Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

He took me by the hand and said to me,

  If ever the day came when he was rich,

  He would return, and on his Father’s Land

  He would grow old among us.

  LEONARD.

  If that day

  Should come, ‘twould needs be a glad day for him;

  He would himself, no doubt, be as happy then

  As any that should meet him —

  PRIEST.

  Happy, Sir —

  LEONARD.

  You said his kindred all were in their graves,

  And that he had one Brother —

  PRIEST.

  That is but

  A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth

  James, though not sickly, yet was delicate,

  And Leonard being always by his side

  Had done so many offices about him,

  That, though he was not of a timid nature,

  Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy

  In him was somewhat check’d, and when his Brother

  Was gone to sea and he was left alone

  The little colour that he had was soon

  Stolen from his cheek, he droop’d, and pin’d and pin’d;

  LEONARD.

  But these are all the graves of full grown men!

  PRIEST.

  Aye, Sir, that pass’d away: we took him to us.

  He was the child of all the dale — he liv’d

  Three months with one, and six months with another:

  And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love,

  And many, many happy days were his.

  But, whether blithe or sad, ‘tis my belief

  His absent Brother still was at his heart.

  And, when he liv’d beneath our roof, we found

  (A practice till this time unknown to him)

  That often, rising from his bed at night,

  He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping

  He sought his Brother Leonard — You are mov’d!

  Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,

  I judg’d you most unkindly.

  LEONARD.

  But this youth,

  How did he die at last?

  PRIEST.

  One sweet May morning,

  It will be twelve years since, when Spring returns,

  He had gone forth among the new-dropp’d lambs,

  With two or three companions whom it chanc’d

  Some further business summon’d to a house

  Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir’d perhaps,

  Or from some other cause remain’d behind.

  You see yon precipice — it almost looks

  Like some vast building made of many crags,

  And in the midst is one particular rock

  That rises like a column from the vale,

  Whence by our Shepherds it is call’d, the Pillar.

  James, pointing to its summit, over which

  They all had purpos’d to return together,

  Inform’d them that he there would wait for them:

  They parted, and his comrades pass’d that way

  Some two hours after, but they did not find him

  At the appointed place, a circumstance

  Of which they took no heed: but one of them,

  Going by chance, at night, into the house

  Which at this time was James’s home, there learn’d

  That nobody had seen him all that day:

  The morning came, and still, he was unheard of:

  The neighbours were alarm’d, and to the Brook

  Some went, and some towards the Lake; ere noon

  They found him at the foot of that same Rock

  Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after

  I buried him, poor Lad, and there he lies.

  LEONARD.

  And that then is his grave! — Before his death

  You said that he saw many happy years?

  PRIEST.

  Aye, that he did —

  LEONARD.

  And all went well with him —

  PRIEST.

  If he had one, the Lad had twenty homes.

  LEONARD.

  And you believe then, that his mind was easy —

  PRIEST.

  Yes, long before he died, he found that time

  Is a true friend to sorrow, and unless

  His thoughts were turn’d on Leonard’s luckless fortune,

  He talk’d about him with a chearful love.

  LEONARD.

  He could not come to an unhallow’d end!

  PRIEST.

  Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mention’d

  A habit which disquietude and grief

  Had brought upon him, and we all conjectur’d

  That, as the day was warm, he had lain down

  Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades

  He there had fallen asleep, that in his sleep

  He to the margin of the precipice

  Had walk’d, and from the summit had fallen head-long,

  And so no doubt he perish’d: at the time,

  We guess, that in his hands he must have had

  His Shepherd’s staff; for midway in the cliff

  It had been caught, and there for many years

  It hung — and moulder’d there.

  The Priest here ended —

  The Stranger would have thank’d him, but he felt

  Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence,

  And Leonard, when they reach’d the church-yard gate,

  As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn’d round,

  And, looking at the grave, he said, “My Brother.”

  The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,

  Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated

  That Leonard would partake his homely fare:

  The other thank’d him with a fervent voice,

  But added, that, the evening being calm,

  He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

  It was not long ere Leonard reach’d a grove

  That overhung the road: he there stopp’d short,

  And, sitting down beneath the trees, review’d

  All that the Priest had said: his early years

  Were with him in his heart: his cherish’d hopes,

  And thoughts which had been his an hour before.

  All press’d on him with such a weight, that now,

  This vale, where he had been so happy, seem’d

  A place in which he could not bear to live:

  So he relinquish’d all his purposes.

