Volume 5 — PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814 (continued 3)

"Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, And its small lot of life-supporting fields, And guardian rocks!—Farewell, attractive seat![421] To the still influx of the morning light 5 Open, and[422] day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled From human observation,[FZ] as if yet Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark Impenetrable shade; once more farewell, Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss, 10 By Nature destined from the birth of things For quietness profound!" Upon the side Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale[GA] Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt, Lingering[423] behind my comrades, thus I breathed 15 A parting tribute to a spot that seemed Like the fixed centre of a troubled world. Again I halted with reverted eyes; The chain that would not slacken, was at length Snapt,—and, pursuing leisurely my way, 20 How vain, thought I, is it by change of place[424] To seek that comfort which the mind denies; Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned Wisely; and by such tenure[425] do we hold Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate 25 Yields no peculiar reason of complaint Might, by the promise that is here, be won To steal from active duties, and embrace Obscurity, and undisturbed repose.[426] —Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times, 30 Should be allowed a privilege to have Her anchorites, like piety of old;[GB] Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained By war, might, if so minded, turn aside Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 35 Living to God and nature, and content With that communion. Consecrated be The spots where such abide! But happier still The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends That meditation and research may guide 40 His privacy to principles and powers Discovered or invented; or set forth, Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth, In lucid order; so that, when his course Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 45 He sought not praise, and praise did overlook His unobtrusive merit; but his life, Sweet to himself, was exercised in good That shall survive his name and memory. Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 50 Accompanied these musings; fervent thanks For my own peaceful lot and happy choice; A choice that from the passions of the world Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat; Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 55 Secluded, but not buried; and with song Cheering my days, and with industrious thought; With the ever-welcome[427] company of books; With[428] virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, And with the blessings of domestic love. 60 Thus occupied in mind I paced along, Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel Worn in the moorland,[GC] till I overtook My two Associates, in the morning sunshine Halting together on a rocky knoll, 65 Whence the bare road[429] descended rapidly To the green meadows of another vale.[GD] Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand In sign of farewell. "Nay," the old Man said, "The fragrant air its coolness still retains; 70 The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop The dewy grass; you cannot leave us now, We must not part at this inviting hour." He yielded,[430] though reluctant; for his mind Instinctively disposed him to retire 75 To his own covert; as a billow, heaved Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. —So we descend: and winding round a rock Attain a point that showed the valley—stretched In length before us;[GE] and, not distant far, 80 Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower,(GE) Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed A copious stream with boldly-winding course; 85 Here traceable, there hidden—there again To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. On the stream's bank, and every where, appeared Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots; Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 90 On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, Now in its morning purity arrayed. "As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps," Said I, "once happy, ere tyrannic power, Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 95 Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth, A popular equality reigns here, Save for yon stately House[GF] beneath whose roof A rural lord might dwell."—"No feudal pomp, Or power," replied the Wanderer, "to that House 100 Belongs, but there in his allotted Home Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest,[431] The shepherd of his flock; or, as a king Is styled, when most affectionately praised, The father of his people. Such is he; 105 And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed[432] To me some portion of a[433] kind regard; And something also of his inner mind Hath he imparted—but I speak of him As he is known to all. 110 The calm delights Of unambitious piety he chose, And learning's solid dignity; though born Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. Hither,[434] in prime of manhood, he withdrew 115 From academic bowers. He loved the spot— Who does not love his native soil?—he prized The ancient rural character, composed Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest And undisguised, and strong and serious thought; 120 A character reflected in himself, With such embellishment as well beseems His rank and sacred function. This deep vale Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, And one a turreted manorial hall 125 Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors Have dwelt through ages—Patrons of this Cure. To them, and to his own judicious pains,[435] The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain, Owes that presiding aspect which might well 130 Attract your notice; statelier than could else Have been bestowed, through[436] course of common chance, On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." This said, oft pausing,[437] we pursued our way; Nor reached the village-churchyard[GG] till the sun 135 Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen Above the summits of the highest hills, And round our path darted oppressive beams. As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile Stood open; and we entered. On my frame, 140 At such transition from the fervid air, A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike The heart, in concert with that temperate awe And natural reverence which the place inspired.[GH] Not raised in[438] nice proportions was the pile; 145 But large and massy; for duration built; With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld By naked rafters intricately crossed, Like leafless underboughs, in some thick wood,[439] All withered by the depth of shade above. 150 Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed; Each also crowned with winged heads—a pair Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 155 Was occupied by oaken benches ranged In seemly rows; the chancel only showed Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state By immemorial privilege allowed; Though with the Encincture's special sanctity 160 But ill according. An heraldic shield, Varying its tincture with the changeful light, Imbued the altar-window; fixed aloft A faded hatchment hung, and one by time Yet undiscoloured.[440] A capacious pew 165 Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined; And marble monuments were here displayed Thronging the walls;[441] and on the floor beneath Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small 170 And shining effigies of brass inlaid.[GI] The tribute by these various records claimed, Duly we paid, each after each, and read[442] The ordinary chronicle of birth, Office, alliance, and promotion—all 175 Ending in dust; of upright magistrates, Grave doctors strenuous for the mother-church, And uncorrupted senators, alike To king and people true. A brazen plate, Not easily deciphered, told of one 180 Whose course of earthly honour was begun In quality of page among the train 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. 185 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, 190 I read,—how in his manhood's earlier day He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine war, And rightful government subverted, found One only solace—that he had espoused A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 195 For her benign perfections; and yet more Endeared to him, for this,[443] 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 200 That laid their country waste. No need to speak 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. 205 "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, 210 I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale Standing apart; with curvèd arm reclined On the baptismal font; his pallid face Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost In some abstraction; gracefully he stood, 215 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,[GJ] 220 Continuation haply of the notes 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 225 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 230 And pleasant awning.[GK] On the moss-grown wall My ancient Friend and I together took Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake, Standing before us:— "Did you note the mien 234 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.[GL] And did you hear his voice?