. ] [Footnote 460: 1836. ... gentler ... 1814. ] [Footnote 461: 1827. ... full ... 1814. ] [Footnote 462: 1836. Thus truth is missed, and comprehension fails; And darkness ... 1814. ] [Footnote 463: 1836. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 464: 1827. ... or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 465: 1820. ... forbidding ... 1814. The texts of 1827 to 1843 and that of 1847 return to the text of 1814.] [Footnote 466: 1836. ... or approached. Permit me," said the Priest continuing, "here To use an illustration of my thought, Drawn from the very spot on which we stand. --In changeful April, when, as he is wont, Winter has reassumed a short lived sway And whitened all the surface of the fields, If--from the sullen region of the North Towards the circuit of this holy ground Your walk conducts you, ere the vigorous sun, High climbing, hath attained his noon-tide height-- These Mounds, ... 1814. Thus, when in changeful April snow has fallen, And fields are white, if from the sullen north Your walk conduct you hither, ere the Sun Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, filled With mounds ... 1827. ... ere vigorous sun MS. ] [Footnote 467: 1827. A dreary plain of unillumined snow, 1814. ] [Footnote 468: 1827. ... Go forward, and look back; On the same circuit of this church-yard ground Look, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 469: 1836. Hopeful and cheerful:--vanished is the snow, Vanished or hidden; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 470: 1827. A ... 1814. ] [Footnote 471: 1827. And ... 1814. ] [Footnote 472: 1836. ... spade, and shepherd's simple crook, 1814. ] [Footnote 473: 1827. ... where You have long Held spiritual sway, have guided and consoled, And watched the outward course and inner heart. 1814. ] [Footnote 474: Italics were first used in 1827.] [Footnote 475: 1827. ... it ... 1814. ] [Footnote 476: 1845. And on the bosom of the mountain dwell-- 1814. ] [Footnote 477: 1836. ... above the chimney top; In shape, in size, and colour, an abode 1814. ... above the chimney top: A rough abode--in colour, shape, and size, 1827. ] [Footnote 478: 1814. Few only in the scale of culture, hold Among my flock ... C. ] [Footnote 479: 1845. But humbleness of heart descends from heaven; 1814. ] [Footnote 480: 1827. ... those ... 1814. ] [Footnote 481: 1836. A lone way-faring Man, I once was brought. Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell While I was traversing yon mountain-pass, 1814. ] [Footnote 482: 1814. And with the night succeeded a thick gloom, C. ] [Footnote 483: 1845. So that my feet and hands at length became 1814. ] [Footnote 484: 1827. Said I, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 485: 1836. ... open ... 1814. ] [Footnote 486: 1827. ... which the lofty Site, Far from all public road or beaten way And traversed only by a few faint paths, 1814. ] [Footnote 487: 1832. (Such chance is rare) detains him till the night Falls black upon the hills. "But come," she said, "Come let me lead you to our poor Abode. Behind those rocks it stands, as if it shunned, In churlishness, the eye of all mankind; But the few Guests who seek the door receive Most hearty welcome."-- ... 1814. Detains him after his accustomed hour When night lies black upon the hills. 'But come, 1827. ] [Footnote 488: 1827. ... Before ... 1814. ] [Footnote 489: 1845. But more was given; the eye, the mind, the heart, Found exercise in noting, as we sate By the bright fire, the good Man's face--composed Of features elegant; ... 1814. But more was given; I studied as we sate 1827. ] [Footnote 490: 1836. ... these ... 1814. ] [Footnote 491: 1814. Sweetened for me our mutual good night Nor left me on a lonely pillow stretched Till slumber had given way to dreamless sleep. C. ] [Footnote 492: 1814. ... God's ... C. ] [Footnote 493: 1820. ... nor seldom ... 1814. ] [Footnote 494: 1845. "--But, above all, my Thoughts are my support." The Matron ended-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 495: 1827. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 496: 1836. ... for ... 1814. ] [Footnote 497: 1832. ... beneath ... 1814. ] [Footnote 498: 1827. ... so plentiful, as mine!" See, in this well conditioned Soul, a Third To match with your good Couple that put forth Their homely graces on the mountain side. But ... 1814. ] [Footnote 499: 1832. ... could feelingly ... 1814. ] [Footnote 500: 1845. ... mysteriously-consorted Pair 1814. ] [Footnote 501: 1814. ... and therewith C. ] [Footnote 502: 1845. ... is ... 1814. ... yields ... 1836. ] [Footnote 503: 1836. A rueful sight the wild shore strewn with wrecks And trod by people in afflicted quest Of friends and kindred, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 504: 1836. Did lodge, in an appropriated spot, 1814. ] [Footnote 505: 1836. ... and others, who allowed 1814. ] [Footnote 506: 1814. Are here deposited as the like shall be Through ages yet to come. C. ] [Footnote 507: 1827. ... framed to high ... 1814. ] [Footnote 508: 1814. ... upward can ... C. ] [Footnote 509: 1836. ... and ... 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote FY: With this compare _The Prelude_, book i. line 463 (vol. iii. p. 146)-- Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. ] [Footnote FZ: The "semicirque of turf-clad ground," where the conversations recorded in books iii. and iv. had been carried on.--ED.] [Footnote GA: Towards Little Langdale.--ED.] [Footnote GB: See Matthew Arnold's address as President of the Wordsworth Society, in its _Transactions_ for the year 1883.--ED.] [Footnote GC: The sledge used for bringing down peats or bracken from the uplands. The "sledge" has not yet entirely given way to the "wheel," many of the Westmoreland peasants still using it, when bringing down their winter stores of fuel and bedding, as they do in Norway.--ED.] [Footnote GD: The vale of Little Langdale.--ED.] [Footnote GE: "After we quit his cottage, passing over a low ridge, we descend into another vale, that of Little Langdale, towards the head of which stands embowered, or partly shaded by yews and other trees, something between a cottage and a mansion, or gentleman's house, such as they once were in this country. This I convert into the parsonage, and at the same time, and as by the waving of a magic wand, I turn the comparatively confined vale of Langdale, its tarn, and the rude chapel which once adorned the valley, into the stately and comparatively spacious vale of Grasmere and its ancient parish church."--I. F. The Fenwick note is not quite clear as to the relation of Hackett to Blea Tarn Cottage. Dr. Cradock thinks that "Wordsworth meant that his description of the cottage was borrowed from Hackett (which he frequently visited), so far at least as the solitary clock, and the cottage stairs, and the dark and low apartments were concerned."--ED.] [Footnote GF: See the note on the previous page.--ED.] [Footnote GG: Grasmere.--ED.] [Footnote GH: Compare Lamb's remarks in reference to Harrow Church in a letter to Wordsworth, August 14, 1814. See _Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Canon Ainger, vol. i. p. 272.--ED.] [Footnote GI: The details of this description apply in most particulars to the Church at Grasmere, although some are probably borrowed from Wordsworth's recollections of Hawkshead and of Bowness. The "naked rafters intricately crossed," the "admonitory texts" inscribed on the walls, Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed, the "oaken benches," the "heraldic shield" in the "altar-window," the "faded hatchment," the "marble monuments" and "sepulchral stones" with "emblems graven and foot-worn epitaphs,"--all are there. Grasmere Church was "for duration built," as Wordsworth puts it; and, however ill adapted to the wants of modern ceremonial, it is to be hoped that all that is most characteristic of the old edifice will be preserved; and that--while no building can retain its original form for ever--its renovation will not destroy what remains of that "rude and antique majesty," which Wordsworth tells us had, even in 1843, been partially impaired.--ED.] [Footnote GJ: Compare, in _Hamlet_, act v. scene i. l. 64-- Hamlet.--Has this fellow no feeling of his business? he sings at grave-making. Horatio.--Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. Hamlet.--'Tis e'en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.--ED.] [Footnote GK: An oak now grows in the field a little to the east of the churchyard wall, which cannot, however, be that to which Wordsworth refers. Possibly an oak grew at that time beside the wall above the Rothay. The wall is still "moss-grown."--ED.] [Footnote GL: See the footnote on the previous page.--ED.] [Footnote GM: Compare _Paradise Lost_, book i. l. 157-- To be weak is miserable, Doing or suffering. ED. ] [Footnote GN: Compare Wordsworth's _Description of the Scenery of the Lakes_, section 2. "To begin with the COTTAGES. They are scattered over the vallies, and under the hill sides, and on the rocks; and, even to this day, in the more retired dales, without any intrusion of more assuming buildings; Clustered like stars some few, but single most, And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, Or glancing on each other cheerful looks, Like separated stars with clouds between. The dwelling-houses, and contiguous outhouses, are, in many instances, of the colour of the native rock, out of which they have been built.... These humble dwellings remind the contemplative spectator of a production of nature, and may (using a strong expression) rather be said to have grown than to have been erected;--to have risen, by an instinct of their own, out of the native rock--so little is there in them of formality, such is their wildness and beauty! Among the numerous recesses and projections in the walls and in the different stages of their roofs, are seen bold and harmonious effects of contrasted sunshine and shadow.... These dwellings, mostly built, as has been said, of rough unhewn stone, are roofed with slates ... rough and uneven in their surfaces, so that both the coverings and sides of the houses have furnished places of rest for the seeds of lichens, mosses, ferns, and flowers. Hence buildings, which, in their very form call to mind the processes of nature, do thus, clothed with this vegetable garb, appear to be received into the bosom of the living principle of things, as it acts and exists among the woods and fields." Compare also Gray's description of the Vale of Grasmere in his Journal:--"Not a single red tile, nor flaring gentleman's house, or garden-wall, breaks in upon the repose of this little unsuspected paradise; but all is peace, rusticity, and happy poverty, in its neatest and most becoming attire."--ED.] [Footnote GO: "To illustrate the relation which in my mind this Pastor bore to the Wanderer, and the resemblances between them, or rather the points of community in their nature, I likened one to an oak, and the other to a sycamore; and having here referred to this comparison, I need only add, I had no one individual in my mind, wishing rather to embody this idea than to break in upon the simplicity of it by traits of individual character, or of any peculiarity of opinion."--I. F. The sycamore is the favourite tree at the Mountain Farms of Cumberland and Westmoreland, as it affords the best shelter from rain, and the most thorough protection from the heat of the sun, during sheep-shearing. A special feature of the valley as you go down Langdale from Blea Tarn, is the abundance of sycamore; some of the farm-houses are literally _embowered_ by it.--ED.] [Footnote GP: The group of meditative talkers are supposed to be seated on the moss-grown wall to the east of the Churchyard, facing Silver How.--ED.] [Footnote GQ: Possibly at Dale End, Grasmere.--ED.] [Footnote GR: Probably the Wyke, Sarah Mackereth's Cottage.--ED.] [Footnote GS: See Wordsworth's note, p. 388.--ED.] [Footnote GT: Silver How is the only "dark mountain" visible to the west from the moss-grown seat in the Grasmere Churchyard; but here again the realism of the narrative gives way, and not Silver How but Lingmoor is described, with Hackett Cottage at its south-eastern foot. The Fenwick note is here explicit. "First for the one picture given by the Wanderer of the living. In this nothing is introduced but what was taken from nature and real life. The cottage was called Hackett, and stands, as described, on the southern extremity of the ridge which separates the two Langdales. The pair who inhabited it were called Jonathan and Betty Yewdale." Later on, in book vi. p. 250, Wordsworth describes the blue roofs of Hawkshead village as ornamenting a distant reach _Of this far-winding vale_. Unless, therefore, he is speaking in the vague, Hackett and not Grasmere is the place described. The Fenwick note to the _Epistle to Sir George Beaumont_, however, decides the question (see vol. iv. p. 256). "The house (Hackett) and its inmates are referred to in the fifth book of _The Excursion_, in the passage beginning-- You behold, High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark." ED. ] [Footnote GU: Compare the Sonnet (of 1815) referring to Allan Bank, beginning-- Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless, etc. ED. ] [Footnote GV: Compare the Sonnet (of 1815) beginning-- The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade, and more especially the Fenwick note, prefixed to that sonnet.--ED.] [Footnote GW: This feminine complexion of the Cumbrian peasants who work in the higher mines, is probably in part due to the continual mists and moisture of the heights. It has been observed especially amongst the workers in the high slate quarries at Walna Scar.--ED.] [Footnote GX: In a note to the edition of 1814, Wordsworth added to the above quotation _Southey's Retrospect_. See p. 388 of this volume.] [Footnote GY: In 1814 Wordsworth added to this line a prefatory note to his _Essay upon Epitaphs_, and the _Essay_ itself, for which see _The Prose Works_.] [Footnote GZ: On the 1st of August 1849, during the last year of the poet's life, he transcribed the five lines beginning-- Life, I repeat, is energy of love on a presentation copy of his works, sent to Thomas Gough. It was one of the last things he ever wrote.--ED.] Book Sixth THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS ARGUMENT _Poet's Address to the State and Church of England--The Pastor not inferior to the ancient Worthies of the Church--He begins his Narratives with an instance of unrequited Love--Anguish of mind subdued, and how--The lonely Miner--An instance of perseverance--Which leads by contrast to an example of abused talents, irresolution, and weakness--Solitary, applying this covertly to his own case, asks for an instance of some Stranger, whose dispositions may have led him to end his days here--Pastor, in answer, gives an account of the harmonising influence of Solitude upon two men of opposite principles, who had encountered agitations in public life--The rule by which Peace may be obtained expressed, and where--Solitary hints at an overpowering Fatality--Answer of the Pastor--What subjects he will exclude from his Narratives--Conversation upon this--Instance of an unamiable character, a Female, and why given--Contrasted with this, a meek sufferer, from unguarded and betrayed love--Instance of heavier guilt, and its consequences to the Offender--With this instance of a Marriage Contract broken is contrasted one of a Widower, evidencing his faithful affection towards his deceased wife by his care of their female Children._[510] Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped--to gird An English Sovereign's brow! and to the throne Whereon he sits! Whose deep foundations lie In veneration and the people's love; Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 5 --Hail to the State of England! And conjoin With this a salutation as devout, Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church; Founded in truth; by blood of Martyrdom Cemented; by the hands of Wisdom reared 10 In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp, Decent and unreproved. The voice, that greets The majesty of both, shall pray for both; That, mutually protected and sustained,[HA] They may endure long as the sea[511] surrounds 15 This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil. And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains! Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers, And spires whose 'silent finger points to heaven;'[HB] Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 20 Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud Of the dense air, which town or city breeds To intercept the sun's glad beams--may ne'er That true succession fail of English hearts, Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive[512] 25 What in those holy structures ye possess Of ornamental interest, and the charm Of pious sentiment diffused afar, And human charity, and social love. --Thus never shall the indignities of time 30 Approach their reverend graces, unopposed; Nor shall the elements be free to hurt Their fair proportions; nor the blinder rage Of bigot zeal madly to overturn; And, if the desolating hand of war 35 Spare them, they shall continue to bestow, Upon the thronged abodes of busy men (Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind[513] Exclusively with transitory things) An air and mien of dignified pursuit; 40 Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. The Poet, fostering for his native land Such hope, entreats that servants may abound Of those pure altars worthy; ministers Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 45 Superior, insusceptible of pride, And by ambitious[514] longings undisturbed; Men, whose delight is where their duty leads Or fixes them; whose least distinguished day Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 50 Which makes the sabbath lovely in the sight Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. --And, as on earth it is the doom of truth To be perpetually attacked by foes Open or covert, be that priesthood still, 55 For her defence, replenished with a band Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts Thoroughly disciplined; nor (if in course Of the revolving world's disturbances Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert! To meet such trial) from their spiritual sires 61 Degenerate; who, constrained to wield the sword Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed With hostile din, and combating in sight Of angry umpires, partial and unjust; 65 And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire,[HC] So to declare the conscience satisfied: Nor for their bodies would accept release; But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed 69 With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, The faith which they by diligence had earned, Or,[515] through illuminating grace, received, For their dear countrymen, and all mankind. O high example, constancy divine! Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 75 And from the sanctity of elder times Not deviating,--a priest, the like of whom, If multiplied, and in their stations set, Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 80 Before me stood that day; on holy ground Fraught with the relics of mortality, Exalting tender themes, by just degrees To lofty raised; and to the highest, last; The head and mighty paramount of truths,-- 85 Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, For mortal creatures, conquered and secured. That basis laid, those principles of faith Announced, as a preparatory act Of reverence done to the spirit of the place,[516] 90 The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground; Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe, But with a mild and social cheerfulness; Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. "At morn or eve, in your retired domain, 95 Perchance you not unfrequently have marked A Visitor--in quest of herbs and flowers;[517] Too delicate employ, as would appear, For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet From nature's kindliness received a frame 100 Robust as ever rural labour bred." The Solitary answered: "Such a Form Full well I recollect. We often crossed Each other's path; but, as the Intruder seemed Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 105 And I as willingly did cherish mine, We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard, From my good Host, that being crazed in brain By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks,[518] Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 110 In hope to find some virtuous herb of power To cure his malady!" The Vicar smiled,-- "Alas! before to-morrow's sun goes down His habitation will be here: for him That open grave is destined."[HD] "Died he then Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, 116 "Do not believe it; never could that be!"[519] "He loved," the Vicar answered, "deeply loved, Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and dared At length to tell his love, but sued in vain;[520] 120 Rejected, yea repelled; and, if with scorn Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears In wantonness of conquest, or puts on To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 125 Humiliation, when no longer free, _That_ he could brook,[521] and glory in;--but when The tidings came that she whom he had wooed Was wedded to another, and his heart Was forced to rend away its only hope; 130 Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth An object worthier of regard than he, In the transition of that bitter hour! Lost was she, lost; nor could the Sufferer say That in the act of preference he had been 135 Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone! Had vanished[522] from his prospects and desires; Not by translation to the heavenly choir Who have put off their mortal spoils--ah no! She lives another's wishes to complete,-- 140 'Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 'His lot and hers, as misery must be mine!'[523] "Such was that strong concussion; but the Man, Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 145 The stedfast quiet natural to a mind Of composition gentle and sedate, And, in its movements, circumspect and slow. To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, O'er which enchained by science he had loved 150 To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth[524] With keener appetite (if that might be) And closer industry. Of what ensued Within the heart[525] no outward sign appeared 155 Till a betraying sickliness was seen To tinge his cheek; and through his frame it crept With slow mutation unconcealable; Such universal change as autumn makes In the fair body of a leafy grove 160 Discoloured, then divested. "'Tis affirmed By poets skilled in nature's secret ways That Love will not submit to be controlled By mastery:--and the good Man lacked not friends Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, 165 A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 'Go to the hills,' said one, 'remit a while 'This baneful diligence:--at early morn 'Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods; 'And, leaving it to others to foretell, 170 'By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 'Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 'Do you, for your own benefit, construct 'A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 'Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.' 175 The attempt was made;--'tis needless to report How hopelessly; but innocence is strong, And an entire simplicity of mind A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven; That opens, for such sufferers, relief 180 Within the soul, fountains of grace divine;[526] And doth commend their weakness and disease To Nature's care, assisted in her office By all the elements that round her wait To generate, to preserve, and to restore; 185 And by her beautiful array of forms Shedding sweet influence from above; or pure Delight exhaling from the ground they tread." "Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed The Wanderer, "I infer that he was healed 190 By perseverance in the course prescribed." "You do not err: the powers, that[527] had been lost By slow degrees, were gradually regained; The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart In rest established; and the jarring thoughts 195 To harmony restored.--But yon dark mould Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength,[528] Hastily smitten by a fever's force; Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused Time to look back with tenderness on her 200 Whom he had loved in passion; and to send Some farewell words--with one, but one, request;[529] That, from his dying hand, she would accept Of his possessions that which most he prized; A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants, 205 By his own hand disposed with nicest care,[530] In undecaying beauty were preserved;[HE] Mute register, to him, of time and place, And various fluctuations in the breast; To her, a monument of faithful love 210 Conquered, and in tranquillity retained! "Close to his destined habitation, lies One who achieved a humbler victory, Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is[531] High in these mountains, that allured a band 215 Of keen adventurers to unite their pains In search of precious ore: they tried, were foiled--[532] And all desisted, all, save him alone. He,[533] taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, And trusting only to his own weak hands, 220 Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, Unseconded, uncountenanced; then, as time Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found No recompense, derided; and at length, By many pitied, as insane of mind; 225 By others dreaded as the luckless thrall Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope By various mockery of sight and sound; Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. --But when the lord of seasons had matured 230 The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, The mountain's entrails offered to his view And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward.[534] Not with more transport did Columbus greet A world, his rich discovery![HF] But our Swain, 235 A very hero till his point was gained, Proved all unable to support the weight Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked With an unsettled liberty of thought, Wishes and endless schemes; by daylight walked[535] Giddy and restless; ever and anon 241 Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups; And truly might be said to die of joy! He vanished; but conspicuous to this day The path remains that linked his cottage-door 245 To the mine's mouth; a long and slanting track, Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, Worn by his daily visits to and from The darksome centre of a constant hope. This vestige, neither force of beating rain, 250 Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away; And it is named, in memory of the event, The PATH OF PERSEVERANCE." "Thou from whom Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, "oh! Do thou direct it! To the virtuous grant 256 The penetrative eye which can perceive In this blind world the guiding vein of hope; That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 'Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified;'[HG] 260 Grant to the wise _his_ firmness of resolve!" "That prayer were not superfluous," said the Priest, "Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds Within the bosom of her awful pile, 265 Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh, Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due to all, Wherever laid, who living fell below Their virtue's humbler mark; a sigh of _pain_ If to the opposite extreme they sank. 270 How would you pity her who yonder rests; Him, farther off; the pair, who here are laid; But, above all, that mixture of earth's mould[HH] Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind Recals! "_He_ lived not till his locks were nipped 275 By seasonable frost of age; nor died Before his temples, prematurely forced To mix the manly brown with silver grey, Gave obvious instance of the sad effect Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 280 The natural crown that[536] sage Experience wears. Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed Or could perform; a zealous actor, hired Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 285 Into the lists of giddy enterprise-- Such was he;[HI] yet, as if within his frame Two several souls alternately had lodged, Two sets of manners could the Youth put on; And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 290 That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage, Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still As the mute swan that floats adown the stream, Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf, 295 That flutters on the bough, lighter than he;[537] And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, More winningly reserved! If ye enquire How such consummate elegance was bred Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice; 300 'Twas Nature's will;[538] who sometimes undertakes, For the reproof of human vanity, Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. Hence, for this Favourite--lavishly endowed With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, 305 While both, embellishing each other, stood Yet farther recommended by the charm Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song, And skill in letters--every fancy shaped Fair expectations; nor, when to the world's 310 Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there Were he and his attainments overlooked, Or scantily rewarded; but all hopes, Cherished for him, he suffered to depart, Like blighted buds; or clouds that mimicked land 315 Before the sailor's eye; or diamond drops That sparkling decked the morning grass; or aught That _was_ attractive, and hath ceased to be! "Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 320 Who, by humiliation undeterred, Sought for his weariness a place of rest Within his Father's gates.--Whence came he?--clothed In tattered garb, from hovels where abides Necessity, the stationary host 325 Of vagrant poverty; from rifted barns Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl And the owl's prey; from these bare haunts, to which[539] He had descended from the proud saloon, He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 330 The wreck of gaiety! But soon revived In strength, in power refitted, he renewed His suit to Fortune; and she smiled again Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose, Thrice sank[540] as willingly. For he--whose nerves 335 Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, By the nice finger of fair ladies touched In glittering halls--was able to derive No[541] less enjoyment from an abject choice. 