Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  In tattered garb, from hovels where abides

  Necessity, the stationary host

  Of vagrant poverty; from rifted barns

  Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl

  And the owl’s prey; from these bare haunts, to which

  He had descended from the proud saloon,

  He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 330

  The wreck of gaiety! But soon revived

  In strength, in power refitted, he renewed

  His suit to Fortune; and she smiled again

  Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose,

  Thrice sank as willingly. For he—whose nerves

  Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice

  Softly accompanied the tuneful harp,

  By the nice finger of fair ladies touched

  In glittering halls—was able to derive

  No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 340

  Who happier for the moment—who more blithe

  Than this fallen Spirit? in those dreary holds

  His talents lending to exalt the freaks

  Of merry-making beggars,—nor provoked

  To laughter multiplied in louder peals

  By his malicious wit; then, all enchained

  With mute astonishment, themselves to see

  In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed,

  As by the very presence of the Fiend

  Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 350

  For knavish purposes! The city, too,

  (With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers

  Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect

  As there to linger, there to eat his bread,

  Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment;

  Charming the air with skill of hand or voice,

  Listen who would, be wrought upon who might,

  Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay.

  —Such the too frequent tenor of his boast

  In ears that relished the report;—but all 360

  Was from his Parents happily concealed;

  Who saw enough for blame and pitying love.

  They also were permitted to receive

  His last, repentant breath; and closed his eyes,

  No more to open on that irksome world

  Where he had long existed in the state

  Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatched,

  Though from another sprung, different in kind:

  Where he had lived, and could not cease to live,

  Distracted in propensity; content 370

  With neither element of good or ill;

  And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest;

  Of contradictions infinite the slave,

  Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him

  One with himself, and one with them that sleep.”

  “‘Tis strange,” observed the Solitary, “strange

  It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful,

  That in a land where charity provides

  For all that can no longer feed themselves,

  A man like this should choose to bring his shame 380

  To the parental door; and with his sighs

  Infect the air which he had freely breathed

  In happy infancy. He could not pine,

  Through lack of converse; no—he must have found

  Abundant exercise for thought and speech,

  In his dividual being, self-reviewed,

  Self-catechised, self-punished.—Some there are

  Who, drawing near their final home, and much

  And daily longing that the same were reached,

  Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 390

  Of kindred mould.—Such haply here are laid?”

  “Yes,” said the Priest, “the Genius of our hills—

  Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast

  Round his domain, desirous not alone

  To keep his own, but also to exclude

  All other progeny—doth sometimes lure,

  Even by his studied depth of privacy,

  The unhappy alien hoping to obtain

  Concealment, or seduced by wish to find,

  In place from outward molestation free, 400

  Helps to internal ease. Of many such

  Could I discourse; but as their stay was brief,

  So their departure only left behind

  Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace

  Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair

  Who, from the pressure of their several fates,

  Meeting as strangers, in a petty town

  Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach

  Of this far-winding vale, remained as friends

  True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust 410

  To this loved cemetery, here to lodge

  With unescutcheoned privacy interred

  Far from the family vault.—A Chieftain one

  By right of birth; within whose spotless breast

  The fire of ancient Caledonia burned:

  He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed

  The Stuart, landing to resume, by force

  Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost,

  Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their head,

  With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent 420

  Culloden’s fatal overthrow. Escaped

  From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores

  He fled; and when the lenient hand of time

  Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained,

  For his obscured condition, an obscure

  Retreat, within this nook of English ground.

  The other, born in Britain’s southern tract,

  Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed

  His gentler sentiments of love and hate,

  There, where ‘they’ placed them who in conscience prized 430

  The new succession, as a line of kings

  Whose oath had virtue to protect the land

  Against the dire assaults of papacy

  And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark

  On the distempered flood of public life,

  And cause for most rare triumph will be thine

  If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand,

  The stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon

  Or late, a perilous master. He—who oft,

  Beneath the battlements and stately trees 440

  That round his mansion cast a sober gloom,

  Had moralised on this, and other truths

  Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied—

  Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh

  Heaved from the heart in fortune’s bitterness,

  When he had crushed a plentiful estate

  By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat

  In Britain’s senate. Fruitless was the attempt;

  And while the uproar of that desperate strife

  Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 450

  The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed name,

  (For the mere sound and echo of his own

  Haunted him with sensations of disgust

  That he was glad to lose) slunk from the world

  To the deep shade of those untravelled Wilds;

  In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed

  An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met,

  Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite

  And sullen Hanoverian! You might think

  That losses and vexations, less severe 460

  Than those which they had severally sustained,

  Would have inclined each to abate his zeal

  For his ungrateful cause; no,—I have heard

  My reverend Father tell that, ‘mid the calm

  Of that small town encountering thus, they filled,

  Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife;

  Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church;


  And vexed the market-place. But in the breasts

  Of these opponents gradually was wrought,

  With little change of general sentiment, 470

  Such leaning towards each other, that their days

  By choice were spent in constant fellowship;

  And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke,

  Those very bickerings made them love it more.

  A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks

  This Churchyard was. And, whether they had come

  Treading their path in sympathy and linked

  In social converse, or by some short space

  Discreetly parted to preserve the peace,

  One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 480

  Over both minds, when they awhile had marked

  The visible quiet of this holy ground,

  And breathed its soothing air:—the spirit of hope

  And saintly magnanimity; that—spurning

  The field of selfish difference and dispute,

  And every care which transitory things,

  Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, create—

  Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness,

  Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred,

  Which else the Christian virtue might have claimed. 490

  There live who yet remember here to have seen

  Their courtly figures, seated on the stump

  Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place.