  He travell’d on to Egremont; and thence,

  That night, address’d a letter to the Priest

  Reminding him of what had pass’d between them.

  And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,

  That it was from the weakness of his heart,

  He had not dared to tell him, who he was.

  This done, he went on shipboard, and is now

  A Seaman, a grey headed Mariner.

  ELLEN IRWIN.

  Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.

  Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

  Upon the Braes of Kirtle,

  Was lovely as a Grecian Maid

  Adorn’d with wreaths of myrtle.

  Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,

  And there did they beguile the day

  With love and gentle speeches,

  Beneath the budding beeches.

  From many Knights and many Squires

  The Brace had been selected,

  And Gordon, fairest of them all,

  By Ellen was rejected.

  Sad tidings to that noble Youth!

  For it may be proclaim’d with truth,

  If Bruce hath lov’d sincerely,

  The Gordon loves as dearly.

  But what is Gordon’s beauteous face?

  And what are Gordon’s crosses

  To them who sit by Kirtle’s Braes

  Upon the verdant moss
es?

  Alas that ever he was born!

  The Gordon, couch’d behind a thorn,

  Sees them and their caressing,

  Beholds them bless’d and blessing.

  Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts

  That through his brain are travelling,

  And, starting up, to Bruce’s heart

  He launch’d a deadly jav’lin!

  Fair Ellen saw it when it came,

  And, stepping forth to meet the same,

  Did with her body cover

  The Youth her chosen lover.

  And, falling into Bruce’s arms,

  Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

  Thus from the heart of her true-love

  The mortal spear repelling.

  And Bruce, as soon as he had slain

  The Gordon, sail’d away to Spain,

  And fought with rage incessant

  Against the Moorish Crescent.

  But many days and many months,

  And many years ensuing,

  This wretched Knight did vainly seek

  The death that he was wooing:

  So coming back across the wave,

  Without a groan on Ellen’s grave

  His body he extended,

  And there his sorrow ended.

  Now ye who willingly have heard

  The tale I have been telling,

  May in Kirkonnel church-yard view

  The grave of lovely Ellen:

  By Ellen’s side the Bruce is laid,

  And, for the stone upon his head,

  May no rude hand deface it,

  And its forlorn ‘Hic jacet’.

  Strange fits of passion I have known,

  And I will dare to tell,

  But in the lover’s ear alone,

  What once to me befel.

  When she I lov’d, was strong and gay

  And like a rose in June,

  I to her cottage bent my way,

  Beneath the evening moon.

  Upon the moon I fix’d my eye,

  All over the wide lea;

  My horse trudg’d on, and we drew nigh

  Those paths so dear to me.

  And now we reach’d the orchard plot,

  And, as we climb’d the hill,

  Towards the roof of Lucy’s cot

  The moon descended still.

  In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

  Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!

  And, all the while, my eyes I kept

  On the descending moon.

  My horse mov’d on; hoof after hoof

  He rais’d and never stopp’d:

  When down behind the cottage roof

  At once the planet dropp’d.

  What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

  Into a Lover’s head —

  ”O mercy!” to myself I cried,

  ”If Lucy should be dead!”

  SONG: SHE DWELT AMONG TH’ UNTRODDEN WAYS

  She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways

  Beside the springs of Dove,

  A Maid whom there were none to praise

  And very few to love.

  A Violet by a mossy stone

  Half-hidden from the Eye!

  — Fair, as a star when only one

  Is shining in the sky!

  She liv’d unknown, and few could know

  When Lucy ceas’d to be;

  But she is in her Grave, and Oh!

  The difference to me.

  A slumber did my spirit seal,

  I had no human fears:

  She seem’d a thing that could not feel

  The touch of earthly years.

  No motion has she now, no force

  She neither hears nor sees

  Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course

  With rocks and stones and trees!

  THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.

  ”Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,

  Exclaim’d a thundering Voice,

  Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self

  Between me and my choice!”

  A falling Water swoln with snows

  Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,

  That all bespatter’d with his foam,

  And dancing high, and dancing low,

  Was living, as a child might know,

  In an unhappy home.

  ”Dost thou presume my course to block?

  Off, off! or, puny Thing!

  I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock

  To which thy fibres cling.”

  The Flood was tyrannous and strong;

  The patient Briar suffer’d long,

  Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

  Hoping the danger would be pass’d:

  But seeing no relief, at last

  He venture’d to reply.

