Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  ‘Here will I dwell,’ said I, ‘my whole life long,

  Roaming the illimitable waters round;

  Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned,

  And end my days upon the peaceful flood.’—

  To break my dream the vessel reached its bound;

  And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,

  And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

  XLII

  “No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift,

  Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock;

  Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,

  Nor raised my hand at any door to knock.

  I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock

  From the cross-timber of an out-house hung:

  Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock!

  At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,

  Nor to the beggar’s language could I fit my tongue.

  XLIII

  “So passed a second day; and, when the third

  Was come, I tried in vain the crowd’s resort.

  —In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred,

  Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort;

  There, pains which nature could no more support,

  With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;

  And, after many interruptions short

  Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl:

  Unsought for was the help that did my life recall.

  XLIV

  “Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain

  Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory;

  I heard my neighbours in their beds complain

  Of many things which never troubled me—

  Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,

  Of looks where common kindness had no part,

  Of service done with cold formality,

  Fretting the fever round the languid heart,

  And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start.

  XLV

  “These things just served to stir the slumbering sense,

  Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.

  With strength did memory return; and, thence

  Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,

  At houses, men, and common light, amazed.

  The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired,

  Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed,

  The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired,

  And gave me food—and rest, more welcome, more desired.

  XLVI

  “Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly

  With panniered asses driven from door to door;

  But life of happier sort set forth to me,

  And other joys my fancy to allure—

  The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor

  In barn uplighted; and companions boon,

  Well met from far with revelry secure

  Among the forest glades, while jocund June

  Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

  XLVII

  “But ill they suited me—those journeys dark

  O’er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch!

  To charm the surly house-dog’s faithful bark,

  Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch.

  The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,

  The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,

  And ear still busy on its nightly watch,

  Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill:

  Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.

  XLVIII

  “What could I do, unaided and unblest?

  My father! gone was every friend of thine:

  And kindred of dead husband are at best

  Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,

  With little kindness would to me incline.

  Nor was I then for toil or service fit;

  My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine;

  In open air forgetful would I sit

  Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

  XLIX

  “The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields;

  Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused.

  Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields,

  Now coldly given, now utterly refused.

  The ground I for my bed have often used:

  But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth,

  Is that I have my inner self abused,

  Foregone the home delight of constant truth,

  And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

  L

  “Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed,

  Through tears have seen him towards that world descend

  Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:

  Three years a wanderer now my course I bend—

  Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friend

  Have I.”—She ceased, and weeping turned away;

  As if because her tale was at an end,

  She wept; because she had no more to say

  Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

  LI

  True sympathy the Sailor’s looks expressed,

  His looks—for pondering he was mute the while.

  Of social Order’s care for wretchedness,

  Of Time’s sure help to calm and reconcile,

  Joy’s second spring and Hope’s long-treasured smile,

  ‘Twas not for ‘him’ to speak—a man so tried,

  Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style

  Proverbial words of comfort he applied,

  And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.

  LII

  Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight,

  Together smoking in the sun’s slant beam,

  Rise various wreaths that into one unite

  Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam:

  Fair spectacle,—but instantly a scream

  Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent;

  They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme,

  And female cries. Their course they thither bent,

  And met a man who foamed with anger vehement,

  LIII

  A woman stood with quivering lips and pale,

  And, pointing to a little child that lay

  Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale;

  How in a simple freak of thoughtless play

  He had provoked his father, who straightway,

  As if each blow were deadlier than the last,

  Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay

  The Soldier’s Widow heard and stood aghast;

  And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.

  LIV

  His voice with indignation rising high

  Such further deed in manhood’s name forbade;

  The peasant, wild in passion, made reply

  With bitter insult and revilings sad;

  Asked him in scorn what business there he had;

  What kind of plunder he was hunting now;

  The gallows would one day of him be glad;—

  Though inward anguish damped the Sailor’s brow,

  Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.

  LV

  Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched

  With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round

  His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched

  As if he saw—there and upon that ground—

  Strange repetition of the deadly wound

  He had himself inflicted. Through his brain

  At once the griding iron passage found;

  Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,

  Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain.

  LVI

  Within himself he said—What hearts have
we!

  The blessing this a father gives his child!

  Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,

  Suffering not doing ill—fate far more mild.

  The stranger’s looks and tears of wrath beguiled

  The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;

  He kissed his son—so all was reconciled.

  Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke

  Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.

  LVII

  “Bad is the world, and hard is the world’s law

  Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece;

  Much need have ye that time more closely draw

  The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,

  And that among so few there still be peace:

  Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes

  Your pains shall ever with your years increase?”—

  While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,

  A correspondent calm stole gently o’er his woes.

  LVIII

  Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look

  Into a narrow valley’s pleasant scene

  Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook,

  That babbled on through groves and meadows green;

  A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between;

  The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays,

  And melancholy lowings intervene

  Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,

  Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun’s rays.

