Volume 5 — PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814

"On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of imagery before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight 5 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed; And I am conscious of affecting thoughts And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh The good and evil of our mortal state. 10 —To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, Whether from breath of outward circumstance, Or from the Soul—an impulse to herself— I would give utterance in numerous verse. Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 15 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; Of blessed consolations in distress; Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; Of joy in widest commonalty spread; Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 20 Inviolate retirement, subject there To Conscience only, and the law supreme Of that Intelligence which governs all— I sing:—'fit audience let me find though few!'[O] "So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard— 25 In holiest mood.[1] Urania,[P] I shall need Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven! For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink Deep—and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 30 To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. All strength—all terror, single or in bands, That ever was put forth in personal form— Jehovah—with his thunder, and the choir Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones— 35 I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out By help of dreams—can breed such fear and awe As fall upon us often when we look 40 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man— My haunt, and the main region of my song. —Beauty—a living Presence of the earth, Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 45 From earth's materials—waits upon my steps; Pitches her tents before me as I move, An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves Elysian, Fortunate Fields—like those of old Sought in the Atlantic Main[Q]—why should they be 50 A history only of departed things, Or a mere fiction of what never was? For the discerning intellect of Man, When wedded to this goodly universe In love and holy passion, shall find these 55 A simple produce of the common day. —I, long before the blissful hour arrives, Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse Of this great consummation:—and, by words Which speak of nothing more than what we are, 60 Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims How exquisitely the individual Mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less 65 Of the whole species) to the external World Is fitted:—and how exquisitely, too— Theme this but little heard of among men— The external World is fitted to the Mind; And the creation (by no lower name 70 Can it be called) which they with blended might Accomplish:—this is our high argument. —Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft Must turn elsewhere—to travel near the tribes And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 75 Of madding passions mutually inflamed; Must hear Humanity in fields and groves Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang Brooding above the fierce confederate storm Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 80 Within the walls of cities—may these sounds Have their authentic comment; that even these Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn!— Descend, prophetic Spirit![2] that inspir'st The human Soul of universal earth, 85 Dreaming on things to come;[R] and dost possess A metropolitan temple in the hearts Of mighty Poets: upon me bestow A gift of genuine insight; that my Song With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 90 Shedding benignant influence, and secure, Itself, from all malevolent effect Of those mutations that extend their sway Throughout the nether sphere!—And if with this I mix more lowly matter; with the thing 95 Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man Contemplating; and who, and what he was— The transitory Being that beheld This Vision; when and where, and how he lived;— Be not this labour useless. If such theme May sort with highest objects, then—dread Power! 101 Whose gracious favour is the primal source Of all illumination—may my Life Express the image of a better time, More wise desires, and simpler manners;—nurse 105 My Heart in genuine freedom:—all pure thoughts Be with me;—so shall thy unfailing love Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end!"

