Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

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,

  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

  Endeared to him, for this, 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,

  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 curved 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

  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,

  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

  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. 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,

  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. And did you hear his voice?

  I was abruptly summoned by the sound

  From some affecting images and thoughts, 240

  Which then were silent; but crave utterance now.

  Much,” he continued, with dejected look,

  “Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase,

  Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes

  For future states of being; and the wings

  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

  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 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—to let fall a tear;

  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

  Rights that transcend the loftiest 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.

  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

  Fearfully low; nor will your judgment scorn

  Those services, whereby attempt is made

  To lift the creature toward 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,

  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,

  Bringing from age to age its own reproach,

  Incongruous, impotent, and blank.—But, oh!

  If to be weak is to be wretched—miserable,

  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,

  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 of firmest trust—

  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,

  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

  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 fixed, 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,

  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

  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

  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,

  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,

  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. 410

  How gay the habitations that bedeck

  This fertile valley! Not a house but seems

  To give assurance of content within;

  Embosomed happiness, and placid love;

  As if the sunshine of the day were met

  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

  Of a good shepherd tended as themselves

  Do tend their flocks) partake man’s general lot

  With little mitigation. They escape,

  Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; feel not

  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

  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 the churchyard 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.

  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.

  —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

  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, 460

  That spreads, in gentle 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 often sad.—”Is Man

  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 evi
l? 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)

  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,

  These are the points,” the Wanderer said, “on which 480

  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,

  “Angels nay 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.

  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;

  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 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

  In Providence, for solace and support,

  We may not doubt that who can best subject

  The will to reason’s law, can 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