340 Who happier for the moment--who more blithe Than this fallen Spirit? in those dreary holds His talents lending to exalt the freaks Of merry-making beggars,--now, provoked To laughter multiplied in louder peals 345 By his malicious wit; then, all enchained With mute astonishment, themselves to see In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed, As by the very presence of the Fiend Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 350 For knavish purposes! The city, too, (With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect As there to linger, there to eat his bread, Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment; 355 Charming the air with skill of hand or voice, Listen who would, be wrought upon who might, Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. --Such the too frequent tenour of his boast[542] In ears that relished the report;--but all 360 Was from his Parents happily concealed; Who saw enough for blame and pitying love. They also were permitted to receive His last, repentant breath; and closed his eyes, No more to open on that irksome world 365 Where he had long existed in the state Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatched, Though from another sprung, different in kind:[543] Where he had lived, and could not cease to live, Distracted in propensity; content 370 With neither element of good or ill; And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest; Of contradictions infinite the slave, Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him One with himself, and one with them that sleep."[544] 375 "'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, "strange It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, That in a land where charity provides For all that[545] can no longer feed themselves, A man like this should choose to bring his shame 380 To the parental door; and with his sighs Infect the air which he had freely breathed In happy infancy. He could not pine, Through lack of converse;[546] no--he must have found Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 385 In his dividual being, self-reviewed, Self-catechised, self-punished.--Some there are Who, drawing near their final home, and much And daily longing that the same were reached, Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 390 Of kindred mould.--Such haply here are laid?" "Yes," said the Priest, "the Genius of our hills-- Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast Round his domain, desirous not alone To keep his own, but also to exclude 395 All other progeny--doth sometimes lure, Even by his[547] studied depth of privacy, The unhappy alien hoping to obtain Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, In place from outward molestation free, 400 Helps to internal ease. Of many such Could I discourse; but as their stay was brief, So their departure only left behind Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 405 Who, from the pressure of their several fates, Meeting as strangers, in a petty town[HJ] Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach Of this far-winding vale,[HJ] remained as friends 409 True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust To this loved cemetery, here to lodge With unescutcheoned privacy interred Far from the family vault.--A Chieftain one[HK] By right of birth; within whose spotless breast The fire of ancient Caledonia burned: 415 He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed The Stuart, landing to resume, by force Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost, Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their head, With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent 420 Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores He fled; and when the lenient hand of time Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained, For his obscured condition, an obscure 425 Retreat, within this nook of English ground. "The other, born in Britain's southern tract, Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed His gentler sentiments of love and hate, There, where _they_ placed them who in conscience prized The new succession, as a line of kings 431 Whose oath had virtue to protect the land Against the dire assaults of papacy And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark On the distempered flood of public life, 435 And cause for most rare triumph will be thine If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, The stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon Or late, a perilous master. He--who oft, Beneath[548] the battlements and stately trees 440 That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, Had moralised on this, and other truths Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied-- Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness, 445 When he had crushed a plentiful estate By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the attempt: And while the uproar of that desperate strife Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 450 The vanquished Whig,[HL] under a borrowed name,[549] (For the mere sound and echo of his own Haunted him with sensations of disgust That[550] he was glad to lose) slunk from the world To the deep shade of those[551] untravelled Wilds; 455 In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met, Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite And sullen Hanoverian! You might think That losses and vexations, less severe 460 Than those which they had severally sustained, Would have inclined each to abate his zeal For his ungrateful cause; no,--I have heard My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm Of that small town encountering thus, they filled, 465 Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife; Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church; And vexed the market-place. But in the breasts Of these opponents gradually was wrought, With little change of general sentiment, 470 Such leaning towards[552] each other, that their days By choice were spent in constant fellowship; And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, Those very bickerings made them love it more. 474 "A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come Treading their path in sympathy and linked In social converse, or by some short space Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 480 Over both minds, when they awhile had marked The visible quiet of this holy ground, And breathed its soothing air;--the spirit of hope And saintly magnanimity; that--spurning The field of selfish difference and dispute, 485 And every care which transitory things, Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, create-- Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred, Which else the Christian virtue might have claimed. 490 "There live who yet remember here to have seen Their courtly figures, seated on the stump Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place. But as the remnant of the long-lived tree Was disappearing by a swift decay, 495 They, with joint care, determined to erect, Upon its site, a dial,[HM] that might stand For public use preserved, and thus survive[553] As their own private monument: for this Was the particular spot, in which they wished 500 (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) That, undivided, their remains should lie. So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was raised Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps That to the decorated pillar[HN] lead, 505 A work of art more sumptuous than might seem To suit this place;[554] yet built in no proud scorn Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed To ensure for it respectful guardianship. Around the margin of the plate, whereon 510 The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, Winds an inscriptive legend."--At these words Thither we turned; and gathered, as we read, The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched: '_Time flies; it is his melancholy task 515 To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, And re-produce the troubles he destroys. But, while his blindness thus is occupied, Discerning Mortal! do thou serve the will Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, 520 Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed!_'[555] "Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," Exclaimed the Sceptic, "and the strain of thought Accords with nature's language;--the soft voice Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks[HO] 525 Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. If, then, their blended influence be not lost Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, Even upon mine, the more are we required To feel for those among our fellow-men, 530 Who, offering no obeisance to the world, Are yet made desperate by 'too quick a sense Of constant infelicity,'[HP] cut off From peace like exiles on some barren rock, Their life's appointed prison; not more free 535 Than sentinels, between two armies, set, With nothing better, in the chill night air, Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say why That ancient story of Prometheus[HQ] chained To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus; 540 The vulture,[556] the inexhaustible repast Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes By Tantalus[HR] entailed upon his race, And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes?[HS] Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, 545 Tremendous truths! familiar to the men Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey For robes with regal purple tinged; convert The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp 550 Of circumstance; and here the tragic Muse Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills,[557] The generations are prepared; the pangs, The internal pangs, are ready; the dread strife 555 Of poor humanity's afflicted will Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." "Though," said the Priest in answer, "these be terms Which a divine philosophy rejects, We, whose established and unfailing trust 560 Is in controlling Providence, admit That, through all stations, human life abounds With mysteries;--for, if Faith were left untried, How could the might, that lurks within her, then Be shown? her glorious excellence--that ranks 565 Among the first of Powers and Virtues--proved? Our system is not fashioned to preclude That sympathy which you for others ask; And I could tell, not travelling for my theme Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 570 And strange disasters;[558] but I pass them by, Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace. --Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight By the deformities of brutish vice: 575 For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face[559] And a coarse outside of repulsive life And unaffecting manners might at once[560] Be recognised by all--" "Ah! do not think," The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 580 "Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, (Gain shall I call it?--gain of what?--for whom?) Should breathe a word tending to violate Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for In slight of that forbearance and reserve 585 Which common human-heartedness inspires, And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." "True," said the Solitary, "be it far From us to infringe the laws of charity. 590 Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced; This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this Wisdom enjoins; but if the thing we seek Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling 595 Colours as bright on exhalations bred By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, Or the pellucid lake." "Small risk," said I, "Of such illusion do we here incur; 600 Temptation here is none to exceed the truth; No evidence appears that they who rest Within this ground, were covetous of praise, Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green, 605 Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, A heaving surface, almost wholly free From interruption of sepulchral stones, And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf And everlasting flowers.[HT] These Dalesmen trust 610 The lingering gleam of their departed lives To oral record,[561] and the silent heart; Depositories[562] faithful and more kind Than fondest epitaph: for, if those fail,[563] What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can blame, Who rather would not envy, men that feel 616 This mutual confidence; if, from such source, The practice flow,--if thence, or from a deep And general humility in death? Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 620 From disregard of time's destructive power, As only capable to prey on things Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. "Yet--in less simple districts, where we see Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone[HU] 625 In courting notice; and the ground all paved With commendations of departed worth; Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives, Of each domestic charity fulfilled, And sufferings meekly borne--I, for my part, 630 Though with the silence pleased that[564] here prevails, Among those fair recitals also range, Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. And, in the centre of a world whose soil Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round 635 With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, It was[565] no momentary happiness To have _one_ Enclosure where the voice that speaks In envy or detraction is not heard; Which malice may not enter; where the traces 640 Of evil inclinations are unknown; Where love and pity tenderly unite With resignation; and no jarring tone Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb Of amity and gratitude." "Thus sanctioned," 645 The Pastor said, "I willingly confine My narratives to subjects that excite Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem, And admiration; lifting up a veil, A sunbeam introducing among hearts 650 Retired and covert; so that ye shall have Clear images before your gladdened eyes Of nature's unambitious underwood, And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when I speak of such among my flock as swerved 655 Or fell, those only shall be singled out[566] Upon whose lapse, or error, something more Than brotherly forgiveness may attend; To such will we restrict our notice, else Better my tongue were mute. "And yet there are, 660 I feel, good reasons why we should not leave Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. For, strength to persevere and to support, And energy to conquer and repel-- These elements of virtue, that declare 665 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[567] fantastic conqueror's roving camp, Or 'mid[568] the factious senate unappalled Whoe'er may sink, or rise--to sink again,[569] As[570] merciless proscription ebbs and flows. "There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, 675 "A woman rests in peace; surpassed by few In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. Tall was her stature; her complexion dark And saturnine;[HV] her head not raised to hold[571] 679 Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards earth, 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 685 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[572] To be admired, than coveted and loved. 690 Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen, Over her comrades;[573] else their simple sports, Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, Had crossed her only to be shunned with scorn.[574] --Oh! pang of sorrowful regret for those[575] 695 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[576] 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.[577] 705 "Two passions, both degenerate, for they both Began in honour, gradually obtained Rule over her, and vexed her daily life; An unremitting,[578] 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. 715 --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[579] Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's blessing Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust[580] In ceaseless pains--and strictest parsimony Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared, 725 From each day's need, out of each day's least gain.[581] "Thus[582] 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.[583] Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared To the agitation of a brook that runs 735 Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained;[584] But never to be charmed to gentleness: Its best attainment fits of such repose As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming.[585][HW] 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 745 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[586] Woman heard to say In bitterness, 'and must she rule and reign, 'Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone? 755 'Tend what I tended,[587] calling it her own!' Enough;--I fear, too much.--One vernal evening,[588] While she was yet in prime of health and strength, I well remember, while I passed her door Alone,[589] 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 765 '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,[590] I trust, 775 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 Church-yard wall;[HX] Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 780 Offering a sunny resting-place to them[591] 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;[592] and there 785 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.[HY] If mild discourse, and manners that conferred A natural dignity on humblest rank; If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 795 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,[593] a sanctity shall brood Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 805 "Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could[594] any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed;[HZ] 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[595] that roofs her own, The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene.[596] Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 815 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[597] 820 Caught from the pressure of elastic turf Upon the mountains gemmed[598] 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, 825 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;[599] From dateless usage which our peasants hold Of giving welcome to the first of May By dances round its trunk.--And if the sky 835 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, 845 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, 855 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[600] 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, 865 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 875 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, One of God's simple children that yet know not 881 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; 885 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 895 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[601] By the last lingering help of the open sky Until dark night[602] dismissed her to her bed! Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose The unconquerable pang of despised love.[IA] 905 "A kindlier passion opened[603] on her soul When that poor Child was born. Upon its face She gazed[604] 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,[605] When he beholds the first pale speck serene Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed, 915 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, 'Hath softened that obduracy, and made 921 'Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 'To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I breathe 'The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake[606] 'My Infant! and for that good Mother dear, 925 '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; The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 931 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 935 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.[607] She no more could bear By her offence to lay a two-fold weight On a kind parent willing to forget Their slender means: so, to that parent's care 945 Trusting her child, she left their common home, And undertook with dutiful content[608] A Foster-mother's office. "'Tis, perchance, Unknown to you that in these simple vales The natural feeling of equality 950 Is by domestic service unimpaired;[IB] 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, 955 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel: For (blinded by an over-anxious dread Of such excitement and divided thought[609] As with her office would but ill accord)[610] The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, 960 Forbad her all communion with her own: Week after week, the mandate they enforced.[611] --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; 965 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, 975 '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: 985 Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt[612] 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; 995 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, 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; 1005 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 1015 A heavenly comfort; there she recognised An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need; There, and, as seemed, there only. "She had built,[613] 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;[614] Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 1025 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, 1035 The ghastly face of cold decay put on A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine! May I not mention--that, within those[615] 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, 1045 '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 1055 Or less benign than that which I had felt When seated near my venerable Friend, Under[616] 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.[617] --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 1065 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[618] 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 1075 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 Wilfred Armathwaite?" The Vicar answered, "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard 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 1085 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[619] 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.[620] That which he had been weak enough to do Was misery in remembrance; he was stung, 1095 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, 1105 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 1115 And from her grave.--Behold--upon that ridge, That,[621] 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[622] might be prelude to a tale Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 1125 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, 1135 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 habitations. Ye might think That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown Out of the living rock, to be adorned 1145 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[623] of the hills. 1155 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 1165 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,[624] 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,[625] 1175 (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. 1185 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[626] I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, 1190 And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth!" _Book Sixth, continued in Editions of 1814 and 1820 only_ "The next three Ridges--those upon the left-- By close connexion with our present thoughts Tempt me to add, in praise of humble worth, Their brief and unobtrusive history. 1195 --One Hillock, ye may note, is small and low, Sunk almost to a level with the plain By weight of time; the Others, undepressed, Are bold and swelling. There a Husband sleeps, Deposited, in pious confidence 1200 Of glorious resurrection with the just, Near the loved Partner of his early days; And, in the bosom of that family mold, A second Wife is gathered to his side; The approved Assistant of an arduous course 1205 From his mid noon of manhood to old age! He also of his Mate deprived, was left Alone--'mid many Children; One a Babe Orphaned as soon as born. Alas! 'tis not In course of nature that a Father's wing 1210 Should warm these Little-ones; and can he _feed_? That was a thought of agony more keen. For, hand in hand with Death, by strange mishap And chance-encounter on their diverse road, The ghastlier shape of Poverty had entered 1215 Into that House, unfeared and unforeseen. He had stepped forth, in time of urgent need, The generous Surety of a Friend: and now The widowed Father found that all his rights In his paternal fields were undermined. 1220 Landless he was and pennyless.--The dews Of night and morn that wet the mountain sides, The bright stars twinkling on their dusky tops, Were conscious of the pain that drove him forth From his own door, he knew not when--to range 1225 He knew not where; distracted was his brain, His heart was cloven; and full oft he prayed, In blind despair, that God would take them all. --But suddenly, as if in one kind moment To encourage and reprove, a gleam of light 1230 Broke from the very bosom of that cloud Which darkened the whole prospect of his days. For He, who now possessed the joyless right To force the Bondsman from his house and lands, In pity, and by admiration urged 1235 Of his unmurmuring and considerate mind Meekly submissive to the law's decree, Lightened the penalty with liberal hand. --The desolate Father raised his head, and looked On the wide world in hope. Within these walls, 1240 In course of time was solemnized the vow Whereby a virtuous Woman, of grave years And of prudential habits, undertook The sacred office of a wife to him, Of Mother to his helpless family. 1245 --Nor did she fail, in nothing did she fail, Through various exercise of twice ten years, Save in some partial fondness for that Child Which at the birth she had received, the Babe Whose heart had known no Mother but herself. 1250 --By mutual efforts; by united hopes; By daily-growing help of boy and girl, Trained early to participate that zeal Of industry, which runs before the day And lingers after it; by strong restraint 1255 Of an economy which did not check The heart's more generous motions tow'rds themselves Or to their neighbours; and by trust in God; This Pair insensibly subdued the fears And troubles that beset their life: and thus 1260 Did the good Father and his second Mate Redeem at length their plot of smiling fields. These, at this day, the eldest Son retains: The younger Offspring, through the busy world, Have all been scattered wide, by various fates; 1265 But each departed from the native Vale, In beauty flourishing, and moral worth." VARIANTS: [Footnote 510: 1827. _Second Marriage of a Widower prudential and happy._ 1814. ] [Footnote 511: 1832. ... as long as sea ... 1814. ] [Footnote 512: 1827. ... of English Hearts, That can perceive, not less than heretofore Our Ancestors did feelingly perceive, 1814. ] [Footnote 513: 1836. ... their minds 1814. ] [Footnote 514: 1827. ... ambition's ... 1814. ] [Footnote 515: 1827. And ... 1814. ] [Footnote 516: 1845. Of reverence to the spirit of the place; 1814. ] [Footnote 517: 1827. A Visitor--intent upon the task Of prying, low and high, for herbs and flowers: 1814. ] [Footnote 518: 1836. ... that he was crazed in brain By unrequited love; and scaled the rocks, 1814. ] [Footnote 519: 1836. "Believe it not--oh! never could that be!" 1814. ] [Footnote 520: 1827. ... and pined When he had told his love, and sued in vain, 1814. ] [Footnote 521: 1827. ... Beauty wears, _That_ he could brook, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 522: 1827. ... but the Maid was gone! She, whose dear name with unregarded sighs He long had blessed, whose Image was preserved-- Shrined in his breast with fond idolatry, Had vanished ... 1814. ] [Footnote 523: 1845. ... as misery is mine!' 1814. ] [Footnote 524: ... seek for truth MS. ] [Footnote 525: 1827. ... circumspect and slow. Of rustic Parents bred, He had been trained, (So prompted their aspiring wish) to skill In numbers and the sedentary art Of penmanship,--with pride professed, and taught By his endeavours in the mountain dales. Now, those sad tidings weighing on his heart, To books, and papers, and the studious desk, He stoutly re-addressed himself--resolved To quell his pain, and enter on the path Of old pursuits with keener appetite And closer industry. Of what ensued Within his soul, ... 1814. Within his heart ... MS. ] [Footnote 526: 1836. Within their souls, a fount of grace divine; 1814. ] [Footnote 527: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 528: 1832. Will cover him; in height of strength--to earth 1814. ] [Footnote 529: 1827. Some farewell words; and, with those words, a prayer 1814. ] [Footnote 530: 1827. A Book, upon the surface of whose leaves Some chosen plants, disposed with nicest care, 1814. ] [Footnote 531: 1827. One whose Endeavours did at length achieve A victory less worthy of regard, Though marvellous in its kind. A Place exists 1814. ] [Footnote 532: 1836. In search of treasure there by Nature formed, And there concealed: but they who tried were foiled, 1814. ... to unite their pains In search of precious ore: who tried were foiled, 1827. ] [Footnote 533: 1827. ... save he alone; Who ... 1814. ] [Footnote 534: 1827. ... to the view Of the Old Man, and to his trembling grasp, His bright, his long-deferred, his dear reward. 1814. ... his long deferred reward. MS. ] [Footnote 535: 1836. Of schemes and wishes; in the day-light walked 1814. ] [Footnote 536: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 537: 1840. ... more light than He; 1814. ] [Footnote 538: 1827. Amid these wilds; a composition framed Of qualities so adverse--to diffuse, Where'er he moved, diversified delight; A simple answer may suffice, even this, 'Twas Nature's will; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 539: 1827. And the Owl's Prey; none permanently house But many harbour; from these Haunts, to which 1814. ] [Footnote 540: 1827. ... sunk ... 1814. ] [Footnote 541: 1832. Not ... 1814. ] [Footnote 542: 1827. --Truths I record to many known, for such The not unfrequent tenor of his boast 1814. ] [Footnote 543: 1836. ... of different kind: 1814. ] [Footnote 544: 1836. ... with those who sleep." 1814. ... with them who sleep." 1827. ] [Footnote 545: 1827. ... who ... 1814. ] [Footnote 546: 1827. ... He could not pine, Whencee'er rejected howsoe'er forlorn, Through lack of converse, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 547: 1845. Even by this ... 1814. ] [Footnote 548: 1836. Under ... 1814. ] [Footnote 549: 1836. ... beneath a _borrowed_ name, 1814. ] [Footnote 550: 1827. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 551: 1836. ... these ... 1814. ] [Footnote 552: 1845. Such change towards ... 1814. ] [Footnote 553: 1827. ... which should stand For public use; and also might survive 1814. ] [Footnote 554: 1827. ... as might seem, Than suits this Place; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 555: Italics were first used in 1827.] [Footnote 556: 1845. ... of Prometheus chained? The Vulture-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 557: 1836. ... beneath ... 1814. ] [Footnote 558: 1827. Beyond the limits of these humble graves, Of strange disasters; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 559: 1827. For, though from these materials might be framed Harsh portraiture, in which a vulgar face 1814. ] [Footnote 560: 1820. ... may at once 1814. ] [Footnote 561: 1836. ... records ... 1814. ] [Footnote 562: 1836. Depository ... 1814. ] [Footnote 563: 1836. Than fondest Epitaphs: for, if it fail, 1814. Than fondest epitaphs: for, if that fail, 1827. ] [Footnote 564: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 565: 1832. That 'twas ... 1814. ] [Footnote 566: 1836. ... will I single out ... 1814. ] [Footnote 567: 1827. Than the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 568: 1827. Or in ... 