  But as the remnant of the long-lived tree

  Was disappearing by a swift decay,

  They, with joint care, determined to erect,

  Upon its site, a dial, that might stand

  For public use preserved, and thus survive

  As their own private monument: for this

  Was the particular spot, in which they wished 500

  (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire)

  That, undivided, their remains should lie.

  So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was raised

  Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps

  That to the decorated pillar lead,

  A work of art more sumptuous than might seem

  To suit this place; yet built in no proud scorn

  Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed

  To ensure for it respectful guardianship.

  Around the margin of the plate, whereon 510

  The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours,

  Winds an inscriptive legend.”—At these words

  Thither we turned; and gathered, as we read,

  The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched:

  ‘Time flies; it is his melancholy task,

  To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes,

  And re-produce the troubles he destroys.

  But, while his blindness thus is occupied,

  Discerning Mortal! do thou serve the will

  Of Time’s eternal Master, and that peace, 520

  Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed!’

  “Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse,”

  Exclaimed the Sceptic, “and the strain of thought

  Accords with nature’s language;—the soft voice

  Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks

  Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect.

  If, then, their blended influence be not lost

  Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant,

  Even upon mine, the more are we required

  To feel for those among our fellow-men, 530

  Who, offering no obeisance to the world,

  Are yet made desperate by ‘too quick a sense

  Of constant infelicity,’ cut off

  From peace like exiles on some barren rock,

  Their life’s appointed prison; not more free

  Than sentinels, between two armies, set,

  With nothing better, in the chill night air,

  Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say why

  That ancient story of Prometheus chained

  To the bare rock on frozen Caucasus; 540

  The vulture, the inexhaustible repast

  Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes

  By Tantalus entailed upon his race,

  And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes?

  Fictions in form, but in their substance truths,

  Tremendous truths! familiar to the men

  Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours.

  Exchange the shepherd’s frock of native grey

  For robes with regal purple tinged; convert

  The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp 550

  Of circumstance; and here the tragic Muse

  Shall find apt subjects for her highest art.

  Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills,

  The generations are prepared; the pangs,

  The internal pangs, are ready; the dread strife

  Of poor humanity’s afflicted will

  Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.”

  “Though,” said the Priest in answer, “these be terms

  Which a divine philosophy rejects,

  We, whose established and unfailing trust 560

  Is in controlling Providence, admit

  That, through all stations, human life abounds

  With mysteries;—for, if Faith were left untried,

  How could the might, that lurks within her, then

  Be shown? her glorious excellence—that ranks

  Among the first of Powers and Virtues—proved?

  Our system is not fashioned to preclude

  That sympathy which you for others ask;

  And I could tell, not travelling for my theme

  Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 570

  And strange disasters; but I pass them by,

  Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace.

  —Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat

  Of Man degraded in his Maker’s sight

  By the deformities of brutish vice:

  For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face

  And a coarse outside of repulsive life

  And unaffecting manners might at once

  Be recognised by all”—”Ah! do not think,”

  The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 580

  “Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain,

  (Gain shall I call it?—gain of what?—for whom?)

  Should breathe a word tending to violate

  Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for

  In slight of that forbearance and reserve

  Which common human-heartedness inspires,

  And mortal ignorance and frailty claim,

  Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else.”

  “True,” said the Solitary, “be it far

  From us to infringe the laws of charity. 590

  Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced;

  This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this

  Wisdom enjoins; but if the thing we seek

  Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind

  How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling

  Colours as bright on exhalations bred

  By weedy pool or pestilential swamp,

  As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs,

  Or the pellucid lake.”

  “Small risk,” said I,

  “Of such illusion do we here incur; 600

  Temptation here is none to exceed the truth;

  No evidence appears that they who rest

  Within this ground, were covetous of praise,

  Or of remembrance even, deserved or not.

  Green is the Churchyard, beautiful and green,

  Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge,

  A heaving surface, almost wholly free

  From interruption of sepulchral stones,

  And mantled o’er with aboriginal turf

  And
everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust 610

  The lingering gleam of their departed lives

  To oral record, and the silent heart;

  Depositories faithful and more kind

  Than fondest epitaph: for, if those fail,

  What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can blame,

  Who rather would not envy, men that feel

  This mutual confidence; if, from such source,

  The practice flow,—if thence, or from a deep

  And general humility in death?

  Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 620

  From disregard of time’s destructive power,

  As only capable to prey on things

  Of earth, and human nature’s mortal part.

  Yet—in less simple districts, where we see

  Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone

  In courting notice; and the ground all paved

  With commendations of departed worth;

  Reading, where’er we turn, of innocent lives,

  Of each domestic charity fulfilled,

  And sufferings meekly borne—I, for my part, 630

  Though with the silence pleased that here prevails,

  Among those fair recitals also range,

  Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe.

  And, in the centre of a world whose soil

  Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round

  With such memorials, I have sometimes felt,

  It was no momentary happiness

  To have ‘one’ Enclosure where the voice that speaks

  In envy or detraction is not heard;

  Which malice may not enter; where the traces 640

  Of evil inclinations are unknown;

  Where love and pity tenderly unite

  With resignation; and no jarring tone

  Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb

  Of amity and gratitude.”

  “Thus sanctioned,”

  The Pastor said, “I willingly confine

  My narratives to subjects that excite

  Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem,

  And admiration; lifting up a veil,

  A sunbeam introducing among hearts 650

  Retired and covert; so that ye shall have

  Clear images before your gladdened eyes

  Of nature’s unambitious underwood,

  And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when

  I speak of such among my flock as swerved

  Or fell, those only shall be singled out

  Upon whose lapse, or error, something more

  Than brotherly forgiveness may attend;

  To such will we restrict our notice, else

  Better my tongue were mute.

  And yet there are, 660

  I feel, good reasons why we should not leave

  Wholly untraced a more forbidding way.

  For, strength to persevere and to support,