[444] I was abruptly summoned by the sound[445] 240 From some affecting images and thoughts, Which then were silent; but crave utterance now. "Much," he continued, with dejected look, "Much, yesterday,[446] was said in glowing phrase Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 245 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, 250 And man's substantial life. If this mute earth 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, 255 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, 260 Or of the end stops short, proposed to all At her[447] 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 265 With tiny finger[448]—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 270 Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 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; 275 When they, who for this Minor hold in trust Rights that transcend the loftiest[449] heritage Of mere humanity, present their Charge, For this occasion daintily adorned, At the baptismal font. And when the pure 280 And consecrating element hath cleansed 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 285 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 290 For due provision to control and guide, 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 295 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[450] that eminence On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 300 He stood; or if not so, whose top serene 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 305 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; 310 The outward ritual and established forms 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 315 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,[GM] As the lost Angel by a human voice 320 Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 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; 325 That tempts, emboldens—for a time sustains,[451] 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, 330 By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed! "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 335 Of safest guidance or[452] 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, 340 And through that conflict seeking rest—of you, 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 345 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, 350 Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 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, 355 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 360 Whom the best might of faith, wherever fix'd,[453] 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?" 365 "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 370 Is all too true; and surely not misplaced: 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, 375 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 380 Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 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! 385 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!" 390 "Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 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, 395 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? 400 And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit, 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 405 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, 410 Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway.[454] "How gay the habitations that bedeck[455] This fertile valley! Not a house but seems To give assurance of content within;[GN] Embosomed happiness, and placid love; 415 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 420 Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 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 425 From foul temptations, and by constant care Of a good shepherd tended as themselves Do tend their flocks) partake man's general lot[456] With little mitigation. They escape, Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; feel not[457] 430 The tedium of fantastic idleness: 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, 435 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." 440 While in this serious mood we held discourse, The reverend Pastor toward[458] the church-yard gate Approached; and, with a mild respectful air Of native cordiality, our Friend Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 445 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, 450 Or the least penetrable hiding-place In his own valley's rocky guardianship.[459] —For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased: Nature had framed them both, and both were marked By circumstance, with intermixture fine 455 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, 460 The other—like a stately sycamore,[GO] That spreads, in gentle[460] pomp, its honied shade. A general greeting was exchanged; and soon The Pastor learned that his approach had given A welcome interruption to discourse 465 Grave, and in truth too[461] 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 470 Preponderates, or evil? Doth the will 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, 475 (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! 479 —Our cogitations this way have been drawn, These are the points," the Wanderer said, "on which 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. 485 "Our nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, "Angels may 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. 490 The good and evil are our own; and we 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 495 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 500 Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 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. 505 —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; 510 Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair? Thus comprehension fails, and truth is missed; Thus darkness[462] and delusion round our path Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks Within the very faculty of sight. 515 "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[463] strictliest live And act in that obedience, he shall gain 520 The clearest apprehension of those truths, 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 525 The very multitude are free to range, We safely may affirm that human life Is either fair and[464] tempting, a soft scene Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, Or a forbidden[465] tract of cheerless view; 530 Even as the same is looked at, or approached. Thus, when in changeful April fields are white With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen north Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, filled 535 With mounds[466] transversely lying side by side From east to west, before you will appear An unillumined, blank, and dreary, plain,[467] With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back; 540 Look,[468] from the quarter whence the lord of light, Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense His beams; which, unexcluded in their fall, Upon the southern side of every grave Have gently exercised a melting power; 545 Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, Hopeful and cheerful:—vanished is the pall That overspread and chilled the sacred turf, Vanished or hidden;[469] and the whole domain, 550 To some, too lightly minded, might appear A meadow carpet for the dancing hours.[GP] —This contrast, not unsuitable to life, Is to that other state more apposite, Death and its two-fold aspect! wintry—one, 555 Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out; The other, which the ray divine hath touched, Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." "We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus With a complacent animation spake, 560 "And in your judgment, Sir! the mind's repose On evidence is not to be ensured By act of naked reason. Moral truth Is no mechanic structure, built by rule; And which, once built, retains a stedfast shape 565 And undisturbed proportions; but a thing Subject, you deem, to vital accidents; And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 570 I re-salute these sentiments confirmed By your authority. But how acquire The inward principle that gives effect To outward argument; the passive will Meek to admit; the active energy, 575 Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm To keep and cherish? how shall man unite With[470] self-forgetting tenderness of heart An[471] earth-despising dignity of soul? Wise in that union, and without it blind!" 580 "The way," said I, "to court, if not obtain The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright; This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you Declared at large; and by what exercise From visible nature, or the inner self 585 Power may be trained, and renovation brought To those who need the gift. But, after all, Is aught so certain as that man is doomed To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance? The natural roof of that dark house in which 590 His soul is pent! How little can be known— This is the wise man's sigh; how far we err— This is the good man's not unfrequent pang! And they perhaps err least, the lowly class Whom a benign necessity compels 595 To follow reason's least ambitious course; Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt, And unincited by a wish to look Into high objects farther than they may, Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, 600 The narrow avenue of daily toil For daily bread." "Yes," buoyantly exclaimed The pale Recluse—"praise to the sturdy plough, And patient spade; praise to the simple crook,[472] And ponderous loom—resounding while it holds 605 Body and mind in one captivity; And let the light mechanic tool be hailed With honour; which, encasing by the power Of long companionship, the artist's hand, Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 610 From a too busy commerce with the heart! —Inglorious implements of craft and toil, Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, By slow solicitation, earth to yield Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 615 With wise reluctance; you would I extol, Not for gross good alone which ye produce, But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife Of proofs and reasons ye preclude—in those Who to your dull society are born, 620 And with their humble birthright rest content. —Would I had ne'er renounced it!" A slight flush Of moral anger previously had tinged The old Man's cheek; but, at this closing turn Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 625 "That which we feel we utter; as we think So have we argued; reaping for our pains No visible recompense. For our relief You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, "Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 630 Your further help? The mine of real life Dig for us; and present us, in the shape Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains Fruitless as those of aëry alchemists, Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 635 Around us a domain where you have long Watched both the outward course and inner heart:[473] Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts; For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man He is who cultivates yon hanging field; 640 What qualities of mind she bears, who comes, For morn and evening service, with her pail, To that green pasture;[GQ] place before our sight The family who dwell within yon house Fenced round with glittering laurel;[GR] or in that 645 Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. Or rather, as we stand on holy earth, And have the dead around us,[GS] take from them Your instances; for they are both best known, And by frail man most equitably judged. 650 Epitomise the life; pronounce, you can, Authentic epitaphs on some of these Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet: So, by your records, may our doubts be solved; 655 And so, not searching higher, we may learn To prize the breath we share with human kind; And look upon the dust of man with awe."