'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high: Southward the landscape indistinctly glared Through a pale steam;[T] but all the northern downs, In clearest air ascending, showed far off 5 A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung From brooding clouds; shadows that lay in spots[4] Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed; To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss[5] 10 Extends his careless limbs along the front Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts A twilight of its own,[U] an ample shade, Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, Half conscious of the soothing melody, 15 With side-long eye looks out upon the scene,[V] By power of that impending covert, thrown, To finer distance. Mine was at that hour Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon Under a shade as grateful I should find 20 Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy.[6] Across a bare wide Common I was toiling With languid steps that by the slippery turf[7] Were baffled; nor could my weak arm disperse The host of insects gathering round my face, 25 And ever with me as I paced along.[8] Upon that open moorland stood a grove, The wished-for port to which my course was bound.[9] Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms,[W] 30 Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls That stared upon each other!—I looked round, And to my wish and to my hope espied The Friend I sought;[10] a Man of reverend age, But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 35 There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep; An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. Him had I marked the day before—alone And stationed in the public way, with face Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff 41 Afforded, to the figure of the man[11] Detained for contemplation or repose, Graceful support; his countenance as he stood Was hidden from my view, and he remained[12] 45 Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight, With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon A glad congratulation we exchanged At such unthought-of meeting.—For the night We parted, nothing willingly; and now 50 He by appointment waited for me here, Under the covert[13] of these clustering elms. We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale, In the antique market-village where was passed My school-time,[W1] an apartment he had owned, 55 To which at intervals the Wanderer drew,[14] And found a kind of home or harbour there. He loved me; from a swarm of rosy boys Singled out me, as he in sport would say, For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years. 60 As I grew up, it was my best delight To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, On holidays, we rambled through the woods: We sate—we walked; he pleased me with report[15] Of things which he had seen; and often touched 65 Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind Turned inward; or at my request would sing[16] Old songs, the product of his native hills;[17] A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 70 As cool refreshing water, by the care Of the industrious husbandman, diffused Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought. Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse: How precious when in riper days I learned 75 To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice In the plain presence of his dignity! Oh! many are the Poets that are sown By Nature; men endowed with highest gifts, The vision and the faculty divine;[X] 80 Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, (Which, in the docile season of their youth, It was denied them to acquire, through lack Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, Or haply by a temper too severe, 85 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led By circumstance to take unto the height The measure of themselves, these favoured Beings, All but a scattered few, live out their time, 90 Husbanding that which they possess within, And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest minds Are often those of whom the noisy world Hears least;[Y] else surely this Man had not left[Z] His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 95 But, as the mind was filled with inward light,[AA] So not without distinction had he lived, Beloved and honoured—far as he was known. And some small portion of his eloquent speech, And something that may serve to set in view 100 The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, His observations, and the thoughts his mind[18] Had dealt with—I will here record in verse; Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink Or rise as venerable Nature leads, 105 The high and tender Muses shall accept With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, And listening Time reward with sacred praise. Among the hills of Athol he was born; Where,[19] on a small hereditary farm, 110 An unproductive slip of rugged ground, His Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt;[20] A virtuous household, though exceeding poor! Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, And fearing God;[AB] the very children taught 115 Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, And an habitual piety, maintained With strictness scarcely known on English ground. From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak, In summer, tended cattle on the hills; 120 But, through the inclement and the perilous days Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood[21] Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, Remote from view[22] of city spire, or sound 125 Of minster clock! From that bleak tenement He, many an evening, to his distant home In solitude returning, saw the hills Grow larger in the darkness; all alone Beheld the stars come out above his head, And travelled through the wood, with no one near 131 To whom he might confess the things he saw. So the foundations of his mind were laid. In such communion, not from terror free,[AC] While yet a child, and long before his time, 135 Had he[23] perceived the presence and the power Of greatness; and deep feelings had impressed So vividly great objects that they lay Upon his mind like substances, whose presence Perplexed the bodily sense. He had received[24] 140 [25]A precious gift; for, as he grew in years, With these impressions would he still compare All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms; And, being still unsatisfied with aught Of dimmer character, he thence attained 145 An active power to fasten images Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines Intensely brooded, even till they acquired The liveliness of dreams.