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Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

Page 230

by William Wordsworth


  With pain the regions of eternity.

  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 glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn,

  That promised everlasting joy to France!

  Her voice of social transport reached even him!

  He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired

  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,

  And new and shapeless wishes, would allow.

  That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) bound,

  For one hostility, in friendly league,

  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

  In the transcendent wisdom of the age,

  And her 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.

  How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell

  That he broke faith with them 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,

  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, 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;

  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 retained,

  ‘Mid much abasement, what he had received

  From nature, an intense and glowing mind.

  Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak,

  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,

  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 love and fear of Him 290

  Before whose sight the troubles of this world

  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

  From his own sight—this gone, he forfeited

  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

  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

  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.’“

  These serious words

  Closed the preparatory notices

  That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile

  The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.

  Diverging now (as if his quest had been

  Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 320

  Of water, or some lofty eminence,

  Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide)

  We scaled, without a track to ease our steps,

  A steep ascent; and reached a dreary plain,

  With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops

  Before us; savage region! which I paced

  Dispirited: when, all at once, behold!

  Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,

  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;

  With rocks encompassed, save that to the south

  Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge

  Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close;

  A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,

  A liquid pool that glittered in the sun,

  And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more!

  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

  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!

&nb
sp; 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,

  And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself

  With the few needful things that life requires.

  —In rugged arms how softly does it lie,

  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

  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,

  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

  The cadence, as of psalms—a funeral dirge!

  We listened, looking down upon the hut,

  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!’

  Said the old man, abruptly breaking silence,—

  “He is departed, and finds peace at last!”

  This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains

  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; 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,

  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 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; and, as the last

  Of the mute train, behind the heathy top

  Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared,

  I, more impatient in my downward course,

  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

  Into a platform—that lay, sheepfold-wise,

  Enclosed between an upright mass of rock

  And one old moss-grown wall;—a cool recess,

  And fanciful! For where the rock and wall

  Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed

  By thrusting two rude staves into the wall

  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!

  Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show

  Of baby-houses, curiously arranged;

  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,

  Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, 430

  Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,

  “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,

  Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise

  One of those petty structures. “His it must be!”

  Exclaimed the Wanderer, “cannot but be his,

  And he is gone!” 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!”

  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, 450

  Or sate companionless; and here the book,

  Left and forgotten in his careless way,

  Must by the cottage-children have been found:

  Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work!

  To what odd purpose have the darlings turned

  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,

  With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!—

  Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,

  As from these intimations I forebode,

  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

  An eye of scorn:—”The lover,” said he, “doomed 470

  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

  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,

  Impure conceits discharging from a heart

  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

&nb
sp; I followed, till he made a sudden stand:

  For full in view, approaching through a gate

  That opened from the enclosure of green fields

  Into the rough uncultivated ground,

  Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead!

  I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress,

  That it could be no other; a pale face,

  A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 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; gift by which he strove,

  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

  That flashed and sparkled from the other’s eyes;

  He was all fire: no shadow on his brow

  Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.

  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—

  An amicable smile retained the life

  Which it had unexpectedly received,

  Upon his hollow cheek. “How kind,” he said,

  “Nor could your coming have been better timed;

  For this, you see, is in our narrow 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

  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 today, 540

  Perhaps is shedding orphan’s tears; you also

  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

 

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