  ”Ah!” said the Briar, “Blame me not!

  Why should we dwell in strife?

  We who in this, our natal spot,

  Once liv’d a happy life!

  You stirr’d me on my rocky bed —

  What pleasure thro’ my veins you spread!

  The Summer long from day to day

  My leaves you freshen’d and bedew’d;

  Nor was it common gratitude

  That did your cares repay.”

  When Spring came on with bud and bell,

  Among these rocks did I

  Before you hang my wreath to tell

  That gentle days were nigh!

  And in the sultry summer hours

  I shelter’d you with leaves and flowers;

  And in my leaves now shed and gone

  The linnet lodg’d and for us two

  Chaunted his pretty songs when you

  Had little voice or none.

  But now proud thoughts are in your breast —

  What grief is mine you see.

  Ah! would you think, ev’n yet how blest

  Together we might be!

  Though of both leaf and flower bereft,

  Some ornaments to me are left —

  Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,

  With which I in my humble way

  Would deck you many a Winter’s day,

  A happy Eglantine!

  What more he said, I cannot tell.

  The stream came thundering down the dell

  And gallop’d loud and fast;

  I listen’d, nor aught else could hear,

  The Briar quak’d and much I fear.

  Those accents were his last.

  THE OAK AND THE BROOM.

  A PASTORAL.

  His simple truths did Andrew glean

  Beside the babbling rills;

  A careful student he had been

  Among the woods and hills.

  One winter’s night when through the Trees

  The wind was thundering, on his knees

  His youngest born did Andrew hold:

  And while the rest, a ruddy quire

  Were seated round their blazing fire,

  This Tale the Shepherd told.

  I saw a crag, a lofty stone

  As ever tempest beat!

  Out of its head an Oak had grown,

  A Broom out of its feet.

  The time was March, a chearful noon —

  The thaw-wind with the breath of June

  Breath’d gently from the warm South-west;

  When in a voice sedate with age

  This Oak, half giant and half sage,

  His neighbour thus address’d.

  ”Eight weary weeks, thro’ rock and clay,

  Along this mountain’s edge

  The Frost hath wrought both night and day,

  Wedge driving after wedge.

  Look up, and think, above your head

  What trouble surely will be bred;

  Last night I heard a crash — ’tis true,

  The splinters took another road —

  I see them yonder — what a load

  For such a Thing as you!”

  Y
ou are preparing as before

  To deck your slender shape;

  And yet, just three years back — no more —

  You had a strange escape.

  Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,

  It came, you know, with fire and smoke

  And hither did it bend its way.

  This pond’rous block was caught by me,

  And o’er your head, as you may see,

  ’Tis hanging to this day.

  The Thing had better been asleep,

  Whatever thing it were,

  Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,

  That first did plant you there.

  For you and your green twigs decoy

  The little witless Shepherd-boy

  To come and slumber in your bower;

  And trust me, on some sultry noon,

  Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!

  Will perish in one hour.

  ”From me this friendly warning take” —

  — The Broom began to doze,

  And thus to keep herself awake

  Did gently interpose.

  ”My thanks for your discourse are due;

  That it is true, and more than true,

  I know and I have known it long;

  Frail is the bond, by which we hold

  Our being, be we young or old,

  Wise, foolish, weak or strong.”

  Disasters, do the best we can,

  Will reach both great and small;

  And he is oft the wisest man,

  Who is not wise at all.

  For me, why should I wish to roam?

  This spot is my paternal home,

  It is my pleasant Heritage;

  My Father many a happy year

  Here spread his careless blossoms, here

  Attain’d a good old age.

  Even such as his may be may lot.

  What cause have I to haunt

  My heart with terrors? Am I not

  In truth a favor’d plant!

  The Spring for me a garland weaves

  Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,

  And, when the Frost is in the sky,

  My branches are so fresh and gay

  That You might look on me and say

  This plant can never die.

  The butterfly, all green and gold,

  To me hath often flown,

  Here in my Blossoms to behold

  Wings lovely as his own.

  When grass is chill with rain or dew,

  Beneath my shade the mother ewe

  Lies with her infant lamb; I see

  The love, they to each other make,

  And the sweet joy, which they partake,

  It is a joy to me.

  Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;

  The Broom might have pursued

  Her speech, until the stars of night

  Their journey had renew’d.

  But in the branches of the Oak

  Two Ravens now began to croak

  Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;