[AD] Nor did he fail, While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 150 Incessantly to turn his ear and eye On all things which the moving seasons brought To feed such appetite—nor this alone Appeased his yearning:—in the after-day Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 155 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, Or from the power of a peculiar eye, Or by creative feeling overborne, Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 160 Even in their fixed and steady lineaments He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, Expression ever varying! Thus informed, He had small need of books; for many a tale Traditionary, round the mountains hung, 165 And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, Nourished Imagination in her growth, And gave the Mind that apprehensive power By which she is made quick to recognise The moral properties and scope of things. 170 But eagerly he read, and read again, Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied; The life and death of martyrs, who sustained, With will inflexible, those fearful pangs Triumphantly displayed in records left 175 Of persecution, and the Covenant—times Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour! And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, That left half-told[AE] the preternatural tale, 180 Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts Strange and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire, Sharp-kneed, sharp elbowed, and lean-ankled too, With long and ghostly shanks—forms which once seen Could never be forgotten! 185 In his heart, Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, Was wanting yet the pure delight of love By sound diffused, or by the breathing air,[AF] Or by the silent looks of happy things,[AG] 190 Or flowing from the universal face Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power Of Nature, and already was prepared, By his intense conceptions, to receive Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 195 Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught To feel intensely, cannot but receive. Such was the Boy—but for the growing Youth What soul was his, when, from the naked top Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun[26] Rise up, and bathe the world in light![AH] He looked— 201 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay Beneath him[AI]:—Far and wide the clouds were touched, And in their silent faces could he read[27] 205 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy;[AJ] his spirit drank The spectacle: sensation, soul, and form. All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, 210 And by them did he live; they were his life. In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; 215 Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love! A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 220 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort Was his existence oftentimes possessed. O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared The written promise! Early had he learned[28] To reverence the volume that[29] displays 225 The mystery, the life which cannot die; But in the mountains did he feel his faith. All things, responsive to the writing, there[30] Breathed immortality, revolving life, And greatness still revolving; infinite: 230 There littleness was not; the least of things Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped Her prospects, nor did he believe,—he saw. What wonder if his being thus became Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires, Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart 236 Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude, Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired Wisdom, which works thro' patience; thence he learned 240 In oft-recurring hours[31] of sober thought To look on Nature with a humble heart, Self-questioned where it did not understand, And with a superstitious eye of love. So passed the time; yet to the nearest town[32] 245 He duly went with what small overplus His earnings might supply, and brought away The book that[33] most had tempted his desires While at the stall he read. Among the hills He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 250 The divine Milton.[AK] Lore of different kind, The annual savings of a toilsome life, His School-master[34] supplied; books that explain The purer elements of truth involved In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 255 (Especially perceived where nature droops And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind Busy in solitude and poverty. These occupations oftentimes deceived The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 260 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf In pensive idleness. What could he do, Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life With blind endeavours?[35] Yet, still uppermost, Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 265 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power In all things that[36] from her sweet influence Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 270 While yet he lingered in the rudiments Of science, and among her simplest laws, His triangles—they were the stars of heaven, The silent stars! Oft did he take delight To measure the altitude[37] of some tall crag 275 That[38] is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak Familiar with forgotten years, that shows Inscribed upon its visionary sides,[39] The history of many a winter storm, Or obscure records of the path of fire.[AL] 280 And thus before his eighteenth year was told, Accumulated feelings pressed his heart With still increasing weight;[40] he was o'erpowered By Nature; by the turbulence subdued Of his own mind; by mystery and hope, 285 And the first virgin passion of a soul Communing with the glorious universe.[AM] Full often wished he that the winds might rage When they were silent: far more fondly now Than in his earlier season did he love 290 Tempestuous nights—the conflict and the sounds That live in darkness. From his intellect And from the stillness of abstracted thought He asked repose; and, failing oft to win[41] The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 295 Amid the roar of torrents, where they send From hollow clefts up to the clearer air A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun Varies its rainbow hues.[42] But vainly thus, And vainly by all other means, he strove 300 To mitigate the fever of his heart. In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, Thus was he reared; much wanting to assist The growth of intellect, yet gaining more,[43] And every moral feeling of his soul 305 Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, And drinking from the well of homely life.[AN] —But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, He now was summoned to select the course 310 Of humble industry that[44] promised best To yield him no unworthy maintenance. Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach A village-school—but wandering thoughts were then A misery to him; and the Youth resigned[45] 315 A task he was unable to perform. That stern yet kindly Spirit,[AO] who constrains The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, (Spirit attached to regions mountainous 320 Like their own stedfast clouds) did now impel His restless mind to look abroad with hope. —An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load, 325 Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest;[46] Yet do such travellers find their own delight; And their hard service, deemed debasing now, Gained merited respect in simpler times; When squire, and priest, and they who round them dwelt 330 In rustic sequestration—all dependent Upon the PEDLAR'S toil—supplied their wants, Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few Of his adventurous countrymen were led 335 By perseverance in this track of life To competence and ease:—to him it offered[47] Attractions manifold;—and this he chose. —His Parents on the enterprise bestowed[48] Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 340 Foreboding evil. From his native hills He wandered far; much did he see of men,[AP] Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, Their passions and their feelings; chiefly those Essential and eternal in the heart, 345 That,[49] 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, Exist more simple in their elements, And speak a plainer language.[AQ] In the woods, A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 350 The better portion of his time; and there Spontaneously had his affections thriven Amid the bounties of the year, the peace And liberty of nature;[50] there he kept In solitude and solitary thought 355 His mind in a just equipoise of love. Serene it was, unclouded by the cares Of ordinary life; unvexed, unwarped By partial bondage. In his steady course, No piteous revolutions had he felt, 360 No wild varieties of joy and grief. Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned And constant disposition of his thoughts To sympathy with man, he was alive 365 To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, And all that was endured; for, in himself Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, He had no painful pressure from without That made him turn aside from wretchedness 370 With coward fears. He could afford to suffer With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came That in our best experience he was rich, And in the wisdom of our daily life. For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 375 He had observed the progress and decay Of many minds, of minds and bodies too; The history of many families; How they had prospered; how they were o'erthrown By passion or mischance, or such misrule 380 Among the unthinking masters of the earth As makes the nations groan. This active course He followed till provision for his wants Had been obtained;—the Wanderer then resolved[51] To pass the remnant of his days, untasked 385 With needless services, from hardship free. His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: But still he loved to pace the public roads And the wild paths; and, by the summer's warmth Invited, often would he leave his home 390 And journey far, revisiting the scenes That to his memory were most endeared.[52] —Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped[53] By worldly-mindedness or anxious care; Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 395 By knowledge gathered up from day to day; Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. The Scottish Church, both on himself and those With whom from childhood he grew up, had held The strong hand of her purity; and still 400 Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. This he remembered in his riper age With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. But by the native vigour of his mind, By his habitual wanderings out of doors, 405 By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, He had imbibed of fear or darker thought Was melted all away; so true was this, That sometimes his religion seemed to me 410 Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; Who to the model of his own pure heart Shaped[54] his belief, as grace divine inspired, And[55] human reason dictated with awe. —And surely never did there live on earth 415 A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports And teasing ways of children vexed not him; [56]Indulgent listener was he to the tongue Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's tale, To his fraternal sympathy addressed, Obtain reluctant hearing. 420 Plain his garb; Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared For sabbath duties; yet he was a man Whom no one could have passed without remark. Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs 425 And his whole figure breathed intelligence. Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek Into a narrower circle of deep red, But had not tamed his eye;[AR] that, under brows Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought 430 From years of youth;[AS] which, like a Being made Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill To blend with knowledge of the years to come, Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. So was He framed; and such his course of life 435 Who now, with no appendage but a staff, The prized memorial of relinquished toils, Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 440 The shadows of the breezy elms above Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound Of my approaching steps, and in the shade Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space.[57] At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 445 Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose, And ere our lively greeting into peace Had settled, "'Tis," said I,[58] "a burning day: My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems,[59] 450 Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out Upon the public way.[60] It was a plot Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, 456 The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap[61] The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 460 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 465 Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench; And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, I yet was standing, freely to respire, And cool my temples in the fanning air, Thus did he speak. "I see around me here 470 Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left.