1814. ] [Footnote 569: This line was first inserted in 1845.] [Footnote 570: 1845. While ... 1814. ] [Footnote 571: 1827. And saturnine; her port erect, her head Not absolutely raised, as if to hold 1814. ] [Footnote 572: 1827. ... yet rather framed 1814. ] [Footnote 573: 1832. ... as sovereign Queen Among her Play-mates; ... 1814. ... as sovereign queen 'Mid her companions; ... 1827. ] [Footnote 574: 1827. ... else their simple sports Had wanted power to occupy a mind Held in subjection by a strong controul Of studious application, self-imposed. Books were her creditors; to them she paid, With pleasing, anxious eagerness, the hours Which they exacted; were it time allowed, Or seized upon by stealth, or fairly won, By stretch of industry, from other tasks. 1814. ] [Footnote 575: 1827. ... them 1814. ] [Footnote 576: 1827. ... or efface 1814. ] [Footnote 577: 1832. ... or impaired. 1814. ] [Footnote 578: 1836. ... unrelenting ... 1814. ] [Footnote 579: ... the hand Grew slack in alms-giving, the heart itself MS. ] [Footnote 580: 1827. ... Ah! there she felt, Indignantly, the weakness of her sex, The injustice of her low estate.--She mused; Resolved, adhered to her resolve; her heart Closed by degrees to charity; and, thence Expecting not Heaven's blessing, placed her trust 1814. ] [Footnote 581: 1836. In ceaseless pains and parsimonious care, Which got, and sternly hoarded each day's gain. 1814. ] [Footnote 582: Yet ... MS. ] [Footnote 583: 1836. ... pang which it deplored. 1814. ] [Footnote 584: 1836 Down rocky mountains--buried now and lost In silent pools, unfathomably deep;-- 1814. ... and now in eddies chained,-- 1827. ... now in strong eddies chained,-- 1832. ] [Footnote 585: 1827. Now in a moment starting forth again With violence, and proud of its escape;-- Until it sink once more, by slow degrees, Or instantly, into as dark repose. 1814. ] [Footnote 586: 1845. This was the dying ... 1814. ] [Footnote 587: 1845 ... when I am gone? "Sit by my fire--possess what I possessed-- "Tend what I tended-- 1814. ] [Footnote 588: 1827. ... too much.--Of nobler feeling Take this example.--One autumnal evening 1814. ] [Footnote 589: 1845. Musing ... 1814. ] [Footnote 590: 1845. "And safe from all our sorrows."--She is safe, And her uncharitable acts, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 591: 1827. The Vicar paused; and tow'rds a seat advanced, A long stone-seat, framed in the Church-yard wall; Part under shady sycamore, and part Offering a place of rest in pleasant sunshine, Even as may suit the comers old or young 1814. ] [Footnote 592: 1836. To this commodious resting-place he led; Where, by his side, we all sate down; 1814. Under the shade we all sate down; ... 1827. ] [Footnote 593: 1827. Then, on that mold, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 594: 1832. ... or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 595: 1845. Yea, doubtless, on the turf ... 1814. ] [Footnote 596: 1814. At prayer, a weeping Magdalene. C. ] [Footnote 597: 1827. Upon the pathway, of her mournful tread; Nor of that pace with which she once had moved In virgin fearlessness, a step that seemed 1814. ] [Footnote 598: 1827. ... wet ... 1814. ] [Footnote 599: 1827. When first the Hunter's startling horn is heard Upon the golden hills. A spreading Elm Stands in our Valley, called THE JOYFUL TREE: An Elm distinguished by that festive name, 1814. ] [Footnote 600: 1836. It was the season sweet, of budding leaves, Of days advancing tow'rds their utmost length, And small birds singing to their happy mates. Wild is the music of the autumnal wind Among the faded woods; but these blithe notes 1814. Of days advancing toward ... 1832. ] [Footnote 601: 1827. ... of summer days, And their long twilight!--friendly to that stealth With which she slipped into the Cottage-barn, And found a secret oratory there; Or, in the garden, pored upon her book 1814. ] [Footnote 602: 1845. ... of open sky, Till the dark night ... 1814. ] [Footnote 603: 1814. ... kindled ... C. ] [Footnote 604: 1845. She looked ... 1814. ] [Footnote 605: 1827. Far sweeter than bewildered Traveller feels Upon a perilous waste, where all night long Through darkness he hath toiled and fearful storm, 1814. ] [Footnote 606: 1845. ... and, henceforth, I look Upon the light with cheerfulness, for thee 1814. ] [Footnote 607: 1836. The sweet affection.... 1814. ] [Footnote 608: 1845. And with contented spirit undertook 1814. ] [Footnote 609: 1814. ... thoughts MS. ] [Footnote 610: 1827. ... doomed to feel. In selfish blindness, for I will not say In naked and deliberate cruelty, 1814. ] [Footnote 611: 1827. ... with her own. They argued that such meeting would disturb The Mother's mind, distract her thoughts, and thus Unfit her for her duty--in which dread, Week after week, the mandate was enforced. 1814. ] [Footnote 612: 1836. And whatsoe'er the errand, urged her steps: Hither she came; and here she stood, or knelt 1814. ... here stood, and sometimes knelt 1832. ] [Footnote 613: 1827. ... raised, 1814. ] [Footnote 614: 1845. --The bodily frame was wasted day by day; 1814. ] [Footnote 615: 1827. ... these ... 1814. ] [Footnote 616: 1845. Beneath ... 1814. ] [Footnote 617: 1827. ... in which she dwelt. 1814. ] [Footnote 618: 1836. ... although ... 1814. ] [Footnote 619: And its ... MS. ] [Footnote 620: 1827. There doth he lie.--In this his native Vale He owned and tilled a little plot of land; Here, with his Consort and his Children, saw Days--that were seldom crossed by petty strife, Years--safe from large misfortune; and maintained That course which minds, of insight not too keen, Might look on with entire complacency. Yet, in himself and near him, there were faults At work to undermine his happy state By sure, though tardy progress. Active, prompt, And lively was the Housewife; in the Vale None more industrious; but her industry Ill-judged, full oft, and specious, tended more To splendid neatness; to a shewy, trim, And overlaboured purity of house; Than to substantial thrift. He, on his part, Generous and easy-minded, was not free From carelessness; and thus, in lapse of time, These joint infirmities induced decay Of worldly substance; and distress of mind, That to a thoughtful Man was hard to shun, And which he could not cure. A blooming Girl Served in the house, a Favourite that had grown Beneath his eye, encouraged by his care. Poor now in tranquil pleasure he gave way To thoughts of troubled pleasure; he became A lawless Suitor to the Maid; and she Yielded unworthily.--Unhappy Man! 1814. ] [Footnote 621: 1827. Which, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 622: 1827 ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 623: 1827. ... the scatterings ... 1814. ] [Footnote 624: 1845. ... from the sight Of the Bees murmuring round their sheltered hives In that Enclosure; while the mountain rill, 1814. ] [Footnote 625: 1827. Flows on in solitude from year to year. --But at the closing-in of night, then most This Dwelling charms me. Covered by the gloom, Then, in my walks, I oftentimes stop short, 1814. ] [Footnote 626: 1832. The Wife, who rests beneath that turf, from which 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote HA: Note Wordsworth's love for the Established Church of England, and compare the Ecclesiastical Sonnets.--ED.] [Footnote HB: See Wordsworth's note, p. 389.--ED.] [Footnote HC: Was he thinking of Cranmer?--ED.] [Footnote HD: "His story is here truly related. He was a schoolfellow of mine for some years. He came to us when he was at least seventeen years of age, very tall, robust, and full grown. This prevented him from falling into the amusements and games of the school; consequently, he gave more time to books. He was not remarkably bright or quick, but, by industry, he made a progress more than respectable. His parents not being wealthy enough to send him to college when he left Hawkshead, he became a schoolmaster, with a view to prepare himself for holy orders. About this time he fell in love, as related in the poem, and everything followed as there described, except that I do not know exactly when and where he died."--I. F.] [Footnote HE: Compare, in Keble's _Christian Year_, "Forms of Prayer to be used at Sea." Far, far away, the home-sick seaman's hoard, Thy fragrant tokens live, Like flower-leaves in a precious volume stored, To solace and relieve, etc. ED. ] [Footnote HF: "The Miner, described as having found his treasure after twice ten years of labour, lived in Paterdale, and the story is true to the letter. It seems to me, however, rather remarkable, that the strength of mind which had supported him through his long unrewarded labour, did not enable him to bear its successful issue."--I.F.] [Footnote HG: See _Paradise Lost_, book v. l. 899.--ED.] [Footnote HH: See _Comus_, I. 244.--ED.] [Footnote HI: "The next character, to whom the priest is led by contrast with the resoluteness displayed by the foregoing, is taken from a person born and bred in Grasmere, by name Dawson; and whose talents, dispositions, and way of life, were such as are here delineated. I did not know him, but all was fresh in memory when we settled at Grasmere in the beginning of the century."--I. F.] [Footnote HJ: Hawkshead. The series of small valleys from Dunmail Raise to Esthwaite is described as one "far-winding vale."--ED.] [Footnote HK: "Two individuals, who, by their several fortunes, were, at different times, driven to take refuge at the small and obscure town of Hawkshead on the skirt of these mountains. Their stories I had from the dear old dame with whom, as a schoolboy, and afterwards, I lodged for nearly the space of ten years. The elder, the Jacobite, was named Drummond, and was of a high family in Scotland."--I. F.] [Footnote HL: "The Hanoverian Whig bore the name of Vandeput [Sir George Vandeput], and might, perhaps, be a descendant of some Dutchman who had come over in the train of King William."--I.F.] [Footnote HM: Of this "dial," as of the "decorated pillar," there is no trace in Grasmere churchyard, and no tradition exists of either. There is, however, a pillar in Bowness churchyard in which a dial used to stand, and Wordsworth may have blended his descriptions of Grasmere with his remembrances of Bowness.--ED.] [Footnote HN: See the note on the previous page.] [Footnote HO: This may be an allusion to Wray Ghyll Force, which descends between Silver How and Easdale. No other white torrent falling down rocks is visible from the Grasmere churchyard. This one is distinctly seen, when looking towards Silver How to the west.--ED.] [Footnote HP: Compare "How many people there are that weep with want, and are mad with oppression, or are desperate by too quick a sense of a constant infelicity."--Jeremy Taylor's _Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying_, i. 5, 2.--ED.] [Footnote HQ: Prometheus, son of the Titan Iapetus, outwitted Jupiter, stealing fire from heaven, etc. Jupiter, in revenge, caused Vulcan to chain him to a rock in the Caucasus, where an eagle or vulture preyed on his liver daily. See Æsch. _Prometheus_. Compare, "Prometheus tied to Caucasus," _Titus Andronicus_, act II. scene i.--ED.] [Footnote HR: Tantalus, son of Jupiter, punished for disclosing his father's secrets, by being placed after death up to the chin in the waters of a lake, which withdrew whenever he attempted to drink, while boughs laden with fruit hung above his head, and were tossed from him by the wind whenever he tried to grasp them.--ED.] [Footnote HS: "The dark sorrows of the line of Thebes" descended for three generations; from Lais and Iocaste to Œdipus; thence to Eteocles, Polynices, Antigone, and Ismene. Compare Milton's lines in _Il Penseroso_, ll. 97-100-- Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine. ED. ] [Footnote HT: Grasmere churchyard was, in Wordsworth's time, almost wholly free From interruption of sepulchral stones. Compare the Fenwick note to the _Epistle to Sir George Beaumont_ (vol. iv. p. 258). Dr. Cradock wrote in 1878--"I cannot count more than two or three gravestones of earlier date than 1800. Most of the others are of a much more recent date."--ED.] [Footnote HU: Was he thinking of such a spectacle as the churchyard at Crosthwaite, Keswick, now presents?--ED.] [Footnote HV: "This person lived at Town-end, and was almost our next neighbour.... She was a most striking instance how far a woman may surpass in talent, in knowledge, and culture of mind, those with and among whom she lives, and yet fall below them in Christian virtues of the heart and spirit."--I.F.] [Footnote HW: As is notably the case with the beck in Tongue Ghyll.--ED.] [Footnote HX: This "long stone seat" (now a thing of the past) was fixed to the wall on the left of the south entrance-gate into the churchyard; and not--as might have been supposed--on the opposite wall, which reaches from the entrance-gate to the poet's grave. The old wall was rebuilt by the late rector, but the seat was not replaced.--ED.] [Footnote HY: "The story was told to Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister, by the sister of this unhappy young woman. Every particular was exactly as I have related.... She lived at Hawkshead."--I. F. See the whole of the Fenwick note, also Charles Lamb's remarks, in his letter of Aug. 14, 1814.--ED.] [Footnote HZ: Compare the Hon. Justice Coleridge's "Reminiscences" of a walk and conversation with Wordsworth (October 1836) in Easdale, where--at the pool, which many have identified as "Emma's Dell"--he said, "I have often thought what a solemn thing it would be could we have brought to our mind at once all the scenes of distress and misery which any spot, however beautiful and calm before us, has been witness to since the beginning." (See vol. ii. p. 156.)--ED.] [Footnote IA: Compare _Hamlet_, act III. scene i. l. 72-- The pangs of despised love, the law's delay. ED. ] [Footnote IB: This custom still survives in the country; sons working as servants on ground belonging to their parents, and receiving payment for it.--ED.] Book Seventh THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS--_Continued_ ARGUMENT _Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind--Pastor invited to give account of certain Graves that lie apart--Clergyman and his Family--Fortunate influence of change of situation--Activity in extreme old age--Another Clergyman, a character of resolute Virtue--Lamentations over mis-directed applause--Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man--Elevated character of a blind man--Reflection upon Blindness--Interrupted by a Peasant who passes--his animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity--He occasions a digression on the fall of beautiful and interesting Trees--A female Infant's Grave--Joy at her Birth--Sorrow at her Departure--A youthful Peasant--his patriotic enthusiasm and distinguished qualities--his[627] untimely death--Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this Picture--Solitary how affected--Monument of a Knight--Traditions concerning him--Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things and the revolutions of society--Hints at his own past Calling--Thanks the Pastor._ 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, 5 (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] 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, 15 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 25 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[629] the surface of a mountain pool: Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold Five graves, and only five, that rise together 35 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 40 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] 45 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, 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 55 (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; 60 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, 65 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 70 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, 75 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 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. 85 --'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] 90 '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 95 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 105 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 115 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 125 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,[638] For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) He turned to this secluded chapelry; That[639] had been offered to his doubtful choice 135 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,[IK]--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.[640] Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang 145 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 as salutary change, compelled To rise[641] from timely sleep, and meet the day 155 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 Contented to partake the quiet meal 160 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 By nature yielded to his practised hand;-- 165 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, 175 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. 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; 185 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 With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise 190 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, To rear for food, for shelter, and delight; 195 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 mountain-side, 200 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 To beautify with nature's fairest growths[650] 205 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[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; And still his harsher passions kept their hold-- 215 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[652] transports, with staid looks of pure good-will, And with soft smile, his consort would reprove. 225 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[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 As if with wish to veil the restless orb; 235 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, That[655] still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew, 240 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 Had never come, through space of forty years; 245 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.[IM] Yet no rapacious plague Had been among them; all was gentle death, One after one, with intervals of peace. A happy consummation! an accord 255 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 265 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? 275 '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[658] 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 285 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) By yet a higher privilege once more 290 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 Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 296 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[660] the untrodden desert, tells his beads, With each repeating its allotted prayer And thus divides and thus relieves the time; 305 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. "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[IP] 315 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 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 And constant as the motion of the day; 325 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 335 Of worldly intercourse between[662] man and man, And in his humble dwelling, he appears A labourer, with moral virtue girt, With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 339 "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, Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart, 345 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, And, having once espoused, would never quit; 350 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, With images attendant on the sound; 355 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 To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." 360 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, And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 365 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?[666] --Ah who (and with such rapture as befits The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 375 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 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;[669] and piety survive Upon the lips of men in hall or bower; Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 385 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 That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 390 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. "Almost at the root 395 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 A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies,[673] 400 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 Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 406 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,[IV] The agitated scene before his eye Was silent as a picture: evermore 415 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; 426 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 He should depart, to plant himself anew. 430 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, An inmate of a second family; 435 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 445 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; 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.[676] --Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 455 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 465 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, 475 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, 485 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 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![677] But, timely warned, _He_ would have stayed his steps, Protected, say enlightened, by his ear; 495 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, Nor[679] in the woods, that could from him conceal 500 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 Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led, 505 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 Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 510 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 Abashed, and tender pity overawed."[IZ] 515 "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;[681] But for remoter purposes of love And charity; nor last nor least for this, 525 That to the imagination may be given A type and shadow of an awful truth;[682] 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; 535 And wisdom married to immortal verse?"[JA] 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 That, near the quiet church-yard where we sate, 541 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. 545 "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. 555 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 565 With _silent_ increase: summers, winters--past, Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say, Ten summers and ten winters of a space[683] 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! 575 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[684] 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 585 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 595 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[685] of glory for the ascending moon; And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, And on whose forehead inaccessible 601 The raven lodged in safety.--Many a ship Launched into Morecamb-bay to _him_ hath owed[686] Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears The loftiest of her pendants; He, from park 605 Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles[687] And the vast engine labouring in the mine, Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked The trunk and body of its[688] marvellous strength, 610 If his undaunted enterprise had failed Among the mountain coves. "Yon household fir,[689] A guardian planted to fence off the blast, But towering high the roof above, as if Its humble destination were forgot-- 615 That sycamore, which annually holds Within its shade, as in a stately tent[JB] 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[690] dance in May-- And the Lord's Oak--would plead their several rights In vain, if he were master of their fate; His sentence[691] to the axe would doom them all. But, green in age and lusty as he is, 625 And promising to keep his hold on earth[692] 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 This 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![JC] 635 --Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board Of Gold-rill[JD] 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[693] 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; 645 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[694] the gladness is diffused To all that come, almost to all[695] 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, 655 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[696] soul! --From the low tenement, his own abode, Whither, as to a little private cell, He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 665 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 675 Of desolating anguish for them all! --Just as the Child could totter on the floor, And, by some friendly finger's help upstayed, 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[697] The winds of March, smiting insidiously,[698] Raised in the tender passage of the throat Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarned, 685 The household lost their pride and soul's delight. --But time hath power[699] 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.[JE] "On a bright day--so calm and bright, it seemed[JF] To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair-- 696 These mountains echoed to an unknown sound;[700] 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. 705 Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved,[JG] 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 715 Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head Decked[701] with autumnal berries, that outshine Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have marked,[702] 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 725 Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, By all the graces with which nature's hand Had lavishly[703] 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, 735 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 745 To dread his perseverance in the chase.[704] With admiration would he lift[705] 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, 755 Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim, And lived by his forbearance. "From the coast Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his threats;[706][JH] Our Country marked the preparation vast[707] Of hostile forces; and she called--with voice 760 That filled her plains, that[708] 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. 765 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 Oswald, 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; 775 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, 785 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[709] 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, 795 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 805 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![JI] No braver Youth Descended from Judean[710] heights, to march With righteous Joshua;[JJ] nor[711] appeared in arms When grove was felled, and altar was cast down, And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed, 815 And strong in hatred of idolatry." The Pastor, even as if by these last words Raised from his seat within the chosen shade, Moved towards the grave;--instinctively his steps We followed; and my voice with joy exclaimed:[712] 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; And, to whole nations bound in servile straits, 825 The liberal donor of capacities More than heroic! this to be, nor yet Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet Deserve the least return of human thanks; Winning no recompense but deadly hate 830 With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn!" When this involuntary strain had ceased,[713] The Pastor said: "So Providence is served; The forkèd weapon of the skies can send Illumination into deep, dark holds, 835 Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast Pity away, soon shall ye quake with _fear!_[714] For, not unconscious of the mighty debt Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, 840 Europe, through all her habitable bounds,[715] Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore, By horror of their impious rites, preserved; Are still permitted to extend their pride,[716] 845 Like cedars on the top of Lebanon Darkening the sun. "But less impatient thoughts, And love 'all hoping and expecting all,'[JK] This hallowed grave demands, where rests in peace A humble champion of the better cause; 850 A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked No higher name; in whom our country showed, As in a favourite son, most beautiful. In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 855 England, the ancient and the free, appeared In him to stand before my swimming eyes, Unconquerably virtuous and secure. --No more of this, lest I offend his dust: Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 860 "One day--a summer's day of annual pomp[717] And solemn chase--from morn to sultry noon His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, The red-deer driven along its native heights With cry of hound and horn; and, from that toil 865 Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed, This generous Youth, too negligent of self, Plunged--'mid a gay and busy throng convened To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock-- Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire[718] 870 Seized him, that self-same night; and through the space Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched, Till nature rested from her work in death. To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 875 Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue-- A golden lustre slept upon the hills; And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, From some commanding eminence had looked Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 880 A glittering spectacle; but every face Was pallid: seldom hath that eye been moist With tears, that wept not then; nor were the few, Who from their dwellings came not forth to join In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 885 They started at the tributary peal Of instantaneous thunder, which announced, Through the still air, the closing of the Grave; And distant mountains echoed with a sound Of lamentation, never heard before!" 890 The Pastor ceased.