[474] The Priest replied—"An office you impose For which peculiar requisites are mine; 660 Yet much, I feel, is wanting—else the task Would be most grateful. True indeed it is That they whom death has hidden from our sight Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with these The future cannot contradict the past: 665 Mortality's last exercise and proof Is undergone; the transit made that shows The very Soul, revealed as she[475] departs. Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, Ere we descend into these silent vaults, One picture from the living. 670 "You behold, High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark With stony barrenness,[GT] a shining speck Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 674 Brush it away, or cloud pass over it; And such it might be deemed—a sleeping sunbeam; But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground, Cut off, an island in the dusky waste; And that attractive brightness is its own. The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 680 Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen, For opportunity presented, thence Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land And ocean, and look down upon the works, 685 The habitations, and the ways of men, Himself unseen! But no tradition tells That ever hermit dipped his maple dish In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields; And no such visionary views belong 690 To those who occupy and till the ground, High on that mountain where they long have dwelt[476] A wedded pair in childless solitude. A house of stones collected on the spot, By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 695 Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top; A rough abode—in colour, shape, and size,[477] Such as in unsafe times of border-war Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude 700 The eye of roving plunderer—for their need Suffices; and unshaken bears the assault Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west In anger blowing from the distant sea. —Alone within her solitary hut; 705 There, or within the compass of her fields, At any moment may the Dame be found, True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles By intermingled work of house and field 710 The summer's day, and winter's; with success Not equal, but sufficient to maintain, Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content, Until the expected hour at which her Mate From the far-distant quarry's vault returns; 715 And by his converse crowns a silent day With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind, In scale of culture, few among my flock[478] Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair: But true humility descends from heaven;[479] 720 And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on them; Abundant recompense for every want. —Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these! Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear The voice of wisdom whispering scripture texts 725 For the mind's government, or temper's peace; And recommending for their mutual need, Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity!" "Much was I pleased," the grey-haired Wanderer said, "When to those shining fields our notice first You turned; and yet more pleased have from your lips 731 Gathered this fair report of them[480] who dwell In that retirement; whither, by such course Of evil hap and good as oft awaits A tired way-faring man, once I was brought 735 While traversing alone yon mountain pass. Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell,[481] And night succeeded with unusual gloom,[482] So hazardous that feet and hands became[483] Guides better than mine eyes—until a light 740 High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, For human habitation; but I longed To reach it, destitute of other hope. I looked with steadiness as sailors look On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, 745 And saw the light—now fixed—and shifting now—[GU] Not like a dancing meteor, but in line Of never-varying motion, to and fro. It is no night-fire of the naked hills, Thought I[484]—some friendly covert must be near. 750 With this persuasion thitherward my steps I turn, and reach at last the guiding light; Joy to myself! but to the heart of her Who there was standing on the open hill, (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) 755 Alarm and disappointment! The alarm Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I came, And by what help had gained those distant fields. Drawn from her cottage, on that aëry[485] height, Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, 760 Or paced the ground—to guide her Husband home, By that unwearied signal, kenned afar;[GV] An anxious duty! which the lofty site, Traversed but by a few irregular paths,[486] Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 765 Detains him after his accustomed hour Till night lies black upon the ground. 'But come, Come,' said the Matron, 'to our poor abode; Those dark rocks hide it!'[487] Entering, I beheld A blazing fire—beside a cleanly hearth 770 Sate down; and to her office, with leave asked, The Dame returned. "Or ere[488] that glowing pile Of mountain turf required the builder's hand Its wasted splendour to repair, the door Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, 775 Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, Frank conversation, made the evening's treat: Need a bewildered traveller wish for more? But more was given; I studied as we sate By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face 780 Not less than beautiful;[489] an open brow Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek Suffused with something of a feminine hue;[GW] Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard; But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 785 Expression slowly varying, that evinced A tardy apprehension. From a fount Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, But honoured once, those[490] features and that mien May have descended, though I see them here. 790 In such a man, so gentle and subdued, Withal so graceful in his gentleness, A race illustrious for heroic deeds, Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 795 By sundry recollections of such fall From high to low, ascent from low to high, As books record, and even the careless mind Cannot but notice among men and things) Went with me to the place of my repose.[491] 800 "Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, I yet had risen too late to interchange A morning salutation with my Host, Gone forth already to the far-off seat Of his day's work. 'Three dark mid-winter months 805 'Pass,' said the Matron, 'and I never see, 'Save when the sabbath brings its kind release, 'My helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 'His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 'And, through Heaven's[492] blessing, thus we gain the bread 810 'For which we pray; and for the wants provide 'Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 'Companions have I many; many friends, 'Dependants, comforters—my wheel, my fire, 'All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, 815 'The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, 'And the wild birds that gather round my porch. 'This honest sheep-dog's countenance I read; 'With him can talk; nor blush to[493] waste a word 'On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 820 'And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds 'Care not for me, he lingers round my door, 'And makes me pastime when our tempers suit;— 'But, above all, my thoughts are my support, 'My comfort:—would that they were oftener fixed 825 'On what, for guidance in the way that leads 'To heaven, I know, by my Redeemer taught.' The Matron ended[494]—nor could I forbear To exclaim—'O happy! yielding to the law Of these privations, richer in the main!— 830 While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged By ease and leisure; by the very wealth And pride of opportunity made poor; While tens of thousands falter in their path, And sink, through utter want of cheering light; 835 For you the hours of labour do not flag; For you each evening hath its shining star, And every sabbath-day its golden sun.'" "Yes!" said the Solitary with a smile That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 840 "The untutored bird may found, and so construct, And with such soft materials line, her nest Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake, That the thorns wound her not; they only guard. Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 845 Of happy instinct which the woodland bird Shares with her species, nature's grace sometimes Upon the individual doth confer, Among her[495] higher creatures born and trained To use of reason. And, I own that, tired 850 Of the ostentatious world—a swelling stage With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, And from the private struggles of mankind Hoping far[496] less than I could wish to hope, Far less than once I trusted and believed— 855 I love to hear of those, who, not contending Nor summoned to contend for virtue's prize, Miss not the humbler good at which they aim, Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 860 Into their contraries the petty plagues And hindrances with which they stand beset. In early youth, among my native hills, I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed A few small crofts of stone-encumbered ground; 865 Masses of every shape and size, that lay Scattered about under[497] the mouldering walls Of a rough precipice; and some, apart, In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, As if the moon had showered them down in spite. 