[AT] 475 —The Poets, in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,[AU] And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, In these their invocations, with a voice 480 Obedient to the strong creative power Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, That steal upon the meditative mind, And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 485 And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 490 In mortal stillness; and they ministered To human comfort. Stooping down[62] to drink, Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, Green with the moss of years, and subject only 495 To the soft handling of the elements: There let it lie—how foolish are such thoughts! Forgive them;—never—never did my steps Approach this door but she who dwelt within[63] A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 500 As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,[AV] And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a passenger Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 505 From that forsaken spring; and no one came But he was welcome; no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguished of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandoned to decay, 510 And she forgotten in the quiet grave. "I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. She was a Woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love; 515 Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy Of her own thoughts: by some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A Being, who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. 520 Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom,[AW] 525 In summer, ere the mower was abroad Among the dewy grass,—in early spring, Ere the last star had vanished.—They who passed At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 530 After his daily work, until the light Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were spent In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven. 535 "Not twenty years ago, but you I think Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war: 540 This happy Land was stricken to the heart! A Wanderer then among the cottages, I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw The hardships of that season: many rich Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor; 545 And of the poor did many cease to be, And their place knew them not.[AX] Meanwhile, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years 550 With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,[64] Smitten with perilous fever. In disease He lingered long; and, when his strength returned, He found the little he had stored, to meet 555 The hour of accident or crippling age, Was all consumed. A second infant now Was added to the troubles of a time Laden, for them and all of their degree, With care and sorrow: shoals of artisans 560 From ill-requited labour turned adrift Sought daily bread from public charity,[65] They, and their wives and children—happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite 565 That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks![66] "A sad reverse it was for him who long Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, This lonely Cottage. At the door[67] he stood, And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 570 That had no mirth in them;[AY] or with his knife Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks— Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament; and with a strange, 575 Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, He mingled,[68] where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was: 580 And poverty brought on a petted mood And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, And he would leave his work—and to the town Would turn without an errand his slack steps;[69] Or wander here and there among the fields. 585 One while he would speak lightly of his babes, And with a cruel tongue; at other times He tossed them with a false unnatural joy: And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. 'Every smile,' 590 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 'Made my heart bleed.'" At this the Wanderer paused; And, looking up to those enormous elms, He said, "'Tis now the hour of deepest noon.[AZ] At this still season of repose and peace, 595 This hour when all things which are not at rest Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies With tuneful hum is filling all the air;[70] Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek?[71] Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, 600 And in the weakness of humanity, From natural wisdom turn our hearts away; To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears; And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?" 605 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: But, when he ended, there was in his face Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,[BA] That for a little time it stole away All recollection; and that simple tale 610 Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. A while on trivial things we held discourse, To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, I thought of that poor Woman as of one Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 615 Her homely tale with such familiar power, With such an active countenance, an eye So busy, that the things of which he spake Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed, A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. 620 I rose; and, having left the breezy shade, Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, That had not cheered me long—ere, looking round[72] Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, And begged of the old Man that, for my sake, He would resume his story. 625 He replied, "It were a wantonness, and would demand Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts Could hold vain dalliance with the misery Even of the dead; contented thence to draw 630 A momentary pleasure, never marked By reason, barren of all future good. But we have known that there is often found In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, A power to virtue friendly; wer't not so, 635 I am a dreamer among men, indeed An idle dreamer! 'Tis a common tale, An ordinary sorrow of man's life, A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed In bodily form.—But without further bidding I will proceed. 640 "While thus it fared with them, To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, Had been a blessed home, it was my chance To travel in a country far remote; And[73] when these lofty elms once more appeared 645 What pleasant expectations lured me on O'er the flat Common!—With quick step I reached The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch; But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me[74] A little while; then turned her head away 650 Speechless,—and, sitting down upon a chair, Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, Nor[75] how to speak to her. Poor Wretch! at last She rose from off her seat, and then,—O Sir! I cannot tell how she pronounced my name:— 655 With fervent love, and with a face of grief Unutterably helpless, and a look That seemed to cling upon me,[76] she enquired If I had seen her husband. As she spake A strange surprise and fear came to my heart, 660 Nor had I power to answer ere she told That he had disappeared—not two months gone. He left his house: two wretched days had past, And on the third, as wistfully she raised Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 665 Like one in trouble, for returning light, Within her chamber-casement she espied A folded paper, lying as if placed To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly She opened—found no writing, but beheld[77] 670 Pieces of money carefully enclosed, Silver and gold. 