Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  character of the deceased; that his gifts and graces were

  remembered in the simplicity in which they ought to be remembered.

  The composition and quality of the mind of a virtuous man,

  contemplated by the side of the grave where his body is

  mouldering, ought to appear, and be felt as something midway

  between what he was on earth walking about with his living

  frailties, and what he may be presumed to be as a Spirit in

  heaven.

  It suffices, therefore, that the trunk and the main branches of

  the worth of the deceased be boldly and unaffectedly represented.

  Any further detail, minutely and scrupulously pursued, especially

  if this be done with laborious and antithetic discriminations,

  must inevitably frustrate its own purpose; forcing the passing

  Spectator to this conclusion,—either that the dead did not

  possess the merits ascribed to him, or that they who have raised a

  monument to his memory, and must therefore be supposed to have

  been closely connected with him, were incapable of perceiving

  those merits; or at least during the act of composition had lost

  sight of them; for, the understanding having been so busy in its

  petty occupation, how could the heart of the mourner be other than

  cold? and in either of these cases, whether the fault be on the

  part of the buried person or the survivors, the memorial is

  unaffecting and profitless.

  Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than to pursue

  it too far, or to labour it unfeelingly. For in no place are we so

  much disposed to dwell upon those points of nature and condition

  wherein all men resemble each other, as in the temple where the

  universal Father is worshipped, or by the side of the grave which

  gathers all human Beings to itself, and “equalises the lofty and

  the low.” We suffer and we weep with the same heart; we love and

  are anxious for one another in one spirit; our hopes look to the

  same quarter; and the virtues by which we are all to be furthered

  and supported, as patience, meekness, good-will, justice,

  temperance, and temperate desires, are in an equal degree the

  concern of us all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least these

  acknowledgments to our common nature; nor let the sense of their

  importance be sacrificed to a balance of opposite qualities or

  minute distinctions in individual character; which if they do not

  (as will for the most part be the case), when examined, resolve

  themselves into a trick of words, will, even when they are true

  and just, for the most part be grievously out of place; for, as it

  is probable that few only have explored these intricacies of human

  nature, so can the tracing of them be interesting only to a few.

  But an epitaph is not a proud writing shut up for the studious: it

  is exposed to all—to the wise and the most ignorant; it is

  condescending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regard; its

  story and admonitions are brief, that the thoughtless, the busy,

  and indolent, may not be deterred, nor the impatient tired: the

  stooping old man cons the engraven record like a second horn-

  book;—the child is proud that he can read it;—and the stranger

  is introduced through its mediation to the company of a friend: it

  is concerning all, and for all:—in the churchyard it is open to

  the day; the sun looks down upon the stone, and the rains of

  heaven beat against it.

  Yet, though the writer who would excite sympathy is bound in

  this case, more than in any other, to give proof that he himself

  has been moved, it is to be remembered that to raise a monument is

  a sober and a reflective act; that the inscription which it bears

  is intended to be permanent, and for universal perusal; and that,

  for this reason, the thoughts and feelings expressed should be

  permanent also—liberated from that weakness and anguish of sorrow

  which is in nature transitory, and which with instinctive decency

  retires from notice. The passions should be subdued, the emotions

  controlled; strong, indeed, but nothing ungovernable or wholly

  involuntary. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires it also:

  for how can the narrator otherwise be trusted? Moreover, a grave

  is a tranquillising object: resignation in course of time springs

  up from it as naturally as the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf

  with which it may be covered, or gathering round the monument by

  which it is defended. The very form and substance of the monument

  which has received the inscription, and the appearance of the

  letters, testifying with what a slow and laborious hand they must

  have been engraven, might seem to reproach the author who had

  given way upon this occasion to transports of mind, or to quick

  turns of conflicting passion; though the same might constitute the

  life and beauty of a funeral oration or elegiac poem.

  These sensations and judgments, acted upon perhaps

  unconsciously, have been one of the main causes why epitaphs so

  often personate the deceased, and represent him as speaking from

  his own tomb-stone. The departed Mortal is introduced telling you

  himself that his pains are gone; that a state of rest is come; and

  he conjures you to weep for him no longer. He admonishes with the

  voice of one experienced in the vanity of those affections which

  are confined to earthly objects, and gives a verdict like a

  superior Being, performing the office of a judge, who has no

  temptations to mislead him, and whose decision cannot but be

  dispassionate. Thus is death disarmed of its sting, and affliction

  unsubstantialised. By this tender fiction, the survivors bind

  themselves to a sedater sorrow, and employ the intervention of the

  imagination in order that the reason may speak her own language

  earlier than she would otherwise have been enabled to do. This

  shadowy interposition also harmoniously unites the two worlds of

  the living and the dead by their appropriate affections. And it

  may be observed that here we have an additional proof of the

  propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions were referred to the

  consciousness of immortality as their primal source.