870 But he repined not. Though the plough was scared By these obstructions, 'round the shady stones A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 'Gathers, and is preserved; and feeding dews 'And damps, through all the droughty summer day 875 'From out their substance issuing, maintain 'Herbage that never fails: no grass springs up 'So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine!' But[498] thinly sown these natures; rare, at least, The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 880 That yields such kindly product. He, whose bed Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, If living now, could otherwise report 885 Of rustic loneliness: that grey-haired Orphan— So call him, for humanity to him No parent was—feelingly could[499] have told, In life, in death, what solitude can breed Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice; 890 Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. —But your compliance, Sir! with our request My words too long have hindered." Undeterred, Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, In no ungracious opposition, given 895 To the confiding spirit of his own Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said, Around him looking; "Where shall I begin? Who shall be first selected from my flock Gathered together in their peaceful fold?" 900 He paused—and having lifted up his eyes To the pure heaven, he cast them down again Upon the earth beneath his feet; and spake:— "To a mysteriously-united pair[500] This place is consecrate; to Death and Life, 905 And to the best affections that proceed From their conjunction; consecrate to faith In him who bled for man upon the cross; Hallowed to revelation; and no less[501] To reason's mandates; and the hopes divine 910 Of pure imagination;—above all, To charity, and love, that have provided, Within these precincts, a capacious bed And receptacle, open to the good And evil, to the just and the unjust; 915 In which they find an equal resting-place: Even as the multitude of kindred brooks And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, Whether their course be turbulent or smooth, Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 920 Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, And end their journey in the same repose! "And blest are they who sleep; and we that know, While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, That all beneath us by the wings are covered 925 Of motherly humanity, outspread And gathering all within their tender shade, Though loth and slow to come! A battle-field, In stillness left when slaughter is no more, With this compared, makes[502] a strange spectacle! 930 A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old Wandering about in miserable search Of friends or kindred,[503] whom the angry sea Restores not to their prayer! Ah! who would think 935 That all the scattered subjects which compose Earth's melancholy vision through the space Of all her climes—these wretched, these depraved, To virtue lost, insensible of peace, From the delights of charity cut off, 940 To pity dead, the oppressor and the opprest; Tyrants who utter the destroying word, And slaves who will consent to be destroyed— Were of one species with the sheltered few, Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 945 Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot,[504] This file of infants; some that never breathed The vital air; others, which, though allowed[505] That privilege, did yet expire too soon, Or with too brief a warning, to admit 950 Administration of the holy rite That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. These that in trembling hope are laid apart; And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired 955 Till he begins to smile upon the breast That feeds him; and the tottering little-one Taken from air and sunshine when the rose Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek; The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy; the bold youth 960 Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid Smitten while all the promises of life Are opening round her; those of middle age, Cast down while confident in strength they stand, Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem, 965 And more secure, by very weight of all That, for support, rests on them; the decayed And burthensome; and lastly, that poor few Whose light of reason is with age extinct; The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last, 970 The earliest summoned and the longest spared— Are here deposited, with tribute paid Various, but unto each some tribute paid;[506] As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, Society were touched with kind concern, And gentle 'Nature grieved, that one should die;'[GX] 976 Or, if the change demanded no regret, Observed the liberating stroke—and blessed. "And whence that tribute? wherefore these regards?[GY] Not from the naked Heart alone of Man 980 (Though claiming high[507] distinction upon earth As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, His own peculiar utterance for distress Or gladness)—No," the philosophic Priest Continued, "'tis not in the vital seat 985 Of feeling to produce them, without aid From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure; With her two faculties of eye and ear, The one by which a creature, whom his sins Have rendered prone, can upward[508] look to heaven; 990 The other that empowers him to perceive The voice of Deity, on height and plain, Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Word, To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims. Not without such assistance could the use 995 Of these benign observances prevail: Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus[509] maintained; And by the care prospective of our wise Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks The fluctuation and decay of things, 1000 Embodied and established these high truths In solemn institutions:—men convinced That life is love and immortality, The being one, and one the element. There lies the channel, and original bed, 1005 From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped For Man's affections—else betrayed and lost, And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite! This is the genuine course, the aim, and end Of prescient reason; all conclusions else 1010 Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. The faith partaking of those holy times, Life, I repeat, is energy of love Divine or human; exercised in pain, In strife, in tribulation; and ordained, 1015 If so approved and sanctified, to pass, Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy."[GZ]

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; 5 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 10 Cemented; by the hands of Wisdom reared 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,[HA] 15 They may endure long as the sea[511] 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;'[HB] 20 Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 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, 25 Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive[512] What in those holy structures ye possess Of ornamental interest, and the charm Of pious sentiment diffused afar, And human charity, and social love. 30 —Thus never shall the indignities of time 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; 35 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[513] Exclusively with transitory things) 40 An air and mien of dignified pursuit; 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 45 Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain Superior, insusceptible of pride, And by ambitious[514] longings undisturbed; Men, whose delight is where their duty leads Or fixes them; whose least distinguished day 50 Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 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 55 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! 61 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 65 Of angry umpires, partial and unjust; And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire,[HC] So to declare the conscience satisfied: Nor for their bodies would accept release; 69 But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, The faith which they by diligence had earned, Or,[515] through illuminating grace, received, For their dear countrymen, and all mankind. O high example, constancy divine! 75 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 80 Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 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; 85 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 90 Of reverence done to the spirit of the place,[516] The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground; Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe, But with a mild and social cheerfulness; Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 95 "At morn or eve, in your retired domain, Perchance you not unfrequently have marked A Visitor—in quest of herbs and flowers;[517] Too delicate employ, as would appear, For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet 100 From nature's kindliness received a frame 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 105 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,[518] 110 Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 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."[HD] "Died he then 116 Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, "Do not believe it; never could that be!"[519] "He loved," the Vicar answered, "deeply loved, Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and dared 120 At length to tell his love, but sued in vain;[520] 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 125 To cheat the world, or from herself to hide Humiliation, when no longer free, That he could brook,[521] and glory in;—but when The tidings came that she whom he had wooed Was wedded to another, and his heart 130 Was forced to rend away its only hope; 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 135 That in the act of preference he had been Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone! Had vanished[522] from his prospects and desires; Not by translation to the heavenly choir Who have put off their mortal spoils—ah no! 140 She lives another's wishes to complete,— 'Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 'His lot and hers, as misery must be mine!'[523] "Such was that strong concussion; but the Man, Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak 145 By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed The stedfast quiet natural to a mind Of composition gentle and sedate, And, in its movements, circumspect and slow. To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 150 O'er which enchained by science he had loved To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth[524] With keener appetite (if that might be) And closer industry. Of what ensued 155 Within the heart[525] no outward sign appeared Till a betraying sickliness was seen To tinge his cheek; and through his frame it crept With slow mutation unconcealable; Such universal change as autumn makes 160 In the fair body of a leafy grove Discoloured, then divested. "'Tis affirmed By poets skilled in nature's secret ways That Love will not submit to be controlled By mastery:—and the good Man lacked not friends 165 Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 'Go to the hills,' said one, 'remit a while 'This baneful diligence:—at early morn 'Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods; 170 'And, leaving it to others to foretell, 'By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 'Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 'Do you, for your own benefit, construct 'A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 175 'Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.' The attempt was made;—'tis needless to report How hopelessly; but innocence is strong, And an entire simplicity of mind A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven; 180 That opens, for such sufferers, relief Within the soul, fountains of grace divine;[526] And doth commend their weakness and disease To Nature's care, assisted in her office By all the elements that round her wait 185 To generate, to preserve, and to restore; And by her beautiful array of forms Shedding sweet influence from above; or pure Delight exhaling from the ground they tread." "Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed 190 The Wanderer, "I infer that he was healed By perseverance in the course prescribed." "You do not err: the powers, that[527] had been lost By slow degrees, were gradually regained; The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart 195 In rest established; and the jarring thoughts To harmony restored.