--My venerable Friend Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye; And, when that eulogy was ended, stood Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived The prolongation of some still response, 895 Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, Its rights and virtues--by that Deity Descending, and supporting his pure heart 900 With patriotic confidence and joy. And, at the last of those memorial words, The pining Solitary turned aside; Whether through manly instinct to conceal Tender emotions spreading from the heart 905 To his worn cheek; or with uneasy shame For those cold humours of habitual spleen That,[719] fondly seeking in dispraise of man Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 910 --Right toward[720] the sacred Edifice his steps Had been directed; and we saw him now Intent upon a monumental stone, Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall, Or rather seemed to have grown into the side 915 Of the rude pile; as oft-times trunks of trees, Where nature works in wild and craggy spots, Are seen incorporate with the living rock-- To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note Of his employment, with a courteous smile 920 Exclaimed-- "The sagest Antiquarian's eye That task would foil;" then, letting fall his voice While he advanced, thus spake: "Tradition tells[721] That, in Eliza's golden days,[JL] a Knight Came on a war-horse[JM] sumptuously attired, 925 And fixed his home in this sequestered vale. 'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath, Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 930 To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, Or sent on mission to some northern Chief Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen With transient observation; and thence caught An image fair, which, brightening in his soul 935 When joy of war and pride of chivalry Languished beneath accumulated years,[722] Had power to draw him from the world, resolved To make that paradise his chosen home To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned. 940 "Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest Upon unwritten story fondly traced From sire to son, in this obscure retreat The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, and borne Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked 945 With broidered housings.[723] And the lofty Steed--[JN] His sole companion, and his faithful friend, Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range In fertile pastures--was beheld with eyes Of admiration and delightful awe, 950 By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less pride, Yet free from touch of envious discontent, They saw a mansion at his bidding rise, Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 954 Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt; And, in that mansion, children of his own, Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree That falls and disappears, the house is gone;[JO] And, through improvidence or want of love For ancient worth and honourable things, 960 The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch Myself have seen, a gateway,[JO] last remains Of that foundation in domestic care Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left 965 Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone, Faithless memorial! and his family name Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang From out the ruins of his stately lodge: These, and the name and title at full length,-- 970 <f>Sir Alfred Irthing</f>, with appropriate words Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath Or posy, girding round the several fronts Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, That in the steeple hang, his pious gift."[JP] 975 "So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, "All that this world is proud of. From their spheres The stars of human glory are cast down; Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,[JQ] 980 Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms Of all the mighty, withered and consumed! Nor is power given to lowliest innocence Long to protect her own. The man himself Departs; and soon is spent the line of those 985 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks, Fraternities and orders--heaping high New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 990 And placing trust in privilege confirmed And re-confirmed--are scoffed at with a smile Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand Of Desolation, aimed: to slow decline These yield, and these to sudden overthrow: 995 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state Expire; and nature's pleasant robe of green, Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame Of social nature changes evermore 1000 Her organs and her members with decay Restless, and restless generation, powers And functions dying and produced at need,-- And by this law the mighty whole subsists: With an ascent and progress in the main; 1005 Yet, oh! how disproportioned to the hopes And expectations of self-flattering minds! "The courteous Knight, whose bones are here interred, Lived in an age conspicuous as our own For strife and ferment in the minds of men; 1010 Whence alteration in the forms of things, Various and vast. A memorable age! Which did to him assign a pensive lot-- To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds That, on the steady breeze of honour, sailed 1015 In long procession calm and beautiful. He who had seen his own bright order fade, And its devotion gradually decline, (While war, relinquishing the lance and shield, Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws) 1020 Had also witnessed, in his morn of life, That violent commotion, which o'erthrew, In town and city and sequestered glen, Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof, And old religious house--pile after pile; 1025 And shook their[724] tenants out into the fields, Like wild beasts without home! Their hour was come; But why no softening thought of gratitude, No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt? Benevolence is mild; nor borrows help, 1030 Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. But Human-kind rejoices in the might Of mutability; and airy hopes, Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 1035 Those meditations of the soul that[725] feed The retrospective virtues. Festive songs Break from the maddened nations at the sight Of sudden overthrow; and cold neglect Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 1040 "Even," said the Wanderer, "as that courteous Knight, Bound by his vow to labour for redress Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact By sword and lance the law of gentleness, (If I may venture of myself to speak, 1045 Trusting that not incongruously I blend Low things with lofty) I too shall be doomed To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem Of the poor calling which my youth embraced With no unworthy prospect. But enough; 1050 --Thoughts crowd upon me--and 'twere seemlier now To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks For the pathetic records which his voice Hath here delivered; words of heartfelt truth, Tending to patience when affliction strikes; 1055 To hope and love; to confident repose In God; and reverence for the dust of Man." VARIANTS: [Footnote 627: 1836. _his patriotic enthusiasm--distinguished qualities--and_ 1814. ] [Footnote 628: 1827. ... craggy top, 1814. ] [Footnote 629: 1836. Upon ... 1814. ] [Footnote 630: 1827. ... that lie apart, Unsociable company and sad; And, furthermore, appearing to encroach 1814. ] [Footnote 631: 1827. ... follow with your eyes The length of road which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 632: 1827. ... among ... 1814. ] [Footnote 633: 1836. Towards ... 1814. ] [Footnote 634: 1814. Be crossed, and into those secluded vales C. ] [Footnote 635: 1832. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 636: 1827. Which told that 'twas ... 1814. Gay offering from ... MS. ] [Footnote 637: 1836. ... beneath the green-wood Tree? Or are they Strollers, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 638: 1827. Had frolicked many a year; a simple Clerk By hopes of coming patronage beguiled And vexed, until the weary heart grew sick. And so, abandoning each higher aim And all his shewy Friends, at length he turned 1814. Had frolicked many a year; a simple Clerk Beguiled by hopes of coming patronage Till the heart sicken'd so each loftier aim Abandoning, and all his showy Friends He turned to this sequester'd Chapelry; Kindly presented to his doubtful choice MS. ] [Footnote 639: 1836. For a life's stay, though slender yet assured, To this remote and humble Chapelry; Which ... 1814. For a life's stay, though slender yet assured, He turned to this secluded Chapelry, That ... 1827. ] [Footnote 640: 1836. With which the scantily-provided Cure Not long had been endowed: and far remote The Chapel stood, divided from that House By an unpeopled tract of mountain waste. 1814. ] [Footnote 641: 1827. ... compelled, Month after month, in that obscure Abode To rise ... 1814. ] [Footnote 642: 1827. Or these ... 1814. ] [Footnote 643: 1827. Contentedly, to take a temperate meal At his own board, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 644: 1836. With acceptable treat ... 1814. ] [Footnote 645: 1845. ... on ... 1814. ] [Footnote 646: ... that ... MS. ] [Footnote 647: 1827. ... festive ... 1814. ] [Footnote 648: 1836. These ... 1814. ] [Footnote 649: 1836. ... upon its ... 1814. ] [Footnote 650: 1836. ... growth 1814. ] [Footnote 651: 1827. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 652: 1836. --These ... 1814. ] [Footnote 653: 1827. As I have seen it, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 654: 1827. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 655: 1827. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 656: 1827. Without distinction falling ... 1814. ] [Footnote 657: The following lines occur only in the editions of 1814 and 1820. --Yoke-fellows were they long and well approved To endure and to perform. With frugal pains, Yet in a course of generous discipline, Did this poor Churchman and his Consort rear Their progeny.--Of three--sent forth to try The paths of fortune in the open world, One, not endowed with firmness to resist The suit of pleasure, to his native Vale Returned, and humbly tilled his Father's glebe. --The youngest Daughter, too, in duty stayed To lighten her declining Mother's care. But, ere the bloom was passed away which health Preserved to adorn a cheek no longer young, Her heart, in course of nature, finding place For new affections, to the holy state Of wedlock they conducted her; but still The Bride adhering to those filial cares Dwelt with her Mate beneath her Father's roof. ... discipline Their progeny was reared.--Of three that tried MS. But, ere her bloom had fled by health preserved To decorate a cheek no longer young, MS. ] [Footnote 658: 1836. Of open schemes, and all his ... 1814. ] [Footnote 659: 1827. ... these ... 1814. ] [Footnote 660: 1836. In ... 1814. ] [Footnote 661: Italics were first used in 1836.] [Footnote 662: 1836. ... 'twixt ... 1814. ] [Footnote 663: 1845. ... would never quit; Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good Man Will be conveyed. An unelaborate Stone 1814. Into its graveyard will ere long be borne That lowly great good man. A simple stone May cover him, and by that record's help, C. ] [Footnote 664: 1827. ... frames ... 1814. ] [Footnote 665: 1845. ... and instantly dissolves. --Noise ... 1814. ] [Footnote 666: 1832. ... where'er he may? 1814. ] [Footnote 667: 1836. ... deeds and purposes; ... 1814. ] [Footnote 668: 1836. ... discomfiture ... 1814. ] [Footnote 669: 1827. ... through fields And cottages, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 670: 1845. ... this ... 1814. ] [Footnote 671: 1845. Of what it holds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 672: 1836. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 673: 1814. Beneath that pine which rears its dusky head Aloft, and covered by a plain blue stone Briefly inscribed, a gentle Dalesman lies; Quoted from MS. in _Essay upon Epitaphs_. 1810. ] [Footnote 674: 1814. No husband's ... 1810. ] [Footnote 675: 1836. ... had each ... 1814. ] [Footnote 676: 1836. To the assembled spirits of the just From imperfection and decay secure. 1814. ] [Footnote 677: 1845. To think of One, who cannot see, advancing Towards some precipice's airy brink! 1814. Toward ... 1832. To think of one, who cannot see, advancing Straight toward some precipice's airy brink! 1836. ] [Footnote 678: 1827. ... brink ... 1814. ] [Footnote 679: 1836. Or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 680: 1827. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 681: 1827. ... may win their recompence; 1814. ] [Footnote 682: 1814. Not least for this that here might be perceived A type and shadow of that awful truth. C. ] [Footnote 683: 1827. ... of the space 1814. ] [Footnote 684: 1827. ... with attentive ear, Nor disbelieves the tidings which he hears. Meanwhile the incense offered up by him Is of the kind which beasts and birds present 1814. ] [Footnote 685: 1827. ... horizon's edge, Transparent texture, framing in the east A veil ... 1814. ] [Footnote 686: 1827. ... hath owed to him 1814. ] [Footnote 687: 1827. The loftiest of her pendants. Help he gives To lordly mansion rising far or near; The enormous wheel that turns ten thousand spindles, 1814. ... pendants. And the wheel Enormous, that turns round ten thousand spindles, MS. ] [Footnote 688: 1827. ... their ... 1814. ] [Footnote 689: 1827. Among the mountain coves, or keen research In forest, park, or chace. Yon household Fir, 1814. ] [Footnote 690: 1827. ... lasses ... 1814. ] [Footnote 691: 1827. ... of their fate. Not one would have his pitiful regard, For prized accommodation, pleasant use, For dignity, for old acquaintance sake, For ancient custom or distinguished name. His sentence ... 1814. ] [Footnote 692: 1827. And promising to stand from year to year, 1814. ] [Footnote 693: 1827. Was given, the crown and glory of the whole! Welcomed with joy, whose penetrating power Was not unfelt amid that heavenly calm 1814. ] [Footnote 694: 1827. ... from his open door, And from the laurel-shaded seat thereby, Day after day ... 1814. ] [Footnote 695: 1836. ... and almost all ... 1814. ] [Footnote 696: 1836. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 697: Range round the garden-walk, whose first Spring flowers Were peeping forth, even at that hopeful time, MS. ] [Footnote 698: 1827. Range round the garden-walk, whose low ground-flowers Were peeping forth, shy messengers of spring,-- Even at that hopeful time,--the winds of March, One sunny day, smiting insidiously, 1814. ] [Footnote 699: 1827. .... their hope and soul's delight. --But Providence, that gives and takes away By his own law, is merciful and just; Time wants not power ... 1814. ] [Footnote 700: 1836. ... a peaceful grave. On a bright day, the brightest of the year, These mountains echoed with an unknown sound, 1814. ] [Footnote 701: 1827. ... The mountain Ash, Decked ... 1814. ...The mountain ash Ye may have mark'd mid yet unfaded woods Deck'd with autumnal berries that outshine The richest blossoms of the Spring, or seen MS. ] [Footnote 702: 1827. Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show, Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen, 1814. ] [Footnote 703: 1827. Had bounteously ... 1814. ] [Footnote 704: 1814. Fleeing for life the fox was taught to dread His voice and indefatigable feet. C. Or, The fox in many wiles however versed Or spent in strength by forward flight O'er { hill and vale } was taught to dread { vale and stream } His voice and indefatigable feet Still foremost, longest in the obstinate chase. C. ] [Footnote 705: 1827. ... he could lift ... 1814. ] [Footnote 706: 1836. ... steady aim. From Gallia's coast a Tyrant's threats were hurled; 1814. From Gallia's coast a Tyrant hurled his threats; 1827. ] [Footnote 707: 1827. ... preparations vast 1814. ] [Footnote 708: 1832. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 709: 1827. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 710: 1827. ... Judea's ... 1814. ] [Footnote 711: 1836. ... or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 712: 1836. This spoken, from his seat the Pastor rose, And moved towards the grave;--instinctively His steps we followed; and my voice exclaimed, 1814. ] [Footnote 713: 1836. When these involuntary words had ceased, 1814. ] [Footnote 714: 1836. ... power to pierce. Why do ye quake, intimidated Thrones? 1814. ] [Footnote 715: 1836. ... Seats, 1814. ] [Footnote 716: 1836. ... who still Exist, as Pagan Temples stood of old, By very horror of their impious rites Preserved; are suffered to extend their pride, 1814. ] [Footnote 717: 1845. One summer's day, a day of annual pomp 1814. ] [Footnote 718: 1827. ... too negligent of self, (A natural failing which maturer years Would have subdued) took fearlessly--and kept-- His wonted station in the chilling flood, Among a busy company convened To wash his Father's flock. Convulsions dire 1814. ] [Footnote 719: 1827. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 720: 1827. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 721: 1827. That task would foil." And, with these added words, He thitherward advanced, "Tradition tells 1814. ] [Footnote 722: 1827. ... in his soul When years admonished him of failing strength And he no more rejoiced in war's delights, 1814. Long crush'd beneath ... MS. ] [Footnote 723: 1845. The Knight arrived, with pomp of spear and shield, And borne upon a Charger covered o'er With gilded housings.... 1814. ] [Footnote 724: 1836. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 725: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote IC: In the end of May and in June 1791, Wordsworth went with his friend Jones on a pedestrian tour in Wales.--ED.] [Footnote ID: Note the exactness of the reference to the "playground of the village-school." It is described as "smooth" because it had no graves in it at that time. "The school," writes Dr. Cradock, "was then, and long afterwards, held at the house abutting the Lichgate, and the children had no playground but the churchyard. The portion of the ground nearest the school was not used for burial, until the want of room made it necessary to encroach on it. The oldest tombstone bears the date of 1777."--ED.] [Footnote IE: This "tuft of trees" is still standing (1896).--ED.] [Footnote IF: The road "up the heathy waste," and mounting "in mazes serpentine," is the Keswick road over Dunmail Raise, the "easy outlet of the vale."--ED.] [Footnote IG: The cottage in which the parson of Wytheburn then lived still stands on the right or eastern side of the road, as you ascend the Raise, beyond the Swan Inn. It abuts on the public road about three hundred yards beyond the bridge over Tongue Ghyll beck. "The Clergyman and his family described at the beginning of the seventh book were, during many years, our principal associates in the vale of Grasmere, unless I were to except our very nearest neighbours.... With the single exception of the particulars of their journey to Grasmere--which, however, was exactly copied from real life in another instance--the whole that I have said of them is as faithful to the truth as words can make it." (I. F.)--ED.] [Footnote IH: Compare Dryden's _Epilogue to Henry II._-- Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver: Fair Rosamond was but her _nom de guerre_. Also Sir Walter Scott's _Woodstock_, and _The Talisman_.--ED.] [Footnote II: Compare Gay, _The Shepherds Week_, the Sixth Pastoral, line 91-- Then sad he sung "The children in the wood." Ah! barb'rous Uncle, stain'd with infant blood! ED. ] [Footnote IJ: Compare _The Prelude_, book vii. ll. 110-115 (see vol. iii. p. 251).--ED.] [Footnote IK: The chapel of Wytheburn, at the northern or Cumberland side of Dunmail Raise.--ED.] [Footnote IL: This house, in which Mr. Sympson lived, and which--though no longer the parsonage--still belongs to Wytheburn church, is easily identified. The "blue slabs of mountain-stone," common to all old houses in the vale, remain just as they were, when the old pastor lived, and Wordsworth was his frequent guest. The windows, too, "by shutters weather-fended," are described with minute fidelity.--ED.] [Footnote IM: Mrs. Sympson was twelve years her husband's junior, and she pre-deceased him by a year and a half. Compare-- "She, far behind him in the race of years" (l. 226). And "Not twice had summer," etc. (l. 247). ED. ] [Footnote IN: Old Mr. Sympson was found dead in his garden on the opposite side of the road from the cottage, in 1807, in his ninety-second year. There is now a new door into the garden, but the posts are old enough to have been there in Sympson's time.--ED.] [Footnote IO: The Sympsons are all buried at Grasmere. Their gravestone stands about ten yards north-west from that of their poet, not far from the monument erected in memory of Arthur Hugh Clough. There is only one stone, a low one, with a pointed top. The following is the inscription on it:--"Here lie the remains of the Reverend Jos. Sympson, Minister of Wytheburn for more than 50 years. He died June 27, 1807, aged 92; also of Mary, his wife, who died Jan. 24, 1806, aged 81; also of Eliz. Jane, their youngest Dr., who died Sep. 11, 1801, aged 37."--ED.] [Footnote IP: The Duddon valley.--ED.] [Footnote IQ: See the notes to the Duddon sonnets.--ED.] [Footnote IR: The chapelry of Seathwaite. The reference to "yon hill" suggests that the conversation is carried on at Hackett (rather than Grasmere), whence Wetherlam--which concealed the Duddon valley--would be visible.--ED.] [Footnote IS: It is so. In the churchyard of Seathwaite a plain stone slab records the fact that he died on the 25th June 1802, in the ninety-third year of his age.--ED.] [Footnote IT: "The Deaf Man, whose epitaph may be seen in the churchyard at the head of Hawes Water, and whose qualities of mind and heart, and their benign influence in conjunction with his privation, I had from his relatives on the spot."--I. F. Thomas Holme of Chapel Hill was his name. On his epitaph it is said "he was deprived of the sense of hearing in his youth, and lived about 58 years without the comfort of hearing one word. He reconciled himself to his misfortune by reading, and useful employment." He died in 1773, "aged 67 years." From this it is clear that we must not look for the "tall pine" or the "plain blue stone" in Grasmere churchyard! and that the localities as well as the narratives of _The Excursion_ are at times composite.--ED.] [Footnote IU: For another reference to the streams in the Grasmere Vale, compare the _Lines composed at Grasmere_, when Mr. Fox's death was hourly expected (vol. iv. p. 47)-- Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up With which she speaks when storms are gone, A mighty unison of streams! Of all her Voices, One. ED. ] [Footnote IV: Either Stone Arthur, or Loughrigg. Compare the lines _To the Clouds_, suggested by their appearance on Nab Scar-- Army of Clouds! ye wingéd Host in troops Ascending from behind the motionless brow Of that tall rock, etc. ED. ] [Footnote IW: "The Blind Man was John Gough, of Kendal, a man known, far beyond his neighbourhood, for his talents and attainments in natural history and science."--I.F. For an account of John Gough, see Appendix, and note [IX] p. 304.--ED.] [Footnote IX: This John Gough, a friend of Wordsworth's, was one of the first mathematicians of his time, and a most successful teacher. Whewell and King (senior wranglers) were amongst his pupils. So was Dalton. Gough had been deprived of sight by an attack of small-pox, when he was between two and three years of age. He was a great botanist, as is mentioned in the text; and the following remarkable circumstance is recorded of him, showing at once his marvellous memory, and the extreme delicacy of his sense of _touch_. In the _Elegiac Verses_ on his brother John, Wordsworth had described the moss campion, _Silene acaulis_-- It grows upon its native bed Beside our Parting-place; There, cleaving to the ground, it lies With multitude of purple eyes, Spangling a cushion green like moss. This poem was read to Gough in 1805 (it was not published till 1845), and twelve years afterwards, in 1817, a specimen of the moss campion was placed in his hand, and he said at once, "I have never examined this plant before, but it is _Silene acaulis_." Compare Atkinson's _Worthies of Cumberland_ and note E in the Appendix to this volume, p. 398.--ED.] [Footnote IY: Compare _Paradise Lost_, book vi. l. 752.--ED.] [Footnote IZ: See note [XI] above.--ED.] [Footnote JA: Compare _L'Allegro_, l. 137-- Married to immortal verse. ED. ] [Footnote JB: See Wordsworth's note, p. 389.--ED.] [Footnote JC: Compare Burger's _Pfarrers Tochter_-- Drei Spannen lang. ED. ] [Footnote JD: "This refers to the Greens, a very ancient Grasmere family, settled for generations at Pavement End, which, with a considerable tract of land, is still their property. The poet describes them as dwelling at Gold-rill side, and I have been told that the name was a pure invention to avoid the realism of 'Grasmere,' or 'Pavement End.' Such, however, is not exactly the case. On enquiry from Mr. Fleming Green, one of the family now residing in Grasmere, I find that a small stream to which Wordsworth himself, from some fancy of his own, had given the name of Gold-rill, ran formerly by the road side, and then turned by the side of the farm at Pavement End towards the Lake. When the road was reconstructed, the rill was covered, and can no more be seen there; but it issues freely from a culvert at the back of the premises, and runs by the hedge-side to the Lake. Mr. Fleming Green remembers the rill as it was, and pointed out its course to me. He is a son of one of the 'seven lusty sons' mentioned in the poem. (Mr. Green would read 'six.') He said 'we stuck to the old home till we could no longer stand up in it.' He is one of a race well termed 'lusty.' The 'hoary grandsire' and many of his descendants lie buried in a long row, a little to the left of the path leading from the Church to the lichgate at the north. Among them is little Margaret (her name and age not unrecorded), but her 'daisied hillock three spans long' is now merged in the larger graves of her more aged kindred." (Dr. Cradock to the Editor.)--ED.] [Footnote JE: "Of the infant's grave I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under my own observation."--I. F.] [Footnote JF: Compare George Herbert's Sweet Day, so cool, so calm and bright. ED. ] [Footnote JG: "This young volunteer bore the name of Dawson.... The premature death of this gallant young man was much lamented, and as an attendant upon the funeral, I myself witnessed the ceremony, and the effect of it as described in the poem."--I. F. See the whole of the note (p. 13). "In _The Excursion_, book vii., is an animated account of the life and death of a young volunteer, one of a company of eighty men, which, when England was threatened with a French invasion, was formed in the Lake District, and was named 'Wedgwood's Mountaineers,' having by him in a generous spirit of patriotism been clothed and armed, and this in the completest manner, as riflemen." See _Fragmentary Remains, Literary and Scientific, of Sir Humphrey Davy, Bart._ (1858), p. 109. The Wedgwood referred to was the Thomas Wedgwood who assisted Coleridge so opportunely. In 1806 Wordsworth wrote of Dawson: "His calm and dignified manner, united with his tall form and beautiful face, produced in me an impression of sublimity beyond what I ever experienced from the appearance of any other human being."--ED.] [Footnote JH: The Napoleonic threat of invasion.--ED.] [Footnote JI: Dr. John Davy, the editor of his brother Sir Humphry Davy's _Fragmentary Remains_, was of opinion (see p. 110) that "in describing the high qualities, intellectual and moral, of the young soldier, the poet has in his mind the memory of the man whose name was so properly associated with the company,--idealising according to his wont,--selecting such qualities as suited his purpose." He refers to Mr. Wedgwood, the founder of this volunteer corps.--ED.] [Footnote JJ: Compare the Book of _Joshua_, _passim_; Josephus, _Ant._ v. I. Also, _Judges_ vii.; and Josephus, _Ant._ v. 6.--ED.] [Footnote JK: Is it a reference to the Pauline description of Charity (1 Cor. xiii. 7), "Charity ... hopeth all things, endureth all things"?--ED.] [Footnote JL: Compare _The White Doe of Rylstone_, canto i. l. 42 (vol. iv. p. 107)-- In great Eliza's golden time. ED. ] [Footnote JM: See the Fenwick note, p. 13.--ED.] [Footnote JN: See Spenser's _Faërie Queene_, part 1, canto viii. stanza 2.--ED.] [Footnote JO: "The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion remained when we first took up our abode at Grasmere. Two or three cottages still remain which are called Nott Houses, from the name of the gentleman (I have called him a knight) concerning whom these traditions survive. He was the ancestor of the Knott family, formerly considerable proprietors in the district."--I. F.] [Footnote JP: It is clear from the Fenwick note (see p. 13) that the title, "Sir Alfred Irthing," was Wordsworth's invention. I am indebted to the Rector of Grasmere--the Rev. Henry M. Fletcher--for the following information as to the bells of the church, and to the "Nott house":-- "Three bells hang in the tower. That they are 'clear-sounding and harmonious' I think may be said of them without poetical license. They have not on them the name and title of their donor. Two of them have coats of arms. My son believes that the quarterings show that they were the gifts of the Flemings of Rydal Hall, patrons, for some hundred years, of the living. The third, and smallest, reports of itself that it was recast at the expense of Mrs. Dorothy Knott, in the year 1808, and that Thomas Mears of London did the work. This last inscription is partly in Latin. The two older bells have on them the inscriptions respectively of 'Soli Deo' and 'Gloria in altissimis Deo.' "Looking over the old book of Church Warden's accounts, I observe that, in the year 1732, there is an item 'Towards casting the bells, and other charges, £40, 3s. 9d.,' and in the following year, 1733, again 'Towards casting the bells, and other charges, £49, 0s. 3d.' This, at a time when the whole of the general charge yearly ranged from £2 to £5. It was a re-casting, I presume. "The 'Nott house' still exists, and is the residence of our chief 'statesman,' James Fleming. It is known as 'Knott's Houses.' In the dialect of this county, when purely used, there is no possessive 's. Mr. Fletcher's letters being always, _e.g._, spoken of at the post-office here as 'Mr. Fletcher letters.' 'Nott house,' therefore, meant a house belonging to Mrs. Dorothy Knott, or her husband's forefathers. A little group of houses has formed round it; but the old Farm House, I make little doubt, is the one for which you ask." See also Charles Lamb's remarks in his third letter to Wordsworth about _The Excursion_, written in 1814.] [Footnote JQ: See Wordsworth's note, p. 389.