  I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an epitaph should

  be cast in this mould preferably to the still more common one, in

  which what is said comes from the survivors directly; but rather

  to point out how natural those feelings are which have induced

  men, in all states and ranks of society, so frequently to adopt

  this mode. And this I have done chiefly in order that the laws

  which ought to govern the composition of the other may be better

  understood. This latter mode, namely, that in which the survivors

  speak in their own persons, seems to me upon the whole greatly

  preferable, as it admits a wider range of notices; and, above all,

  because, excluding the fiction which is the groundwork of the

  other, it rests upon a more solid basis.

  Enough has been said to convey our notion of a perfect epitaph;

  but it must be borne in mind that one is meant which will best

  answer the ‘genera
l’ ends of that species of composition.

  According to the course pointed out, the worth of private life,

  through all varieties of situation and character, will be most

  honourably and profitably preserved in memory. Nor would the model

  recommended less suit public men in all instances, save of those

  persons who by the greatness of their services in the employments

  of peace or war, or by the surpassing excellence of their works in

  art, literature, or science, have made themselves not only

  universally known, but have filled the heart of their country with

  everlasting gratitude. Yet I must here pause to correct myself. In

  describing the general tenor of thought which epitaphs ought to

  hold, I have omitted to say, that if it be the ‘actions’ of a man,

  or even some ‘one’ conspicuous or beneficial act of local or

  general utility, which have distinguished him, and excited a

  desire that he should be remembered, then, of course, ought the

  attention to be directed chiefly to those actions or that act: and

  such sentiments dwelt upon as naturally arise out of them or it.

  Having made this necessary distinction, I proceed.—The mighty

  benefactors of mankind, as they are not only known by the

  immediate survivors, but will continue to be known familiarly to

  latest posterity, do not stand in need of biographic sketches in

  such a place; nor of delineations of character to individualise

  them. This is already done by their Works, in the memories of men.

  Their naked names, and a grand comprehensive sentiment of civic

  gratitude, patriotic love, or human admiration—or the utterance

  of some elementary principle most essential in the constitution of

  true virtue—or a declaration touching that pious humility and

  self-abasement, which are ever most profound as minds are most

  susceptible of genuine exaltation—or an intuition, communicated

  in adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power;—these

  are the only tribute which can here be paid—the only offering

  that upon such an altar would not be unworthy.

  “What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones

  The labour of an age in piled stones,

  Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid

  Under a star-ypointing pyramid?

  Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame,

  What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

  Thou in our wonder and astonishment

  Hast built thyself a livelong monument,

  And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

  That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.”

  BOOK SIXTH

  THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

  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.

  —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,

  They may endure long as the sea surrounds

  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;’

  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

  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

  Spare them, they shall continue to bestow

  Upon the thronged abodes of busy men

  (Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind

  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

  Superior, insusceptible of pride,

  And by ambitious 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,

  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! 60

  To meet such trial) from their spiritual sires

  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;

  And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire,

  So to declare the conscience satisfied:

  Nor for their bodies would accept release;

  But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed

  With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, 70

  The faith which they by diligence had earned,

  Or, through illuminating grace, received,

  For their dear countrymen, and all mankind.

  O high example, constancy divine!

  Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal

  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,—

  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, 90

  The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground;

  Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe

  But w
ith a mild and social cheerfulness;

  Then to the Solitary turned, and spake.

  “At morn or eve, in your retired domain,

  Perchance you not unfrequently have marked

  A Visitor—in quest of herbs and flowers;

  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,

  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,

  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.”

  “Died he then

  Of pain and grief?” the Solitary asked,

  “Do not believe it; never could that be!”

  “He loved,” the Vicar answered, “deeply loved,

  Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and dared

  At length to tell his love, but sued in vain; 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

  Humiliation, when no longer free.

  ‘That’ he could brook, 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

  Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone!

  Had vanished 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!’