'I shuddered at the sight,' Said Margaret, 'for I knew it was his hand That must have placed it there; and ere that day Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, 675 From one who by my husband had been sent With the sad news, that he had joined a troop[78] Of soldiers, going to a distant land. —He left me thus—he could not gather heart To take a farewell of me; for he feared 680 That I should follow with my babes, and sink Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' "This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And, when she ended, I had little power 684 To give her comfort, and was glad to take Such words of hope from her own mouth as served To cheer us both. But long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 690 We parted.—'Twas the time of early spring; I left her busy with her garden tools; And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, And, while I paced along the foot-way path, Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 695 With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. "I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, With my accustomed load; in heat and cold, Through many a wood and many an open ground, 700 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal; My best companions now the driving winds, And now the 'trotting brooks'[BB] and whispering trees, And now the music of my own sad steps, With many a short-lived thought that passed between, And disappeared. 706 "I journeyed back this way, When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat[79] Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass,[BC] Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 710 Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, I found that she was absent. In the shade, Where now we sit, I waited her return. Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore Its customary look,—only, it seemed,[80] 715 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed, The yellow stone-crop,[BD] suffered to take root Along the window's edge, profusely grew Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 720 And strolled into her garden. It appeared To lag behind the season, and had lost Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift[BE] Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled O'er paths they used to deck:[81] carnations, once 725 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less For the peculiar pains they had required, Declined their languid heads, wanting support.[82] The cumbrous bind-weed,[BF] with its wreaths and bells, 729 Had twined about her two small rows of peas, And dragged them to the earth. "Ere this an hour Was wasted.—Back I turned my restless steps; [83]A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I sought, He said that she was used to ramble far.— The sun was sinking in the west; and now 735 I sate with sad impatience. From within Her solitary infant cried aloud; Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, The voice was silent. From the bench I rose; But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 740 The spot, though fair, was very desolate— The longer I remained, more desolate: And, looking round me, now I first observed The corner stones, on either side the porch,[84] With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er 745 With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, That fed upon the Common, thither came Familiarly, and found a couching-place Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell From these tall elms; the cottage-clock struck eight;— 750 I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. Her face was pale and thin—her figure, too, Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 'It grieves me you have waited here so long, But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late; And, sometimes—to my shame I speak—have need 756 Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' While on the board she spread our evening meal, She told me—interrupting not the work Which gave employment to her listless hands— 760 That she had parted with her elder child; To a kind master on a distant farm Now happily apprenticed.—'I perceive You look at me, and you have cause; to-day I have been travelling far; and many days 765 About the fields I wander, knowing this Only, that what I seek I cannot find; And so I waste my time: for I am changed; And to myself,' said she, 'have done much wrong And to this helpless infant. I have slept 770 Weeping, and weeping have I waked;[85] my tears Have flowed as if my body were not such As others are; and I could never die. But I am now in mind and in my heart More easy; and I hope,' said she, 'that God[86] 775 Will give me patience to endure the things Which I behold at home.' "It would have grieved Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel The story linger in my heart; I fear 'Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings 780 To that poor Woman:—so familiarly Do I perceive her manner, and her look, And presence; and so deeply do I feel Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks A momentary trance comes over me; 785 And to myself I seem to muse on One By sorrow laid asleep; or borne away, A human being destined to awake To human life, or something very near To human life, when he shall come again 790 For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved Your very soul to see her: evermore Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast;[87] And, when she at her table gave me food, She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 795 Her body was subdued. In every act Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared The careless stillness of a thinking mind Self-occupied; to which all outward things Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 800 But yet no motion of the breast was seen, No heaving of the heart. While by the fire We sate together, sighs came on my ear, I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. "Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 805 For her son's use, some tokens of regard, Which with a look of welcome she received; And I exhorted her to place her trust[88] In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, 810 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then With the best hope and comfort I could give: She thanked me for my wish;—but for my hope It seemed[89] she did not thank me. "I returned, And took my rounds along this road again 815 When[90] on its sunny bank the primrose flower Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. I found her sad