--ED.] Book Eighth THE PARSONAGE ARGUMENT _Pastor's apology and apprehensions[726] that he might have detained his Auditors too long, with the Pastor's invitation to his house_[727]--_Solitary disinclined to comply--rallies the Wanderer--and playfully_[728] _draws a comparison between his itinerant profession and that of the Knight-errant--which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in the Country from the manufacturing spirit--Favourable effects--The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler classes--Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if unsupported by moral worth_[729]--_Physical science unable to support itself--Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among the humbler Classes of Society--Picture of a Child employed in a Cotton-mill--Ignorance and degradation of Children among the agricultural Population reviewed--Conversation broken off by a renewed Invitation from the Pastor--Path leading to his House--Its appearance described--His Daughter--His Wife--His Son (a Boy) enters with his Companion--Their happy appearance--The Wanderer how affected by the sight of them._ The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, With a sedate compliance, which the Priest Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said:-- "If ye, by whom invited I began 5 These narratives[730] of calm and humble life, Be satisfied, 'tis well,--the end is gained; And in return for sympathy bestowed And patient listening, thanks accept from me. --Life, death, eternity! momentous themes 10 Are they[731]--and might demand a seraph's tongue, Were they not equal to their own support; And therefore no incompetence of mine Could do them wrong. The universal forms Of human nature, in a spot like this, 15 Present themselves at once to all men's view: Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make The individual known and understood; And such as my best judgment could select From what the place afforded, have been given; 20 Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal To his might well be likened, who unlocks A cabinet stored with gems and pictures--draws His treasures forth, soliciting regard[732] To this, and this, as worthier than the last, 25 Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased 25 More than the exhibitor himself, becomes Weary and faint, and longs to be released. --But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight, And there--" At this the Solitary shrunk 30 With backward will; but, wanting not address That inward motion to disguise, he said To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake; --"The peaceable remains of this good Knight Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 35 If consciousness could reach him where he lies That one, albeit of these degenerate times, Deploring changes past, or dreading change Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, The fine vocation of the sword and lance 40 With the gross aims and body-bending toil Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. "Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, 45 Exiles and wanderers--and the like are these; Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. --What though no higher recompense be sought[733] Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 50 Full oft procured, yet may they[734] claim respect, Among the intelligent, for what this course Enables them to be and to perform. Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, While solitude permits the mind to feel; 55 Instructs, and prompts her[735] to supply defects By the division of her inward self For grateful converse: and to these poor men Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast) Is bountiful--go wheresoe'er they may;[736] 60 Kind nature's various wealth is all their own. Versed in the characters of men; and bound, By ties[737] of daily interest, to maintain Conciliatory manners and smooth speech; Such have been, and still are in their degree, 65 Examples efficacious to refine Rude intercourse; apt agents to expel,[738] By importation of unlooked-for arts, Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice; Raising, through just gradation, savage life 70 To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. --Within their moving magazines is lodged Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt Affections[739] seated in the mother's breast, And in the lover's fancy; and to feed 75 The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. --By these Itinerants, as experienced men, Counsel is given; contention they appease With gentle language; in remotest wilds,[740] Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring; 80 Could the proud quest of chivalry do more?" "Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, "they who gain A panegyric from your generous tongue! But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained Aught of romantic interest, it is gone.[741] 85 Their purer service, in this realm at least, Is past for ever.--An inventive Age Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet To most strange issues. I have lived to mark A new and unforeseen creation rise 90 From out the labours of a peaceful Land Wielding her potent enginery to frame And to produce, with appetite as keen As that of war, which rests not night or day, Industrious to destroy![JR] With fruitless pains 95 Might one like me _now_ visit many a tract Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight,[JS] Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came-- Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill;[JT] 100 Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud, And dignified by battlements and towers Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream.[JU] The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild, 105 And formidable length of plashy lane, (Prized avenues ere others had been shaped Or easier links connecting place with place) Have vanished--swallowed up by stately roads Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 110 Of Britain's[742] farthest glens. The Earth has lent Her waters, Air her breezes;[JV] and the sail Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse,[743][JW] Glistening along the low and woody dale; Or, in its progress, on the lofty side, 115 Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from far.[744][JX] "Meanwhile, at social Industry's command, How quick, how vast an increase! From the germ Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 120 Hiding the face of earth for leagues--and there, Where not a habitation stood before, Abodes[745] of men irregularly massed Like trees in forests,--spread through spacious tracts, O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 125 Hangs permanent,[JY] and plentiful as wreaths Of vapour glittering in the morning sun. And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns his steps, He sees the barren wilderness erased, Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 130 How much the mild Directress of the plough Owes to alliance with these new-born arts! --Hence is the wide sea peopled,--hence[746] the shores Of Britain are resorted to by ships Freighted from every climate of the world 135 With the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays; That animating spectacle of sails That,[747] through her inland regions, to and fro 140 Pass with the respirations of the tide, Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally, Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice Of thunder daunting those who would approach With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 145 Truth's consecrated residence, the seat Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. "And yet, O happy Pastor of a flock Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care And Heaven's good providence, preserved from taint! With you I grieve, when on the darker side 151 Of this great change I look; and there behold Such outrage[748] done to nature as compels The indignant power to justify herself; Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 155 For England's bane.--When soothing darkness spreads O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed His recollections, "and the punctual stars, While all things else are gathering to their homes, Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 160 Glitter--but undisturbing, undisturbed; As if their silent company were charged With peaceful admonitions for the heart Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord; Then, in full many a region, once like this 165 The assured domain of calm simplicity And pensive quiet, an unnatural light Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge;[JZ] And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, 170 Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest--[KA] A local summons to unceasing toil! Disgorged are now the ministers of day; And, as they issue from the illumined pile, 175 A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door-- And in the courts--and where the rumbling stream, That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels,[KB] Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, 180 Mother and little children, boys and girls, Enter, and each the wonted task resumes Within this temple, where is offered up To Gain, the master idol of the realm, Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 185 Our ancestors, within the still domain Of vast cathedral or conventual church, Their vigils kept; where tapers day and night On the dim altar burned continually, In token that the House was evermore 190 Watching to God. Religious men were they; Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire Above this transitory world, allow That there should pass a moment of the year,[749] When in their land the Almighty's service ceased. 195 "Triumph who will in these profaner rites Which we, a generation self-extolled, As zealously perform! I cannot share His proud complacency:--yet do I exult,[750] Casting reserve away, exult to see 200 An intellectual mastery exercised O'er the blind elements; a purpose given, A perseverance fed; almost a soul Imparted--to brute matter. I rejoice, Measuring the force of those gigantic powers 205 That,[751] by the thinking mind, have been compelled To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. For with the sense of admiration blends The animating hope that time may come When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 210 Of this dominion over nature gained, Men of all lands shall exercise the same In due proportion to their country's need; Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 215 Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves, Palmyra, central in the desert, fell; And the Arts died by which they had been raised.[KC] --Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 220 Upon the grave[752] of vanished Syracuse,[KD] And feelingly the Sage shall make report How insecure, how baseless in itself, Is the Philosophy whose sway depends On[753] mere material instruments;--how weak 225 Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped By virtue.--He, sighing with pensive grief,[754] Amid his calm abstractions, would admit That not the slender privilege is theirs To save themselves from blank forgetfulness!" 230 When from the Wanderer's lips these words had fallen, I said, "And, did in truth those vaunted Arts[755] Possess such privilege, how could we escape Sadness and keen regret, we who revere,[756] And would preserve as things above all price, 235 The old domestic morals of the land, Her simple manners, and the stable worth That dignified and cheered a low estate? Oh! where is now the character of peace, Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 240 And honest dealing, and untainted speech, And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer; That made the very thought of country-life A thought of refuge, for a mind detained Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd? 245 Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept With conscientious reverence, as a day By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced Holy and blest? and where the winning grace Of all the lighter ornaments attached 250 To time and season, as the year rolled round?" "Fled!" was the Wanderer's passionate response, "Fled utterly! or only to be traced In a few fortunate retreats like this; Which I behold with trembling, when I think 255 What lamentable change, a year--a month-- May bring; that brook converting as it runs Into an instrument of deadly bane For those, who, yet untempted to forsake The simple occupations of their sires, 260 Drink the pure water of its innocent stream With lip almost as pure.--Domestic bliss (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart! Lo! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, 265 The habitations empty! or perchance The Mother left alone,--no helping hand To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 270 Of household occupation; no nice arts Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire, Where once the dinner was prepared with pride; Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind; Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command! 275 "The Father, if perchance he still retain His old employments, goes to field or wood, No longer led or followed by the[757] Sons; Idlers perchance they were,--but in _his_ sight; Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth; 280 'Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, Ne'er to return! That birthright now is lost. Economists will tell you that the State Thrives by the forfeiture--unfeeling thought, And false as monstrous! Can the mother thrive 285 By the destruction of her innocent sons In whom a premature necessity Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up The infant Being in itself, and makes 290 Its very spring a season of decay! The lot is wretched, the condition sad, Whether a pining discontent survive, And thirst for change; or habit hath subdued The soul deprest, dejected--even to love 295 Of her close tasks, and long captivity.[758] Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns A native Briton to these inward chains, Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep; Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed! 300 He is a slave to whom release comes not, And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns, Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up Among the clouds, and roars through the ancient woods;[759] Or when the sun is shining in the east,[760] 305 Quiet and calm. Behold him--in the school Of his attainments? no; but with the air Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 310 Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale, His respiration quick and audible; And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush[761] Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 315 Is that the countenance, and such the port, Of no mean Being? One who should be clothed With dignity befitting his proud hope; Who, in his very childhood, should appear Sublime from present purity and joy! 320 The limbs increase; but liberty of mind Is gone for ever; and this organic frame, So joyful in its motions, is become[762] Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead; And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 325 Through the whole body, with a languid will Performs its[763] functions; rarely competent To impress a vivid feeling on the mind Of what there is delightful in the breeze, The gentle visitations of the sun, 330 Or lapse of liquid element--by hand, Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth--perceived. --Can hope look forward to a manhood raised On such foundations?" "Hope is none for him!" The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 335 "And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, If there were not, before those arts appeared, These structures rose, commingling old and young, And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint; 340 If there were not, _then_[764] in our far-famed Isle, Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large; Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, As abject, as degraded? At this day, 345 Who shall enumerate the crazy huts And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair[765] Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear; Or wearing, (shall we say?)[766] in that white growth 350 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt brows, By savage Nature? Shrivelled are their lips;[767] Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet On which they stand; as if thereby they drew 355 Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots, From earth, the common mother of us all. Figure and mien, complexion and attire, Are leagued to strike dismay; but outstretched hand[768] And whining voice denote them supplicants 360 For the least boon that pity can bestow. Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found; And with their parents occupy[769] the skirts Of furze-clad commons; such are born and reared At the mine's mouth under[770] impending rocks; 365 Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave; Or[771] where their ancestors erected huts, For the convenience of unlawful gain, In forest purlieus; and the like are bred, All England through, where nooks and slips of ground Purloined, in times less jealous than our own, 371 From the green margin of the public way, A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom And gaiety of cultivated fields. Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 375 Do I remember oft-times to have seen 'Mid Buxton's dreary heights.[KE] In earnest watch,[772] Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand; Then, following closely with the cloud of dust, An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 380 Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. --Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin, And, on the freight of merry passengers Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed; And spin--and pant--and overhead again, 385 Wild pursuivants! until their breath is lost, Or bounty tires--and every face, that smiled Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. --But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe, These, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 390 Are profitless to others. "Turn we then To Britons born and bred within the pale Of civil polity, and early trained To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, The bread they eat. A sample should I give 395 Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich The tender age of life, ye would exclaim,[773] 'Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes Impart new gladness to the morning air!' Forgive me if I venture to suspect 400 That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse, Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints;[774] Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, Fellows to those that[775] lustily upheld 405 The wooden stools for everlasting use, Whereon[776] our fathers sate. And mark his brow! Under whose shaggy canopy are set Two eyes--not dim, but of a healthy[777] stare-- Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange-- Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 411 A look or motion of intelligence From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row,[KF] Or puzzling through a primer, line by line, Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 415 --What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand, What penetrating power of sun or breeze, Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice? This torpor is no pitiable work 420 Of modern ingenuity; no town Nor crowded city can[778] be taxed with aught Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, To which (and who can tell where or how soon?) He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce: 425 His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe,[779] The carter's whip that[780] on his shoulder rests In air high-towering with a boorish pomp, The sceptre of his sway; his country's name, Her equal rights, her churches and her schools-- 430 What have they done for him? And, let me ask, For tens of thousands uninformed as he? In brief, what liberty of _mind_[781] is here?" This ardent[782] sally pleased the mild good Man, To whom the appeal couched in its[783] closing words 435 Was pointedly addressed; and to the thoughts That,[784] in assent or opposition, rose Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give Prompt utterance; but the Vicar interposed[785] With invitation urgently[786] renewed. 440 --We followed, taking as he led, a path Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall,[787][KG] Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight[788] Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 445 Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methought, Is here--how grateful this impervious screen![789] --Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot On rural business passing to and fro Was the commodious walk: a careful hand 450 Had marked the line, and strewn its[790] surface o'er With pure cerulean gravel,[KH] from the heights Fetched by a[791] neighbouring brook.--Across the vale The stately fence accompanied our steps; And thus the pathway, by perennial green 455 Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite, As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer. Like image of solemnity, conjoined With feminine allurement soft and fair, 460 The mansion's self displayed;--a reverend pile With bold projections and recesses deep; Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to admire The pillared porch, elaborately embossed; 465 The low wide windows with their mullions old; The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone; And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose, By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned: 470 Profusion bright! and every flower assuming A more than natural vividness of hue, From unaffected contrast with the gloom Of sober cypress, and the darker foil Of yew, in which survived some traces, here 475 Not unbecoming, of grotesque device And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, Blending their diverse foliage with the green Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 480 The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight For wren and redbreast,--where they sit and sing Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else Were incomplete) a relique of old times[792] 485 Happily spared, a little Gothic niche Of nicest workmanship; that[793] once had held The sculptured image of some patron-saint, Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down On all who entered those religious doors. 490 But lo! where from the cocky garden-mount Crowned by its antique summer-house--descends, Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl; For she hath recognised her honoured friend, The Wanderer ever welcome! A prompt kiss 495 The gladsome Child bestows at his request; And, up the flowery lawn as we advance, Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, And with a pretty restless hand of love. --We enter--by the Lady of the place 500 Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port:[794] A lofty stature undepressed by time, Whose visitation had not wholly spared[795] The finer lineaments of form[796] and face; To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in And wisdom loves.--But when a stately ship 506 Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast[KI] On homeward voyage, what--if wind and wave, And hardship undergone in various climes, Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 510 And that full trim of inexperienced hope With which she left her haven--not for this, Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze Play on her streamers, fails she[797] to assume Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 515 That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared[798] This goodly Matron, shining in the beams Of unexpected pleasure.--Soon the board Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled[799] 520 The mid-day hours with desultory talk; From trivial themes to general argument Passing, as accident or fancy led, Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 525 Dropping from every mind, the Solitary[800] Resumed the manners of his happier days; And[801] in the various conversation bore A willing, nay,[802] at times, a forward part; Yet with the grace of one who in the world 530 Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now Occasion given him to display his skill, Upon the stedfast 'vantage-ground of truth. He gazed, with admiration unsuppressed, Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 535 Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, In softened pérspective; and more than once Praised the consummate harmony serene Of gravity and elegance, diffused Around the mansion and its whole domain; 540 Not, doubtless, without help of female taste And female care.--"A blessed lot is yours!" The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh Breathed over them: but suddenly the door Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys[803] 545 Appeared, confusion checking their delight. --Not brothers they in feature or attire, But fond companions, so I guessed, in field, And by the river's margin--whence they come, Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated.[804] 550 One bears a willow-pannier on his back, The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be To that fair girl who from the garden-mount Bounded:--triumphant entry this for him![805] 555 Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, On whose capacious surface see[806] outspread Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts; Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees[807] Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 560 Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone With its rich freight;[808] their number he proclaims; Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged; And where the very monarch of the brook, After long struggle, had escaped at last-- 565 Stealing alternately at them and us (As doth his comrade too) a look of pride: And, verily, the silent creatures made A splendid sight, together thus exposed; Dead--but not sullied or deformed by death, 570 That seemed to pity what he could not spare. But O, the animation in the mien Of those two boys! yea in the very words With which the young narrator was inspired, When, as our questions led, he told at large 575 Of that day's prowess! Him might I compare, His looks,[809] tones, gestures, eager eloquence, To a bold brook that[810] splits for better speed, And at the self-same moment, works its way Through many channels, ever and anon 580 Parted and re-united: his compeer To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight[811] As beautiful--as grateful to the mind. --But to what object shall the lovely Girl Be likened? She whose countenance and air 585 Unite the graceful qualities of both, Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. My grey-haired Friend was moved; his vivid eye Glistened with tenderness; his mind, I knew, Was full; and had, I doubted not, returned, 590 Upon this impulse, to the theme--erewhile Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal;[812] And He--to whom all tongues resigned their rights With willingness, to whom the general ear 595 Listened with readier patience than to strain Of music, lute or harp, a long delight That ceased not when his voice had ceased--as One Who from truth's central point serenely views The compass of his argument--began 600 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. VARIANTS: [Footnote 726: 1836. _Pastor's apprehensions_ 1814. ] [Footnote 727: 1836. _too long--Invitation to his House--_ 1814. ] [Footnote 728: 1836. _and somewhat playfully_ 1814. ] [Footnote 729: 1836. _by moral worth--gives Instances--_ 1814. ] [Footnote 730: 1836. ... I commenced Those Narratives ... 1814. These ... 1827. ] [Footnote 731: 1827. Are these-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 732: 1836. Though apprehensions crossed me, in the course Of this self-pleasing exercise, that Ye My zeal to his would liken, who, possessed Of some rare gems, or pictures finely wrought, Unlocks his Cabinet, and draws them forth One after one,--soliciting regard 1814. My zeal to his would liken, who unlocks A Cabinet with gems or pictures stored, And draws them forth--soliciting regard 1827. Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal To his might well be likened, who unlocks A Cabinet with gems or pictures stored, And draws them forth--soliciting regard 1832. ] [Footnote 733: 1836. ... they seek 1814. ] [Footnote 734: 1836. ... procured! Yet Such may ... 1814. ] [Footnote 735: 1827. And doth instruct her ... 1814. ] [Footnote 736: 1836. (As I have heard you boast with honest pride) Nature is bountiful, where'er they go; 1814. ] [Footnote 737: 1832. By tie ... 1814. ] [Footnote 738: 1827. ... instruments to excite, 1814. ] [Footnote 739: 1827. The affections ... 1814. ] [Footnote 740: 1827. With healing words; and in remotest Wilds 1814. ] [Footnote 741: 1836. ... 'tis gone. 1814. ] [Footnote 742: 1827. Of England's ... 1814. ] [Footnote 743: 1836. ... interchange, 1814. ] [Footnote 744: 1836. ... woody dale, Or on the naked mountain's lofty side. 1814. ] [Footnote 745: 1827. The abodes ... 1814. ] [Footnote 746: 1827. ... and ... 1814. ] [Footnote 747: 1836. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 748: 1827. ... and there behold, Through strong temptation of those gainful Arts, Such outrage ... 1814. ] [Footnote 749: 1814. A single moment through the year should pass C. That even a moment of the year should pass C. ] [Footnote 750: 1836. ... yet I exult, 1814. ] [Footnote 751: 1827. Which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 752: 1836. Upon the plain ... 1814. ] [Footnote 753: 1827. Is that Philosophy, whose sway is framed For ... 1814. Is the Philosophy, that only rules Over ... MS. ] [Footnote 754: 1845. ... He with sighs of pensive grief, 1814. ] [Footnote 755: 1836. ... these vaunted Arts 1814. ] [Footnote 756: 1836. Regret and painful sadness, who revere, 1814. ] [Footnote 757: 1820. ... his 1814. ] [Footnote 758: 1836. Of her dull tasks, and close captivity. 1814. ] [Footnote 759: 1836. ... and in the ancient woods; 1814. ] [Footnote 760: 1827. ... is rising in the heavens, 1814. ] [Footnote 761: 1836. From out those languid eyes could break, or blush 1814. ] [Footnote 762: 1845. Thus gone for ever, this organic Frame, Which from heaven's bounty we receive, instinct With light, and gladsome motions, soon becomes 1814. Is gone for ever; this organic Frame, So joyful in her motions, is become 1827. The limbs increase; but this organic Frame, So gladsome in its motions, is become 1836. ] [Footnote 763: 1814. ... her ... 1827. The text of 1836 returns to that of 1814.] [Footnote 764: 1836. Then, if there were not, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 765: 1836. ... with their own blanched hair 1814. ] [Footnote 766: 1836. Or wearing, we might say, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 767: 1836. By savage Nature's unassisted care. 1814. ] [Footnote 768: 1827. Are framed to strike dismay; but the outstretched hand 1814. ] [Footnote 769: 1836. ... dwell upon ... 1814. ] [Footnote 770: 1836. ... and are born and reared At the mine's mouth, beneath ... 1814. ... such are born and reared At the mine's mouth, beneath ... 1827. ] [Footnote 771: 1836. Or in the chambers of some natural cave; And ... 1814. ] [Footnote 772: 1836. ... Upon the watch, 1814. ] [Footnote 773: 1836. Of what this stock produces to enrich And beautify the tender age of life, A sample fairly culled, ye would exclaim, 1814. Of what this stock produces to enrich The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 1827. ] [Footnote 774: 1836. ... frame:--his joints are stiff; 1814. ] [Footnote 775: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 776: 1827. On which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 777: 1814. ... vacant ... C. ] [Footnote 778: 1836. ... may ... 1814. ] [Footnote 779: 1836. To which in after years he may be rouzed. --This Boy the Fields produce: his spade and hoe, 1814. ] [Footnote 780: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 781: Italics were first used in 1836.] [Footnote 782: 1827. ... cheerful ... 1814. ] [Footnote 783: 1827. ... those ... 1814. ] [Footnote 784: 1827. Which, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 785: 1836. Prompt utterance; but, rising from our seat, The hospitable Vicar interposed 1814. ] [Footnote 786: 1827. ... earnestly ... 