—But yon dark mould Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength,[528] Hastily smitten by a fever's force; Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 200 Time to look back with tenderness on her Whom he had loved in passion; and to send Some farewell words—with one, but one, request;[529] That, from his dying hand, she would accept Of his possessions that which most he prized; 205 A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants, By his own hand disposed with nicest care,[530] In undecaying beauty were preserved;[HE] Mute register, to him, of time and place, And various fluctuations in the breast; 210 To her, a monument of faithful love Conquered, and in tranquillity retained! "Close to his destined habitation, lies One who achieved a humbler victory, Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is[531] 215 High in these mountains, that allured a band Of keen adventurers to unite their pains In search of precious ore: they tried, were foiled—[532] And all desisted, all, save him alone. He,[533] taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, 220 And trusting only to his own weak hands, Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, Unseconded, uncountenanced; then, as time Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found No recompense, derided; and at length, 225 By many pitied, as insane of mind; By others dreaded as the luckless thrall Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope By various mockery of sight and sound; Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 230 —But when the lord of seasons had matured The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, The mountain's entrails offered to his view And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward.[534] Not with more transport did Columbus greet 235 A world, his rich discovery![HF] But our Swain, A very hero till his point was gained, Proved all unable to support the weight Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked With an unsettled liberty of thought, Wishes and endless schemes; by daylight walked[535] 241 Giddy and restless; ever and anon Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups; And truly might be said to die of joy! He vanished; but conspicuous to this day 245 The path remains that linked his cottage-door To the mine's mouth; a long and slanting track, Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, Worn by his daily visits to and from The darksome centre of a constant hope. 250 This vestige, neither force of beating rain, Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away; And it is named, in memory of the event, The PATH OF PERSEVERANCE." "Thou from whom Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, "oh! 256 Do thou direct it! To the virtuous grant The penetrative eye which can perceive In this blind world the guiding vein of hope; That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 260 'Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified;'[HG] Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve!" "That prayer were not superfluous," said the Priest, "Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 265 Within the bosom of her awful pile, Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh, Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due to all, Wherever laid, who living fell below Their virtue's humbler mark; a sigh of pain 270 If to the opposite extreme they sank. How would you pity her who yonder rests; Him, farther off; the pair, who here are laid; But, above all, that mixture of earth's mould[HH] Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind Recals! 275 "He lived not till his locks were nipped By seasonable frost of age; nor died Before his temples, prematurely forced To mix the manly brown with silver grey, Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 280 Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped The natural crown that[536] sage Experience wears. Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed Or could perform; a zealous actor, hired 285 Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn Into the lists of giddy enterprise— Such was he;[HI] yet, as if within his frame Two several souls alternately had lodged, Two sets of manners could the Youth put on; 290 And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage, Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still As the mute swan that floats adown the stream, Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, 295 Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf, That flutters on the bough, lighter than he;[537] And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, More winningly reserved! If ye enquire How such consummate elegance was bred 300 Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice; 'Twas Nature's will;[538] who sometimes undertakes, For the reproof of human vanity, Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. Hence, for this Favourite—lavishly endowed 305 With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, While both, embellishing each other, stood Yet farther recommended by the charm Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song, And skill in letters—every fancy shaped 310 Fair expectations; nor, when to the world's Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there Were he and his attainments overlooked, Or scantily rewarded; but all hopes, Cherished for him, he suffered to depart, 315 Like blighted buds; or clouds that mimicked land Before the sailor's eye; or diamond drops That sparkling decked the morning grass; or aught That was attractive, and hath ceased to be! "Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites 320 Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, Who, by humiliation undeterred, Sought for his weariness a place of rest Within his Father's gates.—Whence came he?—clothed In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 325 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[539] He had descended from the proud saloon, 330 He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 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, 335 Thrice sank[540] 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 340 No[541] less enjoyment from an abject choice. 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,—now, provoked 345 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 350 Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 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, 355 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 tenour of his boast[542] 360 In ears that relished the report;—but all 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, 365 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:[543] Where he had lived, and could not cease to live, 370 Distracted in propensity; content 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 375 One with himself, and one with them that sleep."[544] "'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, "strange It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, That in a land where charity provides For all that[545] can no longer feed themselves, 380 A man like this should choose to bring his shame 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;[546] no—he must have found 385 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, 390 Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 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 395 To keep his own, but also to exclude All other progeny—doth sometimes lure, Even by his[547] studied depth of privacy, The unhappy alien hoping to obtain Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, 400 In place from outward molestation free, 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 405 Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair Who, from the pressure of their several fates, Meeting as strangers, in a petty town[HJ] Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 409 Of this far-winding vale,[HJ] remained as friends True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust To this loved cemetery, here to lodge With unescutcheoned privacy interred Far from the family vault.—A Chieftain one[HK] By right of birth; within whose spotless breast 415 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, 420 With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent 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, 425 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 431 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 435 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, 440 Beneath[548] the battlements and stately trees 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 445 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 450 Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, The vanquished Whig,[HL] under a borrowed name,[549] (For the mere sound and echo of his own Haunted him with sensations of disgust That[550] he was glad to lose) slunk from the world 455 To the deep shade of those[551] 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 460 That losses and vexations, less severe 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 465 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, 470 With little change of general sentiment, Such leaning towards[552] each other, that their days By choice were spent in constant fellowship; And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 474 Those very bickerings made them love it more. "A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks This Church-yard 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, 480 One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 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 485 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, 490 Which else the Christian virtue might have claimed. "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 495 Was disappearing by a swift decay, They, with joint care, determined to erect, Upon its site, a dial,[HM] that might stand For public use preserved, and thus survive[553] As their own private monument: for this 500 Was the particular spot, in which they wished (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 505 That to the decorated pillar[HN] lead, A work of art more sumptuous than might seem To suit this place;[554] yet built in no proud scorn Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 510 Around the margin of the plate, whereon 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: 515 '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 520 Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed!'