  LIX

  They saw and heard, and, winding with the road,

  Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;

  Comfort, by prouder mansions unbestowed,

  Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale.

  Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale:

  It was a rustic inn;—the board was spread,

  The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail,

  And lustily the master carved the bread,

  Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.

  LX

  Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;

  Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.

  She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart

  Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease,

  She left him there; for, clustering round his knees,

  With his oak-staff the cottage children played;

  And soon she reached a spot o’erhung with trees

  And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade

  Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed.

  LXI

  A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;

  Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.

  She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood

  As the wain fronted her,—wherein lay one,

  A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone.

  The carman wet her lips as well behoved;

  Bed under her lean body there was none,

  Though even to die near one she most had loved

  She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.

  LXII

  The Soldier’s Widow learned with honest pain

  And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,

  Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain

  The jolting road and morning air severe.

  The wain pursued its way; and following near

  In pure compassion she her steps retraced

  Far as the cottage. “A sad sight is here,”

  She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste

  The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.

  LXIII

  While to the door with eager speed they ran,

  From her bare straw the Woman half upraised

  Her bony visage—gaunt and deadly wan;

  No pity asking, on the group she gazed

  With a dim eye, distracted and amazed;

  Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan.

  Fervently cried the housewife—”God be praised,

  I have a house that I can call my own;

  Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!”

  LXIV

  So in they bear her to the chimney seat,

  And busily, though yet with fear, untie

  Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet

  And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.

  Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh

  She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear;

  Then said—”I thank you all; if I must die,

  The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear;

  Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

  LXV

  “Barred every comfort labour could procure,

  Suffering what no endurance could assuage,

  I was compelled to seek my father’s door,

  Though loth to be a burthen on his age.

  But sickness stopped me in an early stage

  Of my sad journey; and within the wain

  They placed me—there to end life’s pilgrimage,

  Unless beneath your roof I may remain;

  For I shall never see my father’s door again.

  LXVI

  “My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;

  But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek

  May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb:

  Should child of mine e’er wander hither, speak

  Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.—

  Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea

  Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek,

  My husband served in sad captivity

  On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.

  LXVII

  “A sailor’s wife I knew a widow’s cares,

  Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed;

  Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers

  Our heavenly Father granted each day’s bread;

  Till one was found by stroke of violence dead,

  Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie;

  A dire suspicion drove us from our shed;

  In vain to find a friendly face we try,

  Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

  LXVIII

  “For evil tongues made oath how on that day

  My husband lurked about the neighbourhood;

  Now he had fled, and whither none could say,

  And ‘he’ had done the deed in the dark wood—

  Near his own home!—but he was mild and good;

  Never on earth was gentler creature seen;

  He’d not have robbed the raven of its food.

  My husband’s lovingkindness stood between

  Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen.”

  LXIX

  Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath

  The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness

  His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death,

  He saw his Wife’s lips move his name to bless

  With her last words, unable to suppress

  His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;

  And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,

  He cried—”Do pity me! That thou shouldst live

  I neither ask nor wish—forgive me, but forgive!”

  LXX

  To tell the change that Voice within her wrought

  Nature by sign or sound made no essay;

  A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,

  And every mortal pang dissolved away.

  Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;

  Yet still while over her the husband bent,

  A look was in her face which seemed to say,

  “Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent

  Peace to my parting so
ul, the fulness of content.”

  LXXI

  ‘She’ slept in peace,—his pulses throbbed and stopped,

  Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then took

  Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped,

  When on his own he cast a rueful look.

  His ears were never silent; sleep forsook

  His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;

  All night from time to time under him shook

  The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;

  And oft he groaned aloud, “O God, that I were dead!”

  LXXII

  The Soldier’s Widow lingered in the cot,

  And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care

  Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,

  Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer

  He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.

  The corse interred, not one hour heremained

  Beneath their roof, but to the open air

  A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,

  He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

  LXXIII

  Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared

  For act and suffering, to the city straight

  He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared:

  “And from your doom,” he added, “now I wait,

  Nor let it linger long, the murderer’s fate.”

  Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:

  “O welcome sentence which will end though late,”

  He said, “the pangs that to my conscience came

  Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!”

  LXXIV

  His fate was pitied. Him in iron case

  (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)

  They hung not:—no one on ‘his’ form or face

  Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;

  No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought

  By lawless curiosity or chance,

  When into storm the evening sky is wrought,

  Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance,

  And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

  1793-94.

  LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

  NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands

  Far from all human dwelling: what if here

  No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?

  What if the bee love not these barren boughs?

  Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,

  That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind

  By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

  —————Who he was

  That piled these stones and with the mossy sod

  First covered, and here taught this aged Tree 10

  With its dark arms to form a circling bower,