1814. ] [Footnote 787: 1827. ... of stately hollies framed, 1814. ] [Footnote 788: 1836. Whose flexile boughs, descending with a weight 1814. ] [Footnote 789: 1827. That gave them nourishment. How sweet methought, When the fierce wind comes howling from the north, How grateful, this impenetrable screen! 1814. ] [Footnote 790: 1836. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 791: 1836. ... the ... 1814. ] [Footnote 792: 1827. Nor must I pass unnoticed (leaving else The picture incomplete, as it appeared Before our eyes) a relique of old times 1814. ] [Footnote 793: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 794: 1827. --We enter;--need I tell the courteous guise In which the Lady of the place received Our little Band, with salutation meet To each accorded? Graceful was her port; 1814. ] [Footnote 795: 1827. ... had not spared to touch 1814. Whose gentle visitation had not spared MS. ] [Footnote 796: 1827. ... frame ... 1814. ] [Footnote 797: 1827. ... doth she fail ... 1827. ] [Footnote 798: 1827. ... So bright to us appeared 1814. ] [Footnote 799: 1827. Here in cool shelter, while the scorching heat Oppressed the fields, we sate, and entertained 1814. ] [Footnote 800: 1827. Dropped from our minds; and even the shy Recluse 1814. ] [Footnote 801: 1827. He ... 1814. ] [Footnote 802: 1827. ... and, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 803: 1827. He said, and with that exclamation breathed A tender sigh;--but, suddenly the door Opening, with eager haste two lusty Boys 1814. ... breathed A sigh;--but, suddenly, two lusty boys Appeared,-- ... MS. ] [Footnote 804: 1836. And by the river-side--from which they come, A pair of Anglers, laden with their spoil. 1814. And by the river's margin--whence they come, Anglers elated with unusual spoil. 1827. ... come A pair of anglers, laden with fresh spoil. MS. ] [Footnote 805: 1827. The Boy of plainer garb, and more abashed In countenance,--more distant and retired. Twin might the Other be to that fair Girl Who bounded tow'rds us from the garden mount. Triumphant entry this to him!--for see, 1814. The Boy of plainer garb, and more abashed In countenance, twin might the other be MS. ] [Footnote 806: 1827. ... is ... 1814. ] [Footnote 807: 1827. Ranged side by side, in regular ascent, One after one, still lessening by degrees 1814. ] [Footnote 808: 1827. ... spoil;-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 809: 1836. ... look, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 810: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 811: 1827. ... to the eye 1814. ] [Footnote 812: 1827. Did now withdraw to take their well-earned meal; 1814. ] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote JR: "What follows in the discourse of the Wanderer, upon the changes he had witnessed in rural life by the introduction of machinery, is truly described from what I myself saw during my boyhood and early youth, and from what was often told me by persons of this humble calling. Happily, most happily, for these mountains, the mischief was diverted from the banks of their beautiful streams, and transferred to open and flat counties abounding in coal, where the agency of steam was found much more effectual for carrying on those demoralising works. Had it not been for this invention, long before the present time, every torrent and river in this district would have had its factory, large and populous in proportion to the power of the water that could there be commanded. Parliament has interfered to prevent the night-work which was carried on in these mills as actively as during the day-time, and by necessity, still more perniciously; a sad disgrace to the proprietors and to the nation which could so long tolerate such unnatural proceedings."--I. F.] [Footnote JS: In 1788, and again in 1794, Wordsworth visited Westmoreland and Cumberland as a pedestrian. Compare the sixth book of _The Prelude_, entitled "Cambridge and the Alps" (vol. iii. p. 228).--ED.] [Footnote JV: See Wordsworth's note, p. 390.--ED.] [Footnote JT: Thorpe; Anglo-Saxon _Thorp_, a homestead, or hamlet; allied to _turba_, a crowd (as of houses). Vill; a little village or farm. Lat. _villa_, dimin. of _vicus_.--ED.] [Footnote JU: Evidently a reminiscence of Penrith, a "straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud," with its castle on "the brow of a green hill," and with Brougham Castle close at hand, on "bank of rugged stream." See _The Prelude_ (vol. iii. p. 229), and compare Gray's Journal.--ED.] [Footnote JW: Mr. Rawnsley has suggested that this may refer to the introduction of canal boats into England. It is more likely, I think, that Wordsworth had in his mind's eye That animating spectacle of sails That, through her inland regions, to and fro Pass with the respirations of the tide, Perpetual, multitudinous! referred to in pp. 332-33, a reminiscence perhaps of what he had often seen in the Bristol Channel.--ED.] [Footnote JX: See last note. The phrase "_on_ the lofty side of some bare hill," occasions some difficulty; and, taken in connection with the previous clause, "air has lent her breezes," suggests the idea of a windmill, seen in its slow movement, far off on a bare hill-side. But I rather think it is the progress of the "sails of traffic" on the waters of an inland tidal channel that is still referred to; the masts and sails of the vessels being seen moving onwards, while the water itself is hidden, and the spectacle is therefore by the rustic eye, "with wonder kenned from far." I would be disposed to think that there was a misprint here, and that we should read "_from_ the lofty side" instead of "on," did the latter reading not occur in the edition of 1814, as well as in 1836, and all the subsequent editions.--ED.] [Footnote JY: Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield.--ED.] [Footnote JZ: See the Fenwick note, p. 330.--ED.] [Footnote KA: The curfew-bell, introduced into England by William of Normandy, in 1068.--ED.] [Footnote KB: Compare Mrs. Browning's _Cry of the Children_, stanza vii.--ED.] [Footnote KC: The foundation of Thebes was ascribed to the mythical Manes. The ground on which it stood was large enough to contain a city equal in extent with ancient Rome, or modern Paris; ... an immense area was covered with Temples, and their avenues of Sphinxes. (Cf. Diodorus, i. 40, 50. Strabo, xvii. pp. 805, 815 fol., and Smith's _Dictionary of Ancient Geography_.) _Tyre_, in Phœnicia, was built partly on an island and partly on the mainland. The island city "must have arisen in the period between Nebuchadnezzar and Alexander the Great."... "The western side of the island is now submerged, to the extent of more than a mile; and that this was once occupied by the city is shewn by the bases of columns which may still be discerned. Benjamin of Tudela mentions that, in the end of the twelfth century, towns, markets, streets, and halls might be observed at the bottom of the sea." (Smith's _Dict. of Ancient Geography._) Palmyra, or Tadmor,--the city of palms,--was enlarged, if not built, by Solomon in the tenth century B.C. It is situated in a well-watered oasis, in the great Syrian desert. It was an independent city under the first Roman Emperors, and is called a _colonia_ on the coins of Caracalla. In 273 A.D. it had dwindled into an insignificant town. The ruins are inferior to those of Baalbec, but have a grandeur of their own. They are chiefly of the Corinthian order; although the most magnificent of them--_the Temple of the Sun_--is Ionic.--ED.] [Footnote KD: I am indebted to the Rev. H. G. Woods, President of Trinity College, Oxford, for the following note on the tomb of Archimedes:-- "The tomb now shown at Syracuse as that of Archimedes corresponds pretty well in point of situation with Cicero's description ('Tusculan Disputations,' v. 23). It is a little distance to the west of the wall of Achradina, on the left of the road which mounts the slope of Epipolæ. I unfortunately cannot remember whether there were any traces of the sphere and cylinder inscribed on it, which Cicero mentions as there when he excavated it; but my impression at the time was, that its identity rested simply on a Ciceronic tradition, and that it was hardly more genuine than Virgil's tomb at Naples. The tomb itself resembled a number of other tombs near--among them, the reputed tomb of Timoleon, which is close by (Cicero speaks of the number of tombs in that spot). But, whatever the value of the identifying tradition, there can be no doubt that Wordsworth, in these lines, has thoroughly reproduced the local colour of the surroundings. As one mounts the road I mentioned, past the tomb of Archimedes, and gets the view over Achradina--once so populous, and now a waste area covered with grey rocks and grass, save where, here and there, it is converted by irrigation into fertile gardens and fields--one has strongly brought before him how completely Syracuse has 'vanished.' The modern city is entirely confined within the limits of Ortygia, and the general impression that one gets of Achradina is that it is the graveyard of the old city. I remember that this feeling came over me very strongly at the time, but it was certainly not suggested by Wordsworth's lines, which I did not remember."--ED.] [Footnote KE: The heights between Buxton and Macclesfield, at the top of the Valley of the Gite, near the Cat-and-Fiddle Inn.--ED.] [Footnote KF: "The alphabet was called the Christ-cross-row, some say because a cross was prefixed to the alphabet in the old primers; but as probably from a superstitious custom of writing the alphabet in the form of a cross, by way of charm." (Archdeacon Nares's _Glossary_, Art. "Christ-cross-row.") "The A B C horn-book, containing the alphabet and nine digits. The most ancient of these infant-school books had the letters arranged in the form of a Latin cross, with A at the top and Z at the bottom, but afterwards the letters were arranged in lines, and a + was placed at the beginning to remind the learner that 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.' Mortals ne'er shall know More than contain'd of old the Christ-cross Row. Tickell, _The Horn-Book_. (See Brewer's _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_.) At the beginning of a poem by the Rev. J. S. Hawker, called _A Christ-cross-Rhyme_, we find Christ, his cross, shall be my speed, Teach me, father John, to read. "The true use of the cross in drawing is to define or mark a point, especially a point to start or measure from.... But it was impossible that it could be used long without reference being supposed to be made to the cross of Christ, and it must soon have been regarded as invoking Christ's blessing upon the commencement of any writing."--W. W. Skeat in _Notes and Queries_, 3rd Series, XI. May 4, 1867. And from the cross-row plucks the letter G. Shakespeare, _Richard III_. act 1. scene i. l. 55. ED. ] [Footnote KG: The "hedge of hollies dark and tall," and the "pure cerulean gravel" on the walk between the "pastor's mansion" and the "house of prayer," are all due to the imagination of the poet. There is nothing now--either at Hackett or at the parsonage in Grasmere--at all corresponding to the details given in _The Excursion_; and it is not likely that the surroundings of either house in Wordsworth's time resembled the description given in the poem.--ED.] [Footnote KH: See the note on the preceding page.] [Footnote KI: A reminiscence of St. Bees, or of days spent on the Cumbrian coast. Compare the two sonnets (1806), _With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh_, and _Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?_ (vol. iv. pp. 40, 41).--ED.] Book Ninth DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE[KJ] ARGUMENT _Wanderer asserts that an active principle pervades the Universe, its noblest seat the human soul--How lively this principle is in Childhood--Hence the delight in old Age of looking back upon Childhood--The dignity, powers, and privileges of Age asserted--These not to be looked for generally but under a just government--Right of a human Creature to be exempt from being considered as a mere Instrument[813]--The condition of multitudes deplored[814]--Former conversation recurred to, and the Wanderer's opinions set in a clearer light[815]--Truth placed within reach of the humblest --Equality--Happy[816] state of the two Boys again adverted to--Earnest wish expressed for a System of National Education established universally by Government--Glorious effects of this foretold--Walk to the Lake[817]--Grand spectacle from the side of a hill--Address of Priest to the Supreme Being--in the course of which he contrasts with ancient Barbarism the present appearance of the scene before him--The change ascribed to Christianity--Apostrophe to his flock, living and dead--Gratitude to the Almighty--Return over the Lake--Parting with the Solitary--Under what circumstances._ "To every Form of being is assigned," Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, "An _active_ Principle:--howe'er removed From sense and observation, it subsists In all things, in all natures; in the stars 5 Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, The moving waters, and the invisible air. Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 10 Beyond itself, communicating good, A simple blessing, or with evil mixed; Spirit that knows no insulated spot, No chasm, no solitude; from link to link It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds.[KK] 15 This is the freedom of the universe; Unfolded still the more, more visible, The more we know; and yet is reverenced least, And least respected in the human Mind, Its most apparent home. The food of hope 20 Is meditated action; robbed of this Her sole support, she languishes and dies. We perish also; for we live by hope And by desire; we see by the glad light And breathe the sweet air of futurity; 25 And so we live, or else we have no life. To-morrow--nay perchance this very hour (For every moment hath[818] its own to-morrow!) Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick With present triumph, will be sure to find 30 A field before them freshened with the dew Of other expectations;--in which course Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys A like glad impulse; and so moves the man 'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears,-- 35 Or so he ought to move. Ah! why in age Do we revert so fondly to the walks Of childhood--but that there the Soul discerns The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired Of her own native vigour; thence can hear[819] 40 Reverberations; and a choral song, Commingling with the incense that ascends, Undaunted, toward[820] the imperishable heavens, From her own lonely altar? "Do not think That good and wise ever will be allowed,[821] 45 Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate As shall divide them wholly from the stir Of hopeful nature. Rightly it is[822] said That Man descends into the Vale of years; Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 50 And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, As of a final Eminence; though bare In aspect and forbidding, yet a point On which 'tis not impossible to sit In awful sovereignty; a place of power, 55 A throne, that[823] may be likened unto his, Who, in some placid day of summer, looks Down from a mountain-top,--say one of those High peaks, that bound the vale where now we are.[KL] Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 60 Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, With all the shapes over[824] their surface spread: But, while the gross and visible frame of things Relinquishes its hold upon the sense, Yea almost on the Mind herself,[825] and seems 65 All unsubstantialized,--how loud the voice Of waters, with invigorated peal From the full river[KM] in the vale below, Ascending! For on that superior height Who sits, is disencumbered from the press 70 Of near obstructions, and is privileged To breathe in solitude, above the host Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves Many and idle, visits[826] not his ear: 75 This he is freed from, and from thousand notes (Not less unceasing, not less vain than these,) By which the finer passages of sense Are occupied; and the Soul, that would incline To listen, is prevented or deterred. 80 "And may it not be hoped, that, placed by age In like removal, tranquil though severe, We are not so removed for utter loss; But for some favour, suited to our need? What more than that the severing should confer[827] 85 Fresh power to commune with the invisible world, And hear the mighty stream of tendency[KN] Uttering, for elevation of our thought, A clear sonorous voice, inaudible To the vast multitude; whose doom it is 90 To run the giddy round of vain delight, Or fret and labour on the Plain below. "But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close And termination of his mortal course; 95 Them only can such hope inspire whose minds Have not been starved by absolute neglect; Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil; To whom kind Nature, therefore, may afford Proof of the sacred love she bears for all; 100 Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensure. For me, consulting what I feel within In times when most existence with herself Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 105 And Reason's sway predominates; even so far, Country, society, and time itself, That saps the individual's bodily frame, And lays the generations low in dust, Do, by the almighty Ruler's grace, partake 110 Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth And cherishing with ever-constant love, That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is turned Out of her course, wherever man is made An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 115 Or implement, a passive thing employed As a brute mean, without acknowledgment Of common right or interest in the end; Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. Say, what can follow for a rational soul 120 Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, And strength in evil? Hence an after-call For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 125 Entrust the future.--Not for these sad issues Was Man created; but to obey the law Of life, and hope, and action. And 'tis known That when we stand upon our native soil, Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 130 Our active powers, those powers themselves become Strong to subvert our noxious qualities: They sweep distemper from the busy day, And make the chalice of the big round year Run o'er with gladness;[828] whence the Being moves 135 In beauty through the world; and all who see Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." "Then," said the Solitary, "by what force[829] Of language shall a feeling heart express Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 140 We look for health from seeds that have been sown In sickness, and for increase in a power That works but by extinction? On themselves They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts To know what they must do; their wisdom is 145 To look into the eyes of others, thence To be instructed what they must avoid: Or rather, let us say, how least observed, How with most quiet and most silent death, With the least taint and injury to the air 150 The oppressor breathes, their human form divine, And their immortal soul, may waste away." The Sage rejoined, "I thank you--you have spared My voice the utterance of a keen regret, A wide compassion which with you I share. 155 When, heretofore, I placed before your sight A Little-one,[830] subjected to the arts Of modern ingenuity, and made The senseless member of a vast machine, Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel; 160 Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught; The slave of ignorance, and oft of want, And miserable hunger. Much, too much, Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 165 We both have witnessed, lot which I myself Shared, though in mild and merciful degree: Yet was the[831] mind to hinderances exposed, Through which I[832] struggled, not without distress And sometimes injury, like a lamb[833] enthralled 170 'Mid thorns and brambles; or a bird that breaks Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind, Though with her plumes impaired. If they, whose souls Should open while they range the richer fields Of merry England, are obstructed less, 175 By indigence, their ignorance is not less, Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt That tens of thousands at this day exist Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs Of those who once were vassals of her soil, 180 Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees Which it sustained. But no one takes delight In this oppression; none are proud of it; It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore; A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 185 Of every country under heaven. My thoughts Were turned to evils that are new and chosen, A bondage lurking under shape of good,-- Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, But all too fondly followed and too far;-- 190 To victims, which the merciful can see Nor think that they are victims--turned to wrongs, By women, who have children of their own, Beheld without compassion, yea with praise! I spake of mischief by the wise diffused[834] 195 With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads The healthier, the securer, we become; Delusion which a moment may destroy! Lastly I mourned for those whom I had seen Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground, 200 Where circumstance and nature had combined To shelter innocence, and cherish love; Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived, Possessed of health, and strength, and peace of mind; Thus would have lived, or never have been born! 205 "Alas! what differs more than man from man! And whence that difference? Whence but from himself? For see the universal Race endowed With the same upright form!--The sun is fixed, And the infinite magnificence of heaven 210 Fixed, within reach[835] of every human eye; The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears; The vernal field infuses fresh delight Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense, Even as an object is sublime or fair, 215 That object is laid open to the view Without reserve or veil; and as a power Is salutary, or an influence sweet, Are each and all enabled to perceive That power, that influence, by impartial law. 220 Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all; Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears; Imagination, freedom in the will; Conscience to guide and check; and death to be Foretasted, immortality conceived 225 By all,--a blissful immortality, To them whose holiness on earth shall make The Spirit capable of heaven, assured.[836] Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be deemed The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 230 Liberal[837] and undistinguishing, should hide The excellence of moral qualities From common understanding; leaving truth And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark; Hard to be won, and only by a few; 235 Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects, And frustrate all the rest! Believe it not: The primal duties shine aloft--like stars; The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man--like flowers. 240 The generous inclination, the just rule, Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts-- No mystery is here! Here is no boon For high--yet not for low; for proudly graced-- Yet[838] not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 245 To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth As from the haughtiest[839] palace. He, whose soul Ponders this true equality, may walk The fields of earth with gratitude and hope; Yet, in that meditation, will he find 250 Motive to sadder grief, as we have found; Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, And for the injustice grieving, that hath made So wide a difference between[840] man and man. "Then let us rather fix our gladdened thoughts[841] 255 Upon the brighter scene. How blest that pair Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even now) Blest in their several and their common lot! A few short hours of each returning day The thriving prisoners of their village-school: 260 And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy; To breathe and to be happy, run and shout Idle,--but no delay, no harm, no loss; For every genial power of heaven and earth, 265 Through all the seasons of the changeful year, Obsequiously doth take upon herself To labour for them; bringing each in turn The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, Beauty, or strength! Such privilege is theirs, 270 Granted alike in the outset of their course To both; and, if that partnership must cease, I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, "Much as I glory in that child of yours, Repine not for his cottage-comrade, whom 275 Belike no higher destiny awaits Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled; The wish for liberty to live--content With what Heaven grants, and die--in peace of mind, Within the bosom of his native vale. 280 At least, whatever fate the noon of life Reserves for either, sure it is[842] that both Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn; Whether regarded as a jocund time, That in itself may terminate, or lead 285 In course of nature to a sober eve. Both have been fairly dealt with; looking back They will allow that justice has in them Been shown, alike to body and to mind." He paused, as if revolving in his soul 290 Some weighty matter; then, with fervent voice And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed-- "O for the coming of that glorious time When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth And best protection, this imperial Realm 295 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit An obligation, on her part, to _teach_ Them who are born to serve her and obey; Binding herself by statute[KO] to secure For all the children whom her soil maintains 300 The rudiments of letters, and inform[843] The mind with moral and religious truth, Both understood and practised,--so that none, However destitute, be left to droop By timely culture unsustained; or run 305 Into a wild disorder; or be forced To drudge through a weary life without the help[844] Of intellectual implements and tools; A savage horde among the civilised, A servile band among the lordly free! 310 This sacred right, the lisping babe proclaims[845] To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will, For the protection of his innocence; And the rude boy--who, having overpast The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 315 Yet mutinously knits his angry brow, And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, Or turns the godlike[846] faculty of speech To impious use--by process indirect Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 320 --This sacred right is fruitlessly announced, This universal plea in vain addressed, To eyes and ears of parents who themselves Did, in the time of their necessity, Urge it in vain; and, therefore, like a prayer 325 That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven, It mounts to reach the State's parental ear; Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, And be not most unfeelingly devoid Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 330 The unquestionable good--which, England, safe From interference of external force, May grant at leisure; without risk incurred That what in wisdom for herself she doth, Others shall e'er be able to undo. 335 "Look! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliffs[KP] To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds; Laws overturned; and territory split, Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 340 And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes Which,[847] ere they gain consistence, by a gust Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. Meantime the sovereignty of these fair Isles Remains entire and indivisible: 345 And, if that ignorance were removed, which breeds[848] Within the compass of their several shores Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each Might still preserve[849] the beautiful repose Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. 350 --The discipline of slavery is unknown Among[850] us,--hence the more do we require The discipline of virtue; order else Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. Thus, duties rising out of good possest 355 And prudent caution needful to avert Impending evil, equally require That the whole people should be taught and trained.[851] So shall licentiousness and black resolve Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 360 Their place; and genuine piety descend, Like[852] an inheritance, from age to age. "With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear Of numbers crowded on their native soil, To the prevention of all healthful growth 365 Through mutual injury! Rather in the law Of increase and the mandate from above Rejoice!--and ye have special cause for joy. --For, as the element of air affords An easy passage to the industrious bees 370 Fraught with their burthens; and a way as smooth For those ordained to take their sounding flight From the thronged hive, and settle where they list In fresh abodes--their labour to renew; So the wide waters, open to the power, 375 The will, the instincts, and appointed needs Of Britain, do invite her to cast off Her swarms, and in succession send them forth; Bound to establish new communities On every shore whose aspect favours hope 380 Or bold adventure; promising to skill And perseverance their deserved reward. "Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, "Change wide, and deep, and silently performed, This Land shall witness; and as days roll on, 385 Earth's universal frame shall feel the effect; Even till the smallest habitable rock, Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs Of humanised society; and bloom With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their fragrance,[853] A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 391 From culture, unexclusively bestowed On Albion's noble Race in freedom born,[854] Expect these mighty issues: from the pains And faithful[855] care of unambitious schools 395 Instructing simple childhood's ready ear: Thence look for these magnificent results! --Vast the circumference of hope--and ye Are at its centre, British Lawgivers; Ah! sleep not there in shame! Shall Wisdom's voice From out the bosom of these troubled times 401 Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, And shall the venerable halls ye fill Refuse to echo the sublime decree? Trust not to partial care a general good; 405 Transfer not to futurity a work Of urgent need.--Your Country must complete Her glorious destiny. Begin even now, Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian plague Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe,[KQ] makes 410 The brightness more conspicuous that invests The happy Island where ye think and act; Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit, Show to the wretched nations for what end The powers of civil polity were given." 415 Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, "Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen Upon this flowery slope; and see--beyond-- 420 The silvery lake is streaked with placid blue;[856] As if preparing for the peace of evening.[KR] How temptingly the landscape shines! The air Breathes invitation; easy is the walk To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moored 425 Under a[857] sheltering tree."