[555] "Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," Exclaimed the Sceptic, "and the strain of thought Accords with nature's language;—the soft voice 525 Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks[HO] 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 530 To feel for those among our fellow-men, Who, offering no obeisance to the world, Are yet made desperate by 'too quick a sense Of constant infelicity,'[HP] cut off From peace like exiles on some barren rock, 535 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[HQ] chained 540 To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus; The vulture,[556] the inexhaustible repast Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes By Tantalus[HR] entailed upon his race, And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes?[HS] 545 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 550 The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp Of circumstance; and here the tragic Muse Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills,[557] The generations are prepared; the pangs, 555 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, 560 We, whose established and unfailing trust 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 565 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 570 Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes And strange disasters;[558] 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 575 By the deformities of brutish vice: For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face[559] And a coarse outside of repulsive life And unaffecting manners might at once[560] Be recognised by all—" "Ah! do not think," 580 The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, "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 585 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 590 From us to infringe the laws of charity. 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 595 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, 600 "Of such illusion do we here incur; 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. 605 Green is the Church-yard, 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 610 And everlasting flowers.[HT] These Dalesmen trust The lingering gleam of their departed lives To oral record,[561] and the silent heart; Depositories[562] faithful and more kind Than fondest epitaph: for, if those fail,[563] What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can blame, 616 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? 620 Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 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 625 Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone[HU] 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, 630 And sufferings meekly borne—I, for my part, Though with the silence pleased that[564] 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 635 Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, It was[565] no momentary happiness To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks In envy or detraction is not heard; 640 Which malice may not enter; where the traces 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." 645 "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, 650 A sunbeam introducing among hearts 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 655 I speak of such among my flock as swerved Or fell, those only shall be singled out[566] 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. 660 "And yet there are, I feel, good reasons why we should not leave Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. For, strength to persevere and to support, And energy to conquer and repel— 665 These elements of virtue, that declare The native grandeur of the human soul— Are oft-times not unprofitably shown In the perverseness of a selfish course: Truth every day exemplified, no less 670 In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream Than in[567] fantastic conqueror's roving camp, Or 'mid[568] the factious senate unappalled Whoe'er may sink, or rise—to sink again,[569] As[570] merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 675 "There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, "A woman rests in peace; surpassed by few In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. Tall was her stature; her complexion dark 679 And saturnine;[HV] her head not raised to hold[571] Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards earth, But in projection carried, as she walked For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes; Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought Was her broad forehead; like the brow of one 685 Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare Of overpowering light.—While yet a child, She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale, Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfurnished With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking[572] 690 To be admired, than coveted and loved. Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen, Over her comrades;[573] else their simple sports, Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, Had crossed her only to be shunned with scorn.[574] 695 —Oh! pang of sorrowful regret for those[575] Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled, That they have lived for harsher servitude, Whether in soul, in body, or estate! Such doom was hers; yet nothing could subdue 700 Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface[576] Those brighter images by books imprest Upon her memory, faithfully as stars That occupy their places, and, though oft Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze, 705 Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired.[577] "Two passions, both degenerate, for they both Began in honour, gradually obtained Rule over her, and vexed her daily life; An unremitting,[578] avaricious thrift; 710 And a strange thraldom of maternal love, That held her spirit, in its own despite, Bound—by vexation, and regret, and scorn, Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows, And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed— 715 To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. —Her wedded days had opened with mishap, Whence dire dependence. What could she perform To shake the burthen off? Ah! there was felt, Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 720 She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve; The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart[579] Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's blessing Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust[580] In ceaseless pains—and strictest parsimony 725 Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared, From each day's need, out of each day's least gain.[581] "Thus[582] all was re-established, and a pile Constructed, that sufficed for every end, Save the contentment of the builder's mind; 730 A mind by nature indisposed to aught So placid, so inactive, as content; A mind intolerant of lasting peace, And cherishing the pang her heart deplored.[583] Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared 735 To the agitation of a brook that runs Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained;[584] But never to be charmed to gentleness: Its best attainment fits of such repose 740 As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming.[585][HW] "A sudden illness seized her in the strength Of life's autumnal season.—Shall I tell How on her bed of death the Matron lay, To Providence submissive, so she thought; 745 But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, almost To anger, by the malady that griped Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb? She prayed, she moaned;—her husband's sister watched 750 Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs; And yet the very sound of that kind foot Was anguish to her ears! 'And must she rule,' This was the death-doomed[586] Woman heard to say In bitterness, 'and must she rule and reign, 755 'Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone? 'Tend what I tended,[587] calling it her own!' Enough;—I fear, too much.—One vernal evening,[588] While she was yet in prime of health and strength, I well remember, while I passed her door 760 Alone,[589] with loitering step, and upward eye Turned towards the planet Jupiter that hung Above the centre of the Vale, a voice Roused me, her voice; it said, 'That glorious star 'In its untroubled element will shine 765 'As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 'And safe from all our sorrows.' With a sigh She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained By faith in glory that shall far transcend Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed 770 To sight or mind. Nor less than care divine Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled, Was into meekness softened and subdued; Did, after trials not in vain prolonged, With resignation sink into the grave; 775 And her uncharitable acts,[590] I trust, And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, Tho', in this Vale, remembered with deep awe." The Vicar paused; and toward a seat advanced, A long stone-seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall;[HX] 780 Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part Offering a sunny resting-place to them[591] Who seek the House of worship, while the bells Yet ring with all their voices, or before The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 785 Beneath the shade we all sate down;[592] and there His office, uninvited, he resumed. "As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, Screened by its parent, so that little mound 790 Lies guarded by its neighbour; the small heap Speaks for itself; an Infant there doth rest; The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave.[HY] If mild discourse, and manners that conferred A natural dignity on humblest rank; 795 If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, That for a face not beautiful did more Than beauty for the fairest face can do; And if religious tenderness of heart, Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 800 Shed when the clouds had gathered and distained The spotless ether of a maiden life; If these may make a hallowed spot of earth More holy in the sight of God or Man; Then, o'er that mould,[593] a sanctity shall brood 805 Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. "Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could[594] any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed;[HZ] render back an echo 810 Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod! There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, And on the very turf[595] that roofs her own, The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene.[596] 815 Now she is not; the swelling turf reports Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears Is silent; nor is any vestige left Of the path worn by mournful tread of her Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved 820 In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed[597] Caught from the pressure of elastic turf Upon the mountains gemmed[598] with morning dew, In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. —Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet, 825 By reconcilement exquisite and rare, The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl Were such as might have quickened and inspired A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 830 What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard Startling the golden hills. "A wide-spread elm Stands in our valley, named THE JOYFUL TREE;[599] From dateless usage which our peasants hold Of giving welcome to the first of May 835 By dances round its trunk.—And if the sky Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports, If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, 840 Was hapless Ellen.—No one touched the ground So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks Less gracefully were braided;—but this praise, Methinks, would better suit another place. "She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved. 845 —The road is dim, the current unperceived, The weakness painful and most pitiful, By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth, May be delivered to distress and shame. Such fate was hers.—The last time Ellen danced, 850 Among her equals, round THE JOYFUL TREE, She bore a secret burthen; and full soon Was left to tremble for a breaking vow,— Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow, Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 855 It was the season of unfolding leaves, Of days advancing toward their utmost length, And small birds singing happily to mates Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power Winds pipe through fading woods; but those blithe notes[600] 860 Strike the deserted to the heart; I speak Of what I know, and what we feel within. —Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig A thrush resorts, and annually chants, 865 At morn and evening from that naked perch, While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, A time-beguiling ditty, for delight Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. —'Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 870 'Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge; And nature that is kind in woman's breast, And reason that in man is wise and good, And fear of him who is a righteous judge; Why do not these prevail for human life, 875 To keep two hearts together, that began Their spring-time with one love, and that have need Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet To grant, or be received; while that poor bird— O come and hear him! Thou who hast to me Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature, 881 One of God's simple children that yet know not The universal Parent, how he sings As if he wished the firmament of heaven Should listen, and give back to him the voice 885 Of his triumphant constancy and love; The proclamation that he makes, how far His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!' "Such was the tender passage, not by me Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 890 Which I perused, even as the words had been Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand To the blank margin of a Valentine, Bedropped with tears. 'Twill please you to be told That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 895 Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet In lonely reading found a meek resource: How thankful for the warmth of summer days, When she could slip into the cottage-barn, And find a secret oratory there; 900 Or, in the garden, under friendly veil Of their long twilight, pore upon her book[601] By the last lingering help of the open sky Until dark night[602] dismissed her to her bed! Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 905 The unconquerable pang of despised love.[IA] "A kindlier passion opened[603] on her soul When that poor Child was born. Upon its face She gazed[604] as on a pure and spotless gift Of unexpected promise, where a grief 910 Or dread was all that had been thought of,—joy Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels, Amid a perilous waste that all night long Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm,[605] When he beholds the first pale speck serene 915 Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed, And greets it with thanksgiving. 'Till this hour,' Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 'There was a stony region in my heart; 'But He, at whose command the parched rock 'Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 921 'Hath softened that obduracy, and made 'Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 'To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I breathe 'The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake[606] 925 'My Infant! and for that good Mother dear, 'Who bore me; and hath prayed for me in vain;— 'Yet not in vain; it shall not be in vain.' She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled; And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, They stayed not long.—The blameless Infant grew; 931 The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed; A soothing comforter, although forlorn; Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands; 935 Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by With vacant mind, not seldom may observe Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. "Through four months' space the Infant drew its food 940 From the maternal breast; then scruples rose; Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and crossed The fond affection.[607] She no more could bear By her offence to lay a two-fold weight On a kind parent willing to forget 945 Their slender means: so, to that parent's care Trusting her child, she left their common home, And undertook with dutiful content[608] A Foster-mother's office. "'Tis, perchance, Unknown to you that in these simple vales 950 The natural feeling of equality Is by domestic service unimpaired;[IB] Yet, though such service be, with us, removed From sense of degradation, not the less The ungentle mind can easily find means 955 To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel: For (blinded by an over-anxious dread Of such excitement and divided thought[609] As with her office would but ill accord)[610] 960 The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, Forbad her all communion with her own: Week after week, the mandate they enforced.[611] —So near! yet not allowed, upon that sight To fix her eyes-alas! 'twas hard to bear! 965 But worse affliction must be borne—far worse; For 'tis Heaven's will—that, after a disease Begun and ended within three days' space, Her child should die; as Ellen now exclaimed, Her own—deserted child!—Once, only once, 970 She saw it in that mortal malady; And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain Permission to attend its obsequies. She reached the house, last of the funeral train; And some one, as she entered, having chanced 975 To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 'Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit Of anger never seen in her before, 'Nay, ye must wait my time!' and down she sate, And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 980 Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, Until at length her soul was satisfied. "You see the Infant's Grave; and to this spot, The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, 985 On whatsoever errand, urged her steps: Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt[612] In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene! So call her; for not only she bewailed A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 990 Her own transgression; penitent sincere As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye! —At length the parents of the foster-child, Noting that in despite of their commands She still renewed and could not but renew 995 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth; Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. I failed not to remind them that they erred; For holy Nature might not thus be crossed, Thus wronged in woman's breast: in vain I pleaded— 1000 But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped, And the flower drooped; as every eye could see, It hung its head in mortal languishment. —Aided by this appearance, I at length Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, she went Home to her mother's house. 1005 "The Youth was fled; The rash betrayer could not face the shame Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused; And little would his presence, or proof given Of a relenting soul, have now availed; 1010 For, like a shadow, he was passed away From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to her mind For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love, Save only those which to their common shame, And to his moral being appertained: 1015 Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought A heavenly comfort; there she recognised An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need; There, and, as seemed, there only. "She had built,[613] Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 1020 In blindness all too near the river's edge; That work a summer flood with hasty swell Had swept away; and now her Spirit longed For its last flight to heaven's security. —The bodily frame wasted from day to day;[614] 1025 Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, And much she read; and brooded feelingly Upon her own unworthiness. To me, 1030 As to a spiritual comforter and friend, Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared To mitigate, as gently as I could, The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth! 1035 In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, The ghastly face of cold decay put on A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine! May I not mention—that, within those[615] walls, In due observance of her pious wish, 1040 The congregation joined with me in prayer For her soul's good? Nor was that office vain. —Much did she suffer: but, if any friend, Beholding her condition, at the sight Gave way to words of pity or complaint, 1045 She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 'He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; 'And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 'Will mercifully take me to himself.' So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed 1050 Into that pure and unknown world of love Where injury cannot come:—and here is laid The mortal Body by her Infant's side." The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known That each had listened with his inmost heart. 1055 For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong Or less benign than that which I had felt When seated near my venerable Friend, Under[616] those shady elms, from him I heard The story that retraced the slow decline 1060 Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath With the neglected house to which she clung.[617] —I noted that the Solitary's cheek Confessed the power of nature.—Pleased though sad, More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate; 1065 Thanks to his pure imaginative soul Capacious and serene; his blameless life, His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love Of human kind! He was it who first broke The pensive silence, saying:— "Blest are they 1070 Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong Than to do wrong, albeit[618] themselves have erred. This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals With such, in their affliction.—Ellen's fate, Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 1075 Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard Of one who died within this vale, by doom Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones Of Wilfred Armathwaite?" The Vicar answered, 1080 "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself In memory and for warning, and in sign Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, Of reconcilement after deep offence— 1085 There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world; Nor need the windings of his devious course Be here retraced;—enough that, by mishap And venial error, robbed of competence, 1090 And her[619] obsequious shadow, peace of mind, He craved a substitute in troubled joy; Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow.[620] That which he had been weak enough to do 1095 Was misery in remembrance; he was stung, Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles Of wife and children stung to agony. Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad; Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, 1100 Asked comfort of the open air, and found No quiet in the darkness of the night, No pleasure in the beauty of the day. His flock he slighted: his paternal fields Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 1105 To fly—but whither! And this gracious Church, That wears a look so full of peace and hope And love, benignant mother of the vale, How fair amid her brood of cottages! She was to him a sickness and reproach. 1110 Much to the last remained unknown: but this Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died; Though pitied among men, absolved by God, He could not find forgiveness in himself; Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. 1115 "Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn And from her grave.—Behold—upon that ridge, That,[621] stretching boldly from the mountain side, Carries into the centre of the vale Its rocks and woods—the Cottage where she dwelt; 1120 And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left (Full eight years past) the solitary prop Of many helpless Children. I begin With words that[622] might be prelude to a tale Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel 1125 No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes See daily in that happy family. —Bright garland form they for the pensive brow Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, Those six fair Daughters, budding yet—not one, 1130 Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once That Father was, and filled with anxious fear, Now, by experience taught, he stands assured, That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 1135 Of what he seems to take; or gives it back, Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer; He gives it—the boon produce of a soil Which our endeavours have refused to till, And hope hath never watered. The Abode, 1140 Whose grateful owner can attest these truths, Even were the object nearer to our sight, Would seem in no distinction to surpass The rudest habitations. Ye might think That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown 1145 Out of the living rock, to be adorned By nature only; but, if thither led, Ye would discover, then, a studious work Of many fancies, prompting many hands. "Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines 1150 Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon Roof-high; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall, And with the flowers are intermingled stones 1155 Sparry and bright, rough scatterings[623] of the hills. These ornaments, that fade not with the year, A hardy Girl continues to provide; Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him 1160 All that a boy could do, but with delight More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she, Within the garden, like the rest, a bed For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space, By sacred charter, holden for her use. 1165 —These, and whatever else the garden bears Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, I freely gather; and my leisure draws A not unfrequent pastime from the hum Of bees around their range of sheltered hives 1170 Busy in that enclosure; while the rill,[624] That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice To the pure course of human life which there Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom Of night is falling round my steps, then most 1175 This Dwelling charms me; often I stop short,[625] (Who could refrain?) and feed by stealth my sight With prospect of the company within, Laid open through the blazing window:—there I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 1180 Spinning amain, as if to overtake The never-halting time; or, in her turn, Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood That skill in this or other household work, Which, from her Father's honoured hand, herself, 1185 While she was yet a little-one, had learned. Mild Man! he is not gay, but they are gay; And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. —Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed, The Wife, from whose consolatory grave[626] 1190 I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth!" Book Sixth, continued in Editions of 1814 and 1820 only "The next three Ridges—those upon the left— By close connexion with our present thoughts Tempt me to add, in praise of humble worth, 1195 Their brief and unobtrusive history. —One Hillock, ye may note, is small and low, Sunk almost to a level with the plain By weight of time; the Others, undepressed, Are bold and swelling. There a Husband sleeps, 1200 Deposited, in pious confidence Of glorious resurrection with the just, Near the loved Partner of his early days; And, in the bosom of that family mold, A second Wife is gathered to his side; 1205 The approved Assistant of an arduous course From his mid noon of manhood to old age! He also of his Mate deprived, was left Alone—'mid many Children; One a Babe Orphaned as soon as born. Alas! 'tis not 1210 In course of nature that a Father's wing Should warm these Little-ones; and can he feed? That was a thought of agony more keen. For, hand in hand with Death, by strange mishap And chance-encounter on their diverse road, 1215 The ghastlier shape of Poverty had entered Into that House, unfeared and unforeseen. He had stepped forth, in time of urgent need, The generous Surety of a Friend: and now The widowed Father found that all his rights 1220 In his paternal fields were undermined. Landless he was and pennyless.—The dews Of night and morn that wet the mountain sides, The bright stars twinkling on their dusky tops, Were conscious of the pain that drove him forth 1225 From his own door, he knew not when—to range He knew not where; distracted was his brain, His heart was cloven; and full oft he prayed, In blind despair, that God would take them all. —But suddenly, as if in one kind moment 1230 To encourage and reprove, a gleam of light Broke from the very bosom of that cloud Which darkened the whole prospect of his days. For He, who now possessed the joyless right To force the Bondsman from his house and lands, 1235 In pity, and by admiration urged Of his unmurmuring and considerate mind Meekly submissive to the law's decree, Lightened the penalty with liberal hand. —The desolate Father raised his head, and looked 1240 On the wide world in hope. Within these walls, In course of time was solemnized the vow Whereby a virtuous Woman, of grave years And of prudential habits, undertook The sacred office of a wife to him, 1245 Of Mother to his helpless family. —Nor did she fail, in nothing did she fail, Through various exercise of twice ten years, Save in some partial fondness for that Child Which at the birth she had received, the Babe 1250 Whose heart had known no Mother but herself. —By mutual efforts; by united hopes; By daily-growing help of boy and girl, Trained early to participate that zeal Of industry, which runs before the day 1255 And lingers after it; by strong restraint Of an economy which did not check The heart's more generous motions tow'rds themselves Or to their neighbours; and by trust in God; This Pair insensibly subdued the fears 1260 And troubles that beset their life: and thus Did the good Father and his second Mate Redeem at length their plot of smiling fields. These, at this day, the eldest Son retains: The younger Offspring, through the busy world, 1265 Have all been scattered wide, by various fates; But each departed from the native Vale, In beauty flourishing, and moral worth."