--Upon this hint We rose together: all were pleased; but most The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy. Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills She vanished--eager to impart the scheme 430 To her loved brother and his shy compeer. --Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house And earnest preparation.--Forth we went, And down the vale along the streamlet's edge[858] Pursued our way, a broken company, 435 Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw A two-fold image; on a grassy bank 440 A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same! Most beautiful, On the green turf, with his imperial front Shaggy and bold, and wreathèd horns superb, The breathing creature stood; as beautiful, 445 Beneath him, shewed his shadowy counterpart. Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, And each seemed centre of his own fair world: Antipodes unconscious of each other, Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 450 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight![KS] "Ah! what a pity were it to disperse, Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, And yet a breath can do it!" These few words The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed 455 Gathered together, all in still delight, Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said In like low voice to my particular ear, "I love to hear that eloquent old Man Pour forth his meditations, and descant 460 On human life from infancy to age. How pure his spirit! in what vivid hues His mind gives back the various forms of things, Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude! While he is speaking, I have power to see 465 Even as he sees; but when his voice hath ceased, Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel,[859] as now, That combinations so serene and bright Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, Whose highest beauty, beautiful as it is, 470 Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, Seems but a fleeting sun-beam's gift, whose peace The sufferance only of a breath of air!"[860] More had she said--but sportive shouts were heard Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 475 Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, Down the green field came tripping after us. With caution we embarked; and now the pair For prouder service were addrest; but each, Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 480 Dropped the light oar his eager hand had seized. Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, Their place I took--and for a grateful office[861] Pregnant with recollections of the time When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere![KT] 485 A Youth, I practised this delightful art; Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy marge Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accordant, oars[862] Free from obstruction; and the boat advanced 490 Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk, That, disentangled from the shady boughs Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves With correspondent wings the abyss of air. --"Observe," the Vicar said, "yon rocky isle 495 With birch-trees fringed;[KU] my hand shall guide the helm, While thitherward we shape[863] our course; or while We seek that other, on the western shore; Where the bare columns of those lofty firs,[KU] Supporting gracefully a massy dome 500 Of sombre[864] foliage, seem to imitate A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." "Turn where we may," said I, "we cannot err In this delicious region."--Cultured slopes, Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves, 505 And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods, Surrounded us; and, as we held our way Along the level of the glassy flood, They ceased not to surround us; change of place, From kindred features diversely combined, 510 Producing change of beauty ever new.[KV] --Ah! that such beauty, varying in the light Of living nature, cannot be portrayed By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; But is the property of him alone 515 Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, And in his mind recorded it with love! Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks Of trivial occupations well devised, 520 And unsought pleasures springing up by chance; As if some friendly Genius had ordained That, as the day thus far had been enriched By acquisition of sincere delight, The same should be continued to its close. 525 One spirit animating old and young, A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed--and there, Merrily seated in a ring, partook A choice repast--served by our young companions[865] 530 With rival earnestness and kindred glee.[866] Launched from our hands the smooth stone skimmed the lake; With shouts we raised[867] the echoes;--stiller sounds The lovely Girl supplied--a simple song, Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 535 To be repeated thence,[868] but gently sank Into our hearts; and charmed the peaceful flood. Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils From land and water; lilies of each hue-- Golden and white, that float upon the waves, 540 And court the wind; and leaves of that shy plant, (Her flowers were shed) the lily of the vale,[KW] That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds Her pensive beauty; from the breeze her sweets. Such product, and such pastime, did the place 545 And season yield; but, as we re-embarked, Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore Of that wild spot, the Solitary said In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, "The fire, that burned so brightly to our wish, 550 Where is it now?--Deserted on the beach-- Dying, or dead![869] Nor shall the fanning breeze Revive its ashes. What care we for this, Whose ends are gained? Behold an emblem here Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys! 555 And, in this unpremeditated slight Of that which is no longer needed, see The common course of human gratitude!" This plaintive note disturbed not the repose Of the still evening. Right across the lake 560 Our pinnace moves; then, coasting creek and bay, Glades we behold, and into thickets peep, Where couch the spotted deer;[KX] or raised our eyes To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls;[KY] 565 And thus the bark, meandering with the shore, Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier Of jutting rock invited us to land.[870] Alert to follow as the Pastor led, We clomb a green hill's side;[KZ] and, as we clomb, 570 The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave Fair prospect, intercepted less and less,[871] O'er[872] the flat meadows and indented coast Of the smooth lake,[873] in compass seen:--far off, And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower,[LA] 575 In majesty presiding over fields And habitations seemingly preserved[874] From all intrusion of the restless world[875] By rocks impassable and mountains huge. Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 580 And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couched Or sate reclined; admiring quietly The general aspect of the scene; but each Not seldom over anxious to make known[876] His own discoveries; or to favourite points 585 Directing notice, merely from a wish To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. That rapturous moment never[877] shall I forget When these particular interests were effaced From every mind!--Already had the sun, 590 Sinking with less than ordinary state, Attained his western bound; but rays of light-- Now suddenly diverging from the orb Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled By the dense air--shot upwards to the crown 595 Of the blue firmament--aloft, and wide: And multitudes of little floating clouds, Through their ethereal texture pierced--ere we, Who saw, of change were conscious--had become[878] Vivid as fire; clouds separately poised,-- 600 Innumerable multitude of forms Scattered through half the circle of the sky; And giving back, and shedding each on each, With prodigal communion, the bright hues Which from the unapparent fount of glory 605 They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep Repeated; but with unity sublime! While from the grassy mountain's open side[LB] We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent 610 On the refulgent spectacle, diffused Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed: "Eternal Spirit! universal God! Power inaccessible to human thought, 615 Save by degrees and steps which thou hast deigned To furnish; for this effluence of thyself,[879] To the infirmity of mortal sense Vouchsafed; this local transitory type Of thy paternal splendours, and the pomp 620 Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven, The radiant Cherubim;--accept the thanks Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened, Presume to offer; we, who--from the breast Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 625 The faint reflections only of thy face-- Are yet exalted, and in soul adore! Such as they are who in thy presence stand Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink Imperishable majesty streamed forth 630 From thy empyreal throne, the elect of earth Shall be--divested at the appointed hour Of all dishonour, cleansed from mortal stain. --Accomplish, then, their number; and conclude Time's weary course! Or if, by thy decree, 635 The consummation that will come by stealth Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail, Oh! let thy Word prevail, to take away The sting of human nature. Spread the law, As it is written in thy holy book, 640 Throughout all lands: let every nation hear The high behest, and every heart obey; Both for the love of purity, and hope Which it affords, to such as do thy will And persevere in good, that they shall rise, 645 To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven. --Father of good! this prayer in bounty grant, In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, And cruel wars expire. The way is marked, 650 The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. Alas! the nations, who of yore received These tidings, and in Christian temples meet The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still; Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 655 Of holy freedom, by redeeming love Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. "So fare the many; and the thoughtful few, Who in the anguish of their souls bewail This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask, 660 Shall it endure?--Shall enmity and strife, Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed; And the kind never perish? Is the hope Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain A peaceable dominion, wide as earth, 665 And ne'er to fail? Shall that blest day arrive When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell In crowded cities, without fear shall live Studious of mutual benefit; and he, Whom Morn awakens, among dews and flowers[880] 670 Of every clime, to till the lonely field, Be happy in himself? The law of faith Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve? Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart! 675 And with that help the wonder shall be seen Fulfilled, the hope accomplished; and thy praise Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. "Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake, On us the venerable Pastor turned 680 His beaming eye that had been raised[881] to Heaven, "Once,[882] while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle Unheard, the savage nations bowed the head[883] To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds; 685 Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote Ill purposes, and flatter foul desires. Then, in the bosom of yon mountain-cove,[LC] To those inventions of corrupted man Mysterious rites were solemnised; and there-- 690 Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods-- Of those terrific Idols some received[884] Such dismal service, that the loudest voice Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 695 Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks Of human victims, offered up to appease Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes Had visionary faculties to see The thing that hath been as the thing that is, 700 Aghast we might behold this crystal[885] Mere Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous, Flung from the body of devouring fires, To Taranis erected[LD] on the heights By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 705 Exultingly, in view of open day And full assemblage of a barbarous host; Or to Andates, female Power[LE] who gave (For so they fancied) glorious victory. --A few rude monuments of mountain-stone 710 Survive; all else is swept away.--How bright The appearances of things! From such, how changed The existing worship; and with those compared, The worshippers how innocent and blest! So wide the difference, a willing mind 715 Might almost think, at this affecting hour,[886] That paradise, the lost abode of man, Was raised again: and to a happy few, In its original beauty, here restored. "Whence but from thee, the true and only God, 720 And from the faith derived through Him who bled Upon the cross, this marvellous advance Of good from evil; as if one extreme Were left, the other gained.--O ye, who come To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile,[LF] 725 Called to such office by the peaceful sound Of sabbath bells; and ye, who sleep in earth, All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls! For you, in presence of this little band Gathered together on the green hill-side, 730 Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King; Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands, have made Your very poorest rich in peace of thought And in good works; and him, who is endowed 735 With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth Which the salvation of his soul requires. Conscious of that abundant favour showered On you, the children of my humble care, And this dear land, our country, while on earth 740 We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude.[887] These barren rocks, your stern inheritance; These fertile fields, that recompense your pains; The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top; 745 Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, Or hushed; the roaring waters, and[888] the still-- They see the offering of my lifted hands, They hear my lips present their sacrifice, They know if I be silent, morn or even:[LG] 750 For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart Will find a vent; and thought is praise to him, Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind, From whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow!" This vesper-service closed, without delay, 755 From that exalted station to the plain Descending, we pursued our homeward course, In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, Under[889] a faded sky. No trace remained Of those celestial splendours; grey the vault-- 760 Pure, cloudless, ether; and the star of eve Was wanting; but inferior lights appeared Faintly, too faint almost for sight; and some Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 765 Her mooring-place; where, to the sheltering tree, Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we paced The dewy fields; but ere the Vicar's door Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps; 770 Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed A farewell salutation; and, the like Receiving, took the slender path that leads To the one cottage in the lonely dell:[LH] But turned not without welcome promise made[890] 775 That he would share the pleasures and pursuits Of yet another summer's day,[LI] not loth To wander with us through the fertile vales,[891] And o'er the mountain-wastes. "Another sun," Said he, "shall shine upon us, ere we part; 780 Another sun, and peradventure more; If time, with free consent, be yours[892] to give, And season favours." To enfeebled Power, From this communion with uninjured Minds, What renovation had been brought; and what 785 Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, Dejected, and habitually disposed To seek, in degradation of the Kind, Excuse and solace for her own defects; How far those erring notions were reformed; 790 And whether aught, of tendency as good And pure, from further intercourse ensued; This--if delightful hopes, as heretofore, Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past-- 795 My future labours may not leave untold. VARIANTS: [Footnote 813: 1836. _Vicious inclinations are best kept under by giving good ones an opportunity to shew themselves_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 814: 1836. _deplored from want of due respect to this truth on the part of their superiors in society_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 815: 1836. _Genuine principles of equality_-- 1814. ] [Footnote 816: 1836. _humblest--Happy_ 1814. ] [Footnote 817: 1836. _Wanderer breaks off--Walk to the Lake--embark--Description of scenery and amusements--_ 1814. ] [Footnote 818: 1820. ... has ... 1814. ] [Footnote 819: 1827. Of her own native vigour--but for this, That it is given her thence in age to hear 1814. ] [Footnote 820: 1827. ... tow'rds ... 1814. ] [Footnote 821: 1832. ... will ever be allowed, 1814. ] [Footnote 822: 1850. ... is it ... 1814. ] [Footnote 823: 1827. ... which ... 1814. ] [Footnote 824: 1845. ... upon ... 1814. ] [Footnote 825: 1827. ... itself, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 826: 1827. ... touches ... 1814. ] [Footnote 827: 1827. What more than this, that we thereby should gain 1814. ] [Footnote 828: 1832. They sweep away infection from the heart; And, by the substitution of delight, Suppress all evil; ... 1814. They sweep distemper from the busy day, And make the Vessel of the big round Year Run o'er with gladness; ... 1827. ] [Footnote 829: 1827. ... power 1814. ] [Footnote 830: 1827. ... before your sight A most familiar object of our days, A Little-one, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 831: 1827. ... my ... 1814. ] [Footnote 832: Through which she ... MS. ] [Footnote 833: 1827. ... Sheep ... 1814. ] [Footnote 834: 1827. Which Women who have Children of their own Regard without compassion, yea with praise! I spake of mischief which the wise diffuse 1814. ] [Footnote 835: 1827. Within the reach ... 1814. ] [Footnote 836: 1845. ... and death to be Foretasted, immortality presumed. 1814. ] [Footnote 837: 1814. Bountiful ... C. ] [Footnote 838: 1836. ... no special boon For high and not for low, for proudly graced And ... 1814. ] [Footnote 839: 1836. ... haughty ... 1814. ] [Footnote 840: 1836. ... betwixt ... 1814. ] [Footnote 841: 1836. But let us rather fix our gladdened thoughts 1814. "But let us rather turn our gladdened thoughts 1827. ] [Footnote 842: 1836. ... this is sure, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 843: 1827. ... and to inform 1814. ] [Footnote 844: 1836. To drudge through weary life without the aid 1814. ] [Footnote 845: 1827. This right, as sacred almost as the right To exist and be supplied with sustenance And means of life, the lisping Babe proclaims 1814. ] [Footnote 846: 1827. ... sacred ... 1814. ] [Footnote 847: 1814. That ... 1836. The text of 1845 returns to that of 1814.] [Footnote 848: 1827. ... acts 1814. ] [Footnote 849: 1827. To breed commotion and disquietude, Each might preserve ... 1814. ] [Footnote 850: 1836. Amongst ... 1814. ] [Footnote 851: 1827. ... do alike require That permanent provision should be made For the whole people to be taught and trained. 1814. ] [Footnote 852: ... descend Upon the humblest member of the State Like ... C. ] [Footnote 853: 1845. With civil arts, and send their fragrance forth, 1814. ... that send ... 1827. ] [Footnote 854: 1827. From Culture, universally bestowed On Britain's noble Race in freedom born; From Education, from that humble source, 1814. ] [Footnote 855: 1827. ... quiet ... 1814. ] [Footnote 856: 1836. The Lake though bright, is of a placid blue; 1814. ] [Footnote 857: 1845. Beneath her ... 1814. ] [Footnote 858: 1827. And down the Valley on the Streamlet's bank 1814. ] [Footnote 859: 1832. ... I sometimes feel, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 860: 1845. ... so serene and bright; Like those reflected in yon quiet Pool, Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, To great and small disturbances exposed." 1814. ... so serene and bright; Like those reflected in yon quiet pool, Cannot be lasting in a world whose pleasure (And whose best beauty, beautiful as it is) Seems but a fleeting sun-beam's gift, whose peace The sufferance only of a breath of air!" 1836. ... so serene and bright Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, One whose best beauty, beautiful as it is, Like that reflected in yon quiet pool Seems but a fleeting sun-beam's gift, whose peace The sufferance only of a breath of air!" 1840. ] [Footnote 861: 1836. --When we had cautiously embarked, the Pair Now for a prouder service were addrest; But an inexorable law forbade, And each resigned the oar which he had seized. Whereat, with willing hand I undertook The needful labour; grateful task!--to me 1814. ] [Footnote 862: 1836. ... Now the reedy marge Cleared, with a strenuous arm I dipped the oar, 1814. ] [Footnote 863: 1836. ... bend ... 1814. ] [Footnote 864: ... darksome ... C. ] [Footnote 865: ... by youthful Pages served C. ] [Footnote 866: 1836. ... partook The beverage drawn from China's fragrant herb. 1814. ] [Footnote 867: 1836. ... roused ... 1814. ] [Footnote 868: 1827. ... there, ... 1814. ] [Footnote 869: 1836. ... beach It seems extinct; nor shall ... 1814. ] [Footnote 870: 1836. Thus did the Bark, meandering with the shore, Pursue her voyage, till a point was gained Where a projecting line of rock, that framed A natural pier, invited us to land. 1814. Thus did the Bark, meandering with the shore, Pursue her voyage, till a natural pier Of jutting rock invited us to land. 1827. ] [Footnote 871: 1827. ... and thence obtained, Slowly, a less and less obstructed sight 1814. ] [Footnote 872: 1836. Of ... 1814. ] [Footnote 873: 1827. Of the whole lake-- ... 1814. ] [Footnote 874: 1827. ... presiding o'er the Vale And all her Dwellings; seemingly preserved 1814. ] [Footnote 875: 1845. From the intrusion of a restless world 1814. ] [Footnote 876: 1827. With resting-place of mossy stone;--and there We sate reclined--admiring quietly The frame and general aspect of the scene; And each not seldom eager to make known 1814. ] [Footnote 877: 1836. ... ne'er ... 1814. ] [Footnote 878: 1836. Pierced through their thin etherial mould, ere we, Who saw, of change were conscious, had become 1814. Ere we, who saw, of change were conscious, pierced Through their ethereal texture, had become 1827. ] [Footnote 879: 1827. ... Image of Thyself. 1814. ] [Footnote 880: 1836. Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and flowers 1814. ] [Footnote 881: ... henceforward raised ... C. ] [Footnote 882: 1827. ... and unceasing joy. Once, while the Name ... 1814. ] [Footnote 883: 1827. ... their heads 1814. ] [Footnote 884: 1827. Of those dread Idols, some, perchance, received 1814. ] [Footnote 885: 1827. ... spacious ... 1814. ] [Footnote 886: 1836. At this affecting hour, might almost think 1814. ] [Footnote 887: 1827 On your Abodes, and this beloved Land, Our birth-place, home, and Country, while on Earth We sojourn,--loudly do I utter thanks With earnest joy, that will not be suppressed. 1814. ] [Footnote 888: 1827. ... or ... 1814. ] [Footnote 889: 1836. Beneath ... 1814. ] [Footnote 890: 1845. ... in the lonely dell, His chosen residence. But, ere he turned Aside, a welcome promise had been given, 1814. But turned not without welcome promise given, 1827. ] [Footnote 891: 1845. Of yet another summer's day, consumed In wandering with us through the Vallies fair, 1814. ... given up To wandering ... C. ] [Footnote 892: 1814. ... is yours ... 1827. The text of 1845 returns to that of 1814.] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote KJ: "On the side of Loughrigg Fell, at the foot of the lake, and looking down upon it and the whole Vale and its encompassing mountains, the Pastor is supposed by me to stand, when at sunset he addresses his companions."--I. F.] [Footnote KK: Compare _Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey_ (vol. ii. p. 55, l. 100)-- A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. ED. ] [Footnote KL: The vale of Langdale rather than that of Grasmere. It was the cottage at Hackett that was, by "the magician's wand," converted into the "Parsonage." Possibly, however, the allusion may be to Fairfield, or Stone Arthur.--ED.] [Footnote KM: The Rothay.--ED.] [Footnote KN: A phrase now familiarized to English ears by Mr. Arnold's use of it.--ED.] [Footnote KO: See Wordsworth's note, p. 390. Compulsory Elementary Education was secured to Scotland by the Education Act of 1872, and to England by the Act of 1880.--ED.] [Footnote KP: A promontory in Valencia, facing the Balearic Isles.--ED.] [Footnote KQ: The reference is to Napoleon Buonaparte, and his designs of conquest, "oppression," and "destruction."--ED.] [Footnote KR: See note, p. 371.--ED.] [Footnote KS: Compare _Yarrow Unvisited_, ll. 43, 44 (vol. ii. p. 412)-- The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow. ED. ] [Footnote KT: Compare _The Prelude_, book ii. ll. 54-57 (vol. iii. p. 155)-- When summer came, Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, To sweep along the plain of Windermere With rival oars. ED. ] [Footnote KU: Dr. Cradock, the Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford, wrote to me in 1878: "The Lake is of course, in the main, that of Grasmere, 'the grassy mountain's open side' being avowedly Loughrigg Terrace. But, according to Wordsworth's habit, he has drawn his imagery from various other places--as the island of Grasmere is not 'with birch-trees fringed.' (This may well refer to Rydal.) Again, I know of no 'lilies of the vale' at Grasmere, but they are found, I believe, on one of the islands of Windermere, certainly in woods near the river Leven, below that lake. Again, the vicar refers to 'two islands' on the lake, but Grasmere has only one. I never saw a goat 'browsing by dashing waterfalls,' still less 'spotted deer' on or near Grasmere." It seems to me that the description refers, first to Rydal lake, and then to Grasmere. The company descend, as will be seen, along a streamlet to a bridge, where they see a ram reflected in the water. They then go into a boat, and sail to the 'rocky isle with birch-trees fringed.' This cannot refer to the island in Grasmere, but it _may_ refer to the larger one in Rydal. Even the 'dashing waterfall' may be the small one in the beck that descends between Nab Scar and White Moss Common. But if this be correct, and if the whole party are supposed to ascend Loughrigg Terrace later on, proceeding to a point whence they can view the vale of Grasmere, there are still some difficulties in localising the details.--ED.] [Footnote KV: Probably the terrace walks on Loughrigg are here referred to.--ED.] [Footnote KW: Compare _The Prelude_, book ii. ll. 59-61 (vol. iii. p. 155)-- ... a Sister Isle Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown With lilies of the valley like a field. ED. ] [Footnote KX: See note, p. 371.--ED.] [Footnote KY: See note, p. 371.--ED.] [Footnote KZ: Loughrigg.--ED.] [Footnote LA: Of Grasmere.--ED.] [Footnote LB: Loughrigg Fell. See the Fenwick note, p. 15, and p. 374 line 6.--ED.] [Footnote LC: The reference may be to the crater-like recess or "cove," on Helm Crag, or to the more distant recesses of Easdale.--ED.] [Footnote LD: A name of Jupiter among the Druids in Gaul. Toland, in his _History of the Druids_ (p. 247), gives a list of the _Dii Gallorum_, beginning with _Taramis_ and ending with _Adraste_ or _Andate_. And, in an edition of Toland's _History_, edited with elaborate notes by R. Huddleston, schoolmaster, Lunan, and published at Montrose in 1814, I find the following, p. 357:--"Taramis, or _Taranis_, is the Gaelic _Taran_, or _Tharan_, _i.e._ 'thunder.' This god is the same with the Grecian _Zeus_, or the Roman _Jupiter_. By this deity the Celts understood _Baal_. _Taranis_, or _Tharanis_, is sometimes written _Tanaris_, or _Thanaris_, which bears a great affinity to the English _thunder_, the German _Donder_, and the Roman _Tonitru_. Lucan mentions him (lib. i.) in these words-- Et Taranis Scythicæ non mitior ara Dianæ. From the Celts the Germans borrowed _Tharanis_, and by abbreviation formed their God _Thor_, whence _Thursday_, the same as the Roman _Dies Iovis_." Compare Southey's _Book of the Church_, vol. i. p. 5.--ED.] [Footnote LE: The same editor of Toland's book on the Druids, whose comment on Taranis is given in the previous note, writes thus of Adraste, or Andate, p. 359:--"Respecting this goddess there has been some difference of opinion. The Greeks seem to have considered her as _Nemesis_, or the goddess of revenge.... There can be little doubt that the goddess here meant is the Phœnician _Ashtaroth_, or _Astarte_, _i.e._ 'the moon.'" See Dio Cassius, i. 64.--ED.] [Footnote LF: Grasmere Church.--ED.] [Footnote LG: Compare _Paradise Lost_, book v. 1. 202-- Witness if I be silent, morn or even. ED. ] [Footnote LH: At Blea Tarn.--ED.] [Footnote LI: See the Fenwick note, p. 15.--ED.] NOTES The following are the notes which Wordsworth added to _The Excursion_ in the edition of 1814. In the case of the second, it will be observed that a new note was substituted in 1827 for that of 1814 and 1820. In other respects these "notes" remained unaltered throughout the editions, from 1814 to 1850. I have not thought it necessary to indicate the few, and very slight, changes in the phraseology of separate sentences. The text of the passages, on which the notes are based, is taken from the edition of 1850.--ED. Preface, page 25. _Descend, prophetic Spirit! that inspir'st_ _The human Soul_, etc. Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. _Shakspeare's Sonnets._--W.W. (1814). Page 43. ----_much did he see of men._ In Heron's Tour in Scotland is given an intelligent account of the qualities by which this class of men used to be, and still are in some degree, distinguished, and of the benefits which society derives from their labours. Among their characteristics, he does not omit to mention that, from being obliged to pass so much of their time in solitary wandering among rural objects, they frequently acquire meditative habits of mind, and are strongly disposed to enthusiasm poetical and religious. I regret that I have not the book at hand to quote the passage, as it is interesting on many accounts. (1814.) At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of artificial society, I have ever been ready to pay homage to the aristocracy of nature; under a conviction that vigorous human-heartedness is the constituent principle of true taste. It may still, however, be satisfactory to have prose testimony how far a Character, employed for purposes of imagination, is founded upon general fact. I, therefore, subjoin an extract from an author who had opportunities of being well acquainted with a class of men, from whom my own personal knowledge emboldened me to draw this portrait. "We learn from Cæsar and other Roman Writers, that the travelling merchants who frequented Gaul and other barbarous countries, either newly conquered by the Roman arms, or bordering on the Roman conquests, were ever the first to make the inhabitants of those countries familiarly acquainted with the Roman modes of life, and to inspire them with an inclination to follow the Roman fashions, and to enjoy Roman conveniences. In North America, travelling merchants from the Settlements have done and continue to do much more towards civilising the Indian natives, than all the missionaries, papist or protestant, who have ever been sent among them. "It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this most useful class of men, that they commonly contribute, by their personal manners, no less than by the sale of their wares, to the refinement of the people among whom they travel. Their dealings form them to great quickness of wit and acuteness of judgment. Having constant occasion to recommend themselves and their goods, they acquire habits of the most obliging attention, and the most insinuating address. As in their peregrinations they have opportunity of contemplating the manners of various men and various cities, they become eminently skilled in the knowledge of the world. _As they wander, each alone, through thinly-inhabited districts, they form habits of reflection and of sublime contemplation._ With all these qualifications, no wonder, that they should often be, in remote parts of the country, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors of manners; and should contribute much to polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity of our peasantry. It is not more than twenty or thirty years since a young man going from any part of Scotland to England, of purpose to _carry the pack_, was considered as going to lead the life and acquire the fortune of a gentleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in that honourable line of employment, he returned with his acquisitions to his native country, he was regarded as a gentleman to all intents and purposes."--Heron's _Journey in Scotland_, vol. i. p. 89.--W.W. (1827). Page 110. _Lost in unsearchable eternity!_ Since this paragraph was composed, I have read with so much pleasure, in Burnet's Theory of the Earth, a passage expressing corresponding sentiments, excited by objects of a similar nature, that I cannot forbear to transcribe it. "Siquod verò Natura nobis dedit spectaculum, in hâc tellure, verè gratum, et philosopho dignum, id semel mihi contigisse arbitror; cùm ex celsissimâ rupe speculabundus ad oram maris Mediterranei, hinc æquor cæruleum, illinc tractus Alpinos prospexi; nihil quidem magìs dispar aut dissimile, nec in suo genere, magìs egregium et singulare. Hoc theatrum ego facile prætulerim Romanis cunctis, Græcisve, atque id quod natura hîc spectandum exhibet, scenicis ludis omnibus, aut amphitheatri certaminibus. Nihil hîc elegans aut venustum, sed ingens et magnificum, et quod placet magnitudine suâ et quâdam specie immensitatis. Hinc intuebar maris æquabilem superficiem, usque et usque diffusam, quantum maximùm oculorum acies ferri potuit; illinc disruptissimam terræ faciem, et vastas moles variè elevatas aut depressas, erectas, propendentes, reclinatas, coacervatas, omni situ inæquali et turbido: Placuit ex hâc parte Naturæ unitas et simplicitas, et inexhausta quædam planities; ex alterâ, multiformis confusio magnorum corporum, et insanæ rerum strages: quas cùm intuebar, non urbis alicujus aut oppidi, sed confracti mundi rudera, ante oculos habere mihi visus sum. "In singulis ferè montibus erat aliquid insolens et mirabile, sed præ cæteris mihi placebat ilia, quâ sedebam, rupes; erat maxima et altissima, et quâ terram respiciebat, molliori ascensu altitudinem suam dissimulabat: quà verò mare, horrendúm præceps, et quasi ad perpendiculum facta instar parietis. Prætereà facies ilia marina adeò erat lævis ac uniformis (quod in rupibus aliquando observare licet) ac si scissa fuisset à summo ad imum, in illo plano, vel terræ motu aliquo, aut fulmine divulsa. "Ima pars rupis erat cava, recessusque habuit, et saxeos specus, euntes in vacuum montem; sive naturâ pridem factos, sive exesos mari, et undarum crebris ictibus: In hos enim cum impetu ruebant, et fragore æstuantis maris fluctus, quos iterum spumantes reddidit antrum, et quasi ab imo ventre evomuit. "Dextrum latus mentis erat præruptum, aspero saxo et nudâ caute; sinistrum non adeò neglexerat Natura, arboribus utpote ornatum: et prope pedem montis rivus limpidæ aquæ prorupit, qui cùm vicinam vallem irrigaverat, lento motu serpens, et per varios mæandros, quasi ad protrahendam vitam, in magno mari absorptus subito periit. Denique in summo vertice promontorii, commodè eminebat saxum, cui insidebam contemplabundus. Vale augusta sedes, Rege digna: Augusta rupes, semper mihi memoranda!" P. 89. _Telluris Theoria sacra, etc. Editio secunda._--W. W. 1814). Page 139. _Of Mississippi, or that northern stream._ "A man is supposed to improve by going out into the _World_, by visiting _London_. Artificial man does; he extends with his sphere; but, alas! that sphere is microscopic; it is formed of minutiæ, and he surrenders his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and inhuman pruriency; while his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the Man of Mind: he who is placed in the sphere of Nature and of God, might be a mock at Tattersall's and Brooks's, and a sneer at St. James's: he would certainly be swallowed alive by the first _Pizarro_ that crossed him:--But when he walks along the river of Amazons; when he rests his eye on the unrivalled Andes; when he measures the long and watered savannah; or contemplates, from a sudden promontory, the distant, vast Pacific--and feels himself a freeman in this vast theatre, and commanding each ready produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this stream--his exaltation is not less than imperial. He is as gentle, too, as he is great: his emotions of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of sentiment; for he says, 'These were made by a good Being, who, unsought by me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He becomes at once a child and a king. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues, and from hence he acts, and he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially; his mind in himself is also in his God; and therefore he loves, and therefore he soars."--From the notes upon _The Hurricane_, a Poem, _by William Gilbert_.[LJ] The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the above quotation, which, though from a strange book, is one of the finest passages of modern English prose.--W.W. (1814). Page 149. _'Tis, by comparison, an easy task_ _Earth to despise_, etc. See, upon this subject, Baxter's most interesting review of his own opinions and sentiments in the decline of life. It may be found (lately reprinted) in Dr. Wordsworth's _Ecclesiastical Biography_.--W.W. (1814). Page 152. _Alas! the endowment of immortal Power,_ _Is matched unequally with custom, time_, etc. This subject is treated at length in the _Ode, Intimations of Immortality_.--W.W. (1814). Page 156. _Knowing the heart of man is set to be_, etc. The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a poem addressed to the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, and the two last lines, printed in Italics, are by him translated from Seneca. The whole Poem is very beautiful. I will transcribe four stanzas from it, as they contain an admirable picture of the state of a wise Man's mind in a time of public commotion. Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes; Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. The storms of sad confusion that may grow Up in the present for the coming times, Appal not him; that hath no side at all, But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. Although his heart (so near allied to earth) Cannot but pity the perplexed state Of troublous and distressed mortality, That thus make way unto the ugly birth Of their own sorrows, and do still beget Affliction upon Imbecility; Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. And whilst distraught ambition compasses, And is encompassed, while as craft deceives, And is deceived: whilst man doth ransack man, And builds on blood, and rises by distress; And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves To great-expecting hopes: He looks thereon, As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, And bears no venture in Impiety. Thus, Lady, fares that man that hath prepared A rest for his desires; and sees all things Beneath him; and hath learned this book of man, Full of the notes of frailty; and compared The best of glory with her sufferings: By whom, I see, you labour all you can To plant your heart! and set your thoughts as near His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. (1814.) Page 221. _Or rather, as we stand on holy earth. And have the dead around us._ _Leo._ You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves? _Priest._ For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; ... By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world. See the Author's poem of _The Brothers_, published in the "Lyrical Ballads," in the year 1800.--W.W. (1814). Page 233. _And suffering Nature grieved that one should die._ _Southey's Retrospect_.--W.W. (1814). Page 233. _And whence that tribute? wherefore these regards?_ The sentiments and opinions here uttered are in unison with those expressed in the ... Essay upon Epitaphs, which was furnished by me for Mr. Coleridge's periodical work, _The Friend_; and as they are dictated by a spirit congenial to that which pervades this and the two succeeding books, the sympathising reader will not be displeased to see the Essay here annexed.[LK]--W.W. (1814). Page 236. _And spires whose 'silent finger points to heaven.'_ An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches in flat countries with spire-steeples, which as they cannot be referred to any other object, point as with silent finger to the sky and stars, and sometimes, when they reflect the brazen light of a rich though rainy sunset, appear like a pyramid of flame burning heaven-ward. See _The Friend_, by S. T. Coleridge, No. 14, p. 223.--W. W. (1814). Page 308. _That sycamore, which annually holds_ _Within its shade, as in a stately tent._ This Sycamore oft musical with Bees; _Such Tents_ the Patriarchs loved. _S. T. Coleridge_.--W.W. (1814). (It is in his _Inscription for a fountain on a Heath_.--ED.) Page 323. _Perish the roses and the flowers of kings._ The "Transit gloria mundi" is finely expressed in the Introduction to the Foundation-charters of some of the ancient Abbeys. Some expressions here used are taken from that of the Abbey of St. Mary's, Furness, the translation of which is as follows:-- "Considering every day the uncertainty of life, that the roses and flowers of Kings, Emperors, and Dukes, and the crowns and palms of all the great, wither and decay; and that all things, with an uninterrupted course, tend to dissolution and death: I therefore," etc.--W.W. (1814). Page 331. ----_Earth has lent_ _Her waters, Air her breezes._ In treating this subject, it was impossible not to recollect, with gratitude, the pleasing picture, which, in his Poem of _The Fleece_, the excellent and amiable Dyer has given of the influences of manufacturing industry upon the face of this Island. He wrote at a time when machinery was first beginning to be introduced, and his benevolent heart prompted him to augur from it nothing but good. Truth has compelled me to dwell upon the baneful effects arising out of an ill-regulated and excessive application of powers so admirable in themselves.--W. W. (1814). Page 363. _Binding herself by statute._ The discovery of Dr. Bell affords marvellous facilities for carrying this into effect; and it is impossible to over-rate the benefit which might accrue to humanity from the universal application of this simple engine under an enlightened and conscientious government.--W. W. (1814). FOOTNOTES: [Footnote LJ: _The Hurricane, a Theosophical and Western Eclogue, etc._, by William Gilbert, London, 1797. Compare Wordsworth's notes to _The Brothers_.--ED.] [Footnote LK: In this edition, it finds a more appropriate place in the _Prose Works_.--ED.] APPENDIX NOTE A (See p. 2) The grave of James Patrick,--the pedlar whose character and habits gave rise to "The Wanderer" of _The Excursion_,--may still be seen in the church-yard within the town of Kendal. The following extract from the _Papers, Letters, and Journals of William Pearson_, edited by his widow, and printed in London, in 1863, for private circulation, refers to Patrick. "He" (_i.e._ William Pearson) "sometimes went to Kendal on Sundays, in order to worship with Unitarians, in the old Presbyterian _meeting-house_. This quiet secluded building, though situated in the heart of the town, is overshadowed by trees, beneath which rest many worthies of departed times: one of whom, James Patrick, was the prototype of 'The Wanderer' of _The Excursion_. A plain mural slab, outside the east wall of the chapel--which was his spiritual home--bears the following inscription:-- NEAR THIS PLACE ARE BURIED JOHN PATRICK OF BARNARD CASTLE, WHO DIED MAY 10TH, 1753, AGED 51 YEARS; MARGARET, THE DAUGHTER OF JAMES AND MARY PATRICK, WHO DIED NOVEMBER 26TH, 1767, IN HER INFANCY; JAMES PATRICK OF KENDAL, WHO DIED MARCH 2D, 1787, AGED 71 YEARS. "When staying in Kendal, with his friend Mr. Thomas Cookson, Mr. Wordsworth himself was an occasional worshipper, along with the family, at this chapel; and thus became acquainted with the minister, the Reverend John Harrison, and with one of his congregation, the well-known blind mathematician and botanist, Mr. John Gough, with the delineation of whose remarkable powers and character the poet has enriched his _Excursion_; and in turn, has, by the touch of his genius, imparted to them a lustre that will not fade, whilst English Literature shall endure." (p. 13). NOTE B (See p. 115) The following is an extract from Dr. Daniel G. Brinton's work, the _Myths of the New World_. "As in oriental legends, the origin of man from the earth was veiled under the story that he was the progeny of some mountain by the embrace of Mithras or Jupiter, so the Indians often pointed to some height or some cavern as the spot whence the first of men issued, adult and armed, from the womb of the All-mother Earth. The oldest name of the Alleghany Mountains is Paemotinck, or Pemolnick, an Algonkin word, the meaning of which is said to be "The origin of the Indians." "The Witchitas, who dwelt on the Red River among the mountains named after them, have a tradition that their progenitors issued from the rocks about their homes, and many other tribes, the Tahkalis, Navajos, Coryoteras, and the Hailians, for instance, set up this claim to be autochthones.... "All those tribes, the Creeks, Seminoles, Choctaws, Chicasaws, and Natchez, who, according to tradition, were in remote times banded into one common confederacy under the headship of the last-mentioned, unanimously located their earliest ancestry near an artificial eminence in the valley of the Big Black River, in the Natchez country, whence they pretended to have emerged.... "A parallel to this southern legend occurs among the Six Nations of the north. They with one consent, if we may credit the account of Cusic, looked to a mountain near the falls of the Oswego River, in the State of New York, as the locality where the forefathers first saw the light of day, and that they had some such legend the name Oneida, people of the Stone, would seem to testify.... "An ancient legend of the Aztecs derived their nation from a place called Chicomoztoc, the Seven Caverns, located north of Mexico. Antiquaries have indulged in all sorts of speculations as to what this means.... Caverns and hollow trees were in fact the homes and temples of our first parents, and from them they went forth to conquer and adorn the world; and from the inorganic constituents of the soil acted on by Light, treated by Divine Force, vivified by the Spirit, did in reality the first of men proceed. "This cavern, which thus dimly lingered in the memories of nations, occasionally expanded to a nether world, imagined to underlie this of ours, and still inhabited by beings of our kind, who have never been lucky enough to discover its exit. The Mandans and Minnetarees, on the Missouri River, supposed this exit was near a certain hill in their territory...."--_Myths of the New World_, pp. 224-8. Mr. Edward B. Tylor, Oxford, suggests that the legend referred to may be that described in Falkner's account of the Moluches. "They believe that their good deities made the world, and that they first created the Indians in their caves, gave them the lance, the bow and arrows, and the stone-bowls, to fight and hunt with, and then turned them out to shift for themselves. They imagine that the deities of the Spaniards did the same by them.... They have formed a belief that some of them after death return to their divine caverns," etc. (Falkner's _Description of Patagonia and the adjoining parts of South America, etc._, chap. v. pp. 114-5, by Thomas Falkner, Hereford, 1774.) See also Edward B. Tylor's _Early History of Mankind_, p. 313.--ED. NOTE C (See p. 140) For the following letters in reference to the "Muccawiss," I am indebted to Mr. Henry Reed,--son of the late Professor Reed of Philadelphia,--whose assistance in all matters relating to Wordsworth in America has been invaluable. "NO. 400 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, "_September 26th, 1883_. "MY DEAR MR. KNIGHT--Dr. Brinton tells me that Muccawiss is the Algonquin for whip-poor-will, and he will ascertain for me the precise spelling, and, if possible, the book from which W. W. probably got his information.--Yours sincerely, HENRY REED." "115 SOUTH SEVENTH STREET, "_September 27th, 1883_. "DEAR SIR--I have failed to find the exact word used by Wordsworth--muccawiss. The nearest to it is 'moshkaois,' which signifies 'bittern,' a water-fowl of the diver class, to which the name has reference, it being a derivative from a verb meaning to rise to the surface of the water. The word is no doubt of Algonkin origin, and I would suggest that you write to the Algonkin scholar, _par excellence_, of our country, Colonel J. Hammond Trumbull, Hartford, Conn., who is both able and willing to solve all the enigmas of that difficult tongue.--Very truly yours, D. G. BRINTON." "Henry Reed, Esq." "NO. 400 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, "_October 2nd, 1883_. "MY DEAR MR. KNIGHT--I enclose a letter from Colonel Trumbull, which I think you will find satisfactory.--Yours very sincerely, HENRY REED." "HARTFORD, CONN., _September 29th, 1883_. "HENRY REED, Esq., Philadelphia. "DEAR SIR--Wordsworth's 'Muccawis' was, certainly, a Whip-poor-will, and he must have taken the Indian name, directly or at second-hand, from Carver's _Travels_. Among the birds 'found in the interior parts of North America,' Carver (chap. 18) describes 'the Whipper-will, or, as it is termed by the Indians, the _Muckawis_.... As soon as night comes on, these birds will place themselves on the fences, stumps, or stones that lie near some house, and _repeat their melancholy notes without any variation_ till midnight,' etc. So Wordsworth's Melancholy muccawis Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry. "I have an impression--which I have not just now leisure to verify--that Carver's description of this and some other American birds was reprinted in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. Two or three English editions of the _Travels_ had been printed before _The Excursion_ was written. "I find no other authority for this 'Indian' name. The Chippeway name for the Whip-poor-will is (as given by Tanner or Dr. E. James) _Wâwonaissa_. Nuttall states, the Delaware name was _Wecoâlis_: Zeisberger wrote it _Wecoolis_.--Yours sincerely, J. HAMMOND TRUMBULL." "_P.S._--Carver did not name 'the merry mocking-bird'--which Wordsworth makes the companion of the 'Muccawis'; but Campbell had heard of 'the _merry mock-bird's_ song,' and copied a description of it from Ashe's _Travels in America_, in a note to _Gertrude of Wyoming_ (1809), pt. i. st. 3." Since receiving these letters I have ascertained that Wordsworth had in his library at Rydal Mount--whether he had it at Allan Bank I cannot say--a copy of one of the English editions of Carver's _Travels_. Compare _Wanderings in South America, etc._, by Charles Waterton--a work which was also in Wordsworth's library at Rydal. I quote from a recent edition (1879). See pp. 99, 111, 199, and 488:-- "When in thy hammock, should the thought of thy little crosses and disappointments, in thy ups and downs through life, break in upon thee, and throw thee into a pensive mood, the owl will bear thee company. She will tell thee that hard has been her fate too; and at intervals 'Whip-poor-will' and 'Willy-come-go' will take up the tale of sorrow. Ovid has told thee how the owl once boasted the human form, and lost it for a very small offence; and were the poet alive now, he would inform thee, that 'Whip-poor-will' and 'Willy-come-go' are the shades of these poor African and Indian slaves, who died worn out and broken-hearted. They wail and cry, 'Whip-poor-will' and 'Willy-come-go' all night long; and often, when the moon shines, you see them sitting on the green turf, near the houses of those whose ancestors tore them from the bosom of their helpless families, which all probably perished through grief and want, after their support was gone." (p. 99). "The Caprimulgus wheels in busy flight around the canoe, while 'Whip-poor-will' sits on the broken stump near the water's edge, complaining as the shades of night set in" (p. 111). The following is from _Ornithological Biography, or an Account of the Habits of the Birds of America_, vol. i. p. 422, by John James Audubon, Edinburgh, 1831. "Whip-poor-will, _Caprimulgus vociferus_, a species of Night-jar. Immediately after the arrival of these birds their notes are heard in the dusk and through the evening, in every part of the thickets, and along the skirts of the woods. They are clear and loud, and to me are more interesting than those of the Nightingale.... The Whip-poor-will continues its lively song for several hours after sunset, and then remains silent until the first dawn of day, when its notes echo through every vale, and along the declivities of the mountains, until the beams of the rising sun scatter the darkness that overhung the face of Nature. Hundreds are often heard at the same time in different parts of the wood, each trying to outdo the others.... The cry consists of three distinct notes, the first and last of which are emphatical and sonorous, the intermediate one less so. These three notes are preceded by a low cluck, which seems preparatory to the others. A fancied resemblance which its notes have to the syllables _whip-poor-will_ has given rise to the common name of the bird." NOTE D (See p. 173) A translation of the passage from Pausanias is quoted in the text. I append extracts from some letters I have received on the subject. The first are from Mr. Heard, Fettes College, Edinburgh. _October 5th._ "I cannot find a reference to Cephisus; but I send you a passage in point from Homer, _Iliad_, 23, 140. I rather suspect Wordsworth had this passage in mind, for no commentator I have quotes a parallel; in which case he has either forgotten _Spercheius_ as the river, or substituted, on purpose, the better known Attic river. "Achilles offers to the dead Patroclus the locks which his father had vowed to Spercheius, if ever he returned to his native land: ἔνθ᾿ αὖτ ἄλλ᾿ ἐνόησε ποδάρκης δῖος Αχιλλεύς στὰς ἀπάνευθε πυρῆς ξανθὴν ἀπεκείρατο χαίτην τήν ῥα Σπερχειῷ ποταμῷ τρέφε τηλεθόωσαν ὀχθήσας δ᾿ ἄρα εἶπεν ιδὼν ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον Σπερχεί᾿, ἄλλως σοίγε πατὴρ ἠρήατο Πηλεὺς κεῖσέ με νοστήσαντα ϕίλην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν σοί τε κόμην κερέειν. _October 13th._ "I have discovered the reference to the Cephisus. It is from Pausanias, 1, 37, 3. I transcribe the passage: you will notice the reference to the Spercheius of the _Iliad_. "πρὶν δὲ διαβαεναι τὸν Καεφισόν, Θεοδώρου μνῆμά ἐστι τραγῳσίαν ὑποκριναμένου τῶν καθ᾿ αὑτὸν ἄριστα. ἀγάλματα δὲ ἐπὶ τῷ ποταμῷ Μνησιμάχης, τὸ δὲ ἐτερον ἀνάθημα κειρομένου οἰ τὴν κόμην τοῦ παιδὸς ἐπὶ τῷ Καϕισῷ. καθεστάναι δὲ ἐκ παλαιοῦ καὶ τοῖς πᾶσι τοῦτο ῞Ἑλλαεσι τῇ Ὁμήρου τις ἂν τεκμαίροιτο ποιήσει, ἃς τὸν Παελέα εὄξασθαί ϕησι τῷ Σπερχειῷ κερεῖν ἀνασωθέντος ἐκ Τροίας Αχιλλέως τὴν κόμην. "There can be little doubt that Wordsworth had this passage in mind. The Cephisus is the Attic one; this is a statue, which Pausanias saw on the banks of the river, of the son of Mnesimache cutting his locks over the stream." Professor Campbell writes:--"The Homeric passage is _Iliad_, 23, 140-151, where Achilles cuts off for Patroclus the lock of hair, which _his father Peleus_ had vowed to the river Spercheius in case of his son's safe return. This is referred to by Plato,--_Rep._ 3, 391 B,--who regards it as an act of impiety to have given that, which was sacred to the river, to a dead body. "Unless the passage in Pausanias is singularly apposite, I should think that this passage must have been in Wordsworth's mind, and that by a perfectly legitimate use of poetic freedom, in speaking of the later Greek civilisation, he had put the Attic in place of the Phthiotic river." Since receiving Mr. Heard's letter, I have found that Wordsworth possessed a copy of Thomas Taylor's translation of Pausanias's _Description of Greece_, published in 1794, a copy of that work having been sold at the Rydal Mount sale in 1859. Bishop Wordsworth of St. Andrews has also directed my attention to the following note to Pope's translation of the _Iliad_, a copy of which his uncle possessed. Book xxiii. 175. "It was the custom of the ancients not only to offer their own hair, but likewise to consecrate that of their children to the river-gods of their country. This is what Pausanias shews in his Attics; _Before you pass the Cephisa_, says he, _you find the tomb of Theodorus_, _who was the most excellent actor of his time for tragedy; and_, _on the banks you see two statues_, _one of Mnesimachus_, _and the other of his son_, _who cut off his hair in honour of the rivers; for that this was in all ages the custom of the Greeks_, _may be inferred from Homer's poetry_, _where Peleus promises by a solemn vow to consecrate to the river Sperchius the hair of his son_, _if he returns safe from the Trojan war_. This custom was likewise in Egypt, where Philostratus tells us that Memnon consecrated his hair to the Nile. This practice of Achilles was imitated by Alexander at the funeral of Hephæstion." It is likely that Wordsworth had read this note to the annotated edition (1763) of Pope's _Homer_; but it is also probable that he was familiar with the passage in Pausanias. NOTE E (See p. 303) Many particulars regarding John Gough may be found in Cornelius Nicholson's _Annals of Kendal_, pp. 355-368 (Whitaker and Coy., 1861). He was born in 1757 and died in 1825. "Before the completion of his third year, he was attacked with small-pox, which deprived him of his sight. The whole globe of the left eye was destroyed: the damage done to the other was not so extensive: for, though the greater part of the cornea was rendered opaque, there was a minute pellucid speck to the right of the pupil, which permitted a ray of light to fall upon the verge of the retina, and thus he was enabled to distinguish between day and night: but he had no perception of the form or colour of objects around him; so that, for all useful purposes, vision was completely lost." But his marvellous sense of touch, as described by Wordsworth, was in no degree exaggerated. In his eighth summer, he began the study of botany; and pursued it systematically in his thirteenth year. "His method of examining plants must be briefly told. Systems of classification were but little valued, except so far as they aided him in recognising individual form. The plant to be examined was held by the root or base in one hand, while the fingers of the other travelled slowly upwards, over the stem, branches, and leaves, till they reached the flower. If the species had been already met with, this procedure was sufficient for its recognition; if it proved to be a novelty, its class was first determined by the insertion of the tip of his tongue within the flower: thus he discovered the number and arrangement of the stamens and pistils. When the flower was small he requested his reader to ascertain these points with a lens. The class and order being determined, the genus was next worked out, word by word of the description, so far at least as the state of the specimen would allow. But his perceptive power over form was most conspicuous in the analysis of species. It was truly wonderful to witness the rapidity with which his fingers ran among the leaves, taking cognizance of their divisions, shape, serratures, and of the presence or absence of hairs. The finest down was detected, by a stem or leaf being drawn gently across the border of his lower lip; so fine, indeed, that a young eye often required a lens to verify the truth of the perception. Another peculiarity is worthy of notice. Repeated perusal of descriptions had enabled him to prefigure in his mind's eye, the form without the presence of specimens; so that, when a species for the first time came within his touch, he at once named it from memory.... It was, probably, on one of these occasions, that Mr. Wordsworth, while describing the little cushion-like plant, with white roots and purple flowers, growing near Grisedale Tarn, caught the first glimpse of that conception which was afterwards expanded into the beautiful picture given of Mr. Gough in _The Excursion_." Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in his Essay on _The Soul and its Organs of Sense_, refers to him as "not only an excellent mathematician, but an infallible botanist and zoologist. He has frequently, at first feel, corrected the mistakes of the most experienced sportsmen, with regard to the birds or vermin which they had killed, when it chanced to be a variety or rare species, so completely resembling the common one, that it required great steadiness of observation to detect the difference, even after it had been pointed out." "Good heavens!" added Coleridge, "why his face sees all over!" Gough died in the 69th year of his age; and he was buried, not (as Wordsworth puts it in _The Excursion_) at Grasmere, but in the churchyard of Kendal. What is more remarkable is that he lived for ten years after _The Excursion_ was printed; and Wordsworth must have written the passage in the Seventh Book referring to Gough in anticipation of his death, probably 13 years before he died. Mr. John Watson of Kendal tells me that he has had put into his hands a MS. autobiography of Gough. Mr. Watson has himself written an interesting sketch of the blind botanist. See the passage in _The Excursion_, book vii. l. 492, etc., referring to Gough.--ED. END OF VOL. V _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_ * * * * * +--------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber notes: | | | | Footnote 160: '814' changed to '1814'. | | Fixed various punctuation. | +--------------------------------------------+ End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume 5 (of 8), by William Wordsworth *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS OF WORDSWORTH, VOL 5 *** ***** This file should be named 56361-0.txt or 56361-0.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/3/6/56361/ Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jane Robins and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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