and drooping: she had learned No tidings of her husband; if he lived,[91] 819 She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same In person and appearance; but her house Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;[BG] The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 825 Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore Had been piled up against the corner panes In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 830 Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew, And once again entering the garden saw,[92] More plainly still, that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced 835 The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, 840 Which had been twined about the slender stem Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. —Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 845 She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone Ere Robert come again.' When to the House We had returned together, she enquired[93] If I had any hope:—but for her babe And for her little orphan boy, she said, 850 She had no wish to live, that she must die Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place; his sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail; his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door. "And when, 855 In bleak December, I retraced this way, She told me that her little babe was dead, And she was left alone. She now, released From her maternal cares, had taken up The employment common through these wilds, and gained, 860 By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy To give her needful help. That very time Most willingly she put her work aside, And walked with me along the miry road, 865 Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort That any heart had ached to hear her, begged That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then— Our final parting; for from that time forth 870 Did many seasons pass ere I returned Into this tract again. "Nine tedious years; From their first separation, nine long years, She lingered in unquiet widowhood; A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 875 A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day; And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 880 For hours she sate; and evermore her eye Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, Now faint,—the grass has crept o'er its grey line; There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 885 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 890 The little child who sate to turn the wheel Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 895 That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully: Most happy, if, from aught discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 900 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand, At the first nipping of October frost, Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 905 Through the long winter, reckless and alone; Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain, Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, 910 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence; and still that length of road, And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,— 915 In sickness she remained; and here she died; Last human tenant of these ruined walls!"[BH] The old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved; From that low bench, rising instinctively I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 920 To thank him for the tale which he had told. I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it seemed To comfort me while with a brother's love I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 925 Then towards the cottage I returned; and traced Fondly, though with an interest more mild,[94] That secret spirit of humanity Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 930 And silent overgrowings, still survived. The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, "My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more: Nor more would she have craved as due to One 935 Who, in her worst distress, had oft-times felt The unbounded might of prayer; and learned, with soul Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs, From sources deeper far than deepest pain, For the meek Sufferer.[95] Why then should we read 940 The forms of things with an unworthy eye?[96] She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 945 As once I passed, into my heart conveyed[97] So still an image of tranquillity,[BI] So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair 950 From ruin and from change, and all the grief That passing shows[98] of Being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit Whose meditative sympathies repose 955 Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away,[99] And walked along my road in happiness." He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance, which began To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 960 We sate on that low bench: and now we felt, Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 965 The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; Together casting then a farewell look Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 970 A village-inn,—our evening resting-place.

Whom the gods love, die young.

In days of yore how fortunately fared The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall, Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise; 5 Now meeting on his road an armed knight, Now resting with a pilgrim by the side Of a clear brook;—beneath an abbey's roof One evening sumptuously lodged; the next, Humbly in a religious hospital; 10 Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared; He walked—protected from the sword of war By virtue of that sacred instrument 15 His harp, suspended at the traveller's side; His dear companion wheresoe'er he went Opening from land to land an easy way By melody, and by the charm of verse. Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race 20 Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts From his long journeyings and eventful life, Than this obscure Itinerant had skill To gather, ranging through the tamer ground[103] Of these our unimaginative days; 25 Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; And now, when free to move with lighter pace. What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 30 [104]Looked on this guide with reverential love? Each with the other pleased, we now pursued Our journey, under[105] favourable skies. Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass, 35 Rarely a house, that[106] did not yield to him Remembrances; or from his tongue call forth Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, Which nature's various objects might inspire;[107] 40 And in the silence of his face I read His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, And the mute fish that glances in the stream, And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 45 The fowl domestic, and the household dog— In his capacious mind, he loved them all: Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. Oft was occasion given me to perceive How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd 50 To happy contemplation soothed his walk; [108]How the poor brute's condition, forced to run Its course of suffering in the public road, Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart With unavailing pity. Rich in love 55 And sweet humanity, he was, himself, To the degree that he desired, beloved. Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew Greeted us all day long;[109] we took our seats By many a cottage-hearth, where he received 60 The welcome of an Inmate from afar,[110] And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger.[111] —Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, Huts where his charity[112] was blest; his voice 64 Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. And, sometimes—where the poor man held dispute With his own mind, unable to subdue Impatience through inaptness to perceive General distress in his particular lot; Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 70 Struggling against it; with a soul perplexed, And finding in herself[113] no steady power To draw the line of comfort that divides Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, From the injustice of our brother men— 75 To him appeal was made as to a judge; Who, with an understanding heart, allayed The perturbation; listened to the plea; Resolved the dubious point; and sentence gave So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 80 With softened spirit, even when it condemned. Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved, Now as his choice directed, now as mine; Or both, with equal readiness of will, Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 85 Of accident. But when the rising sun Had three times called us to renew our walk, My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, Claimed absolute dominion for the day.[114] 90 We started—and he led me toward the hills,[115] Up through an ample vale, with higher hills Before us, mountains stern and desolate;[BJ] But, in the majesty of distance, now Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 95 Of aspect, with aërial softness clad, And beautified with morning's purple beams. The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 100 Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise; And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease, Shall lack not their enjoyment:—but how faint Compared with ours! who, pacing side by side, 105 Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all That we beheld; and lend the listening sense To every grateful sound of earth and air; Pausing at will—our spirits braced, our thoughts Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, 110 And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. Mount slowly, sun! that we may journey long, By this dark hill protected from thy beams![116] Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish; But quickly from among our morning thoughts[117] 'Twas chased away: for, toward[118] the western side 116 Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, We saw a throng of people;—wherefore met? Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield[119] 120 Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual Wake,[BK] Which the bright season favours.—Tabor and pipe In purpose join to hasten or[120] reprove The laggard Rustic; and repay with boons Of merriment a party-coloured knot, 125 Already formed upon the village-green. —Beyond the limits of the shadow cast By the broad hill,[BL] glistened upon our sight That gay assemblage. Round them and above, Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 130 Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast Of gold, the Maypole shines; as if the rays 135 Of morning, aided by exhaling dew, With gladsome influence could re-animate The faded garlands dangling from its sides. Said I, "The music and the sprightly scene Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join 140 These festive matins?"—He replied, "Not loth To linger I would here[121] with you partake, Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, The simple pastimes of the day and place. By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set, 145 The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed; There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall[122] contend: But know we not that he, who intermits The appointed task and duties of the day, Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day; 150 Checking the finer spirits that refuse To flow, when purposes are lightly changed? A length of journey yet remains untraced: Let us proceed."[123] Then, pointing with his staff Raised toward those craggy summits,[124] his intent He thus imparted:— 155 "In a spot that lies Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed,[BM] You will receive, before the hour of noon, Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, From sight of One who lives secluded there, 160 Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past life, (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be More faithfully collected from himself) This brief communication shall suffice. "Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, 165 Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, Blossoms of piety and innocence.[125] 170 Such grateful promises his youth displayed: And, having shown in study forward zeal, He to the Ministry was duly called; And straight, incited by a curious mind Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge[126] 175 Of Chaplain to a military troop[BN] Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched In plaided vest,—his fellow-countrymen. This office filling, yet[127] by native power And force of native inclination made 180 An intellectual ruler in the haunts Of social vanity, he walked the world, Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety; Lax, buoyant—less a pastor with his flock 184 Than a soldier among soldiers—lived and roamed Where Fortune led:—and Fortune, who oft proves The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known A blooming Lady—a conspicuous flower, Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised; Whom he had sensibility to love, 190 Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. "For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind, Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth, His office he relinquished; and retired From the world's notice to a rural home. 195 Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past, And she was in youth's prime. How free their love, How full their joy! 'Till, pitiable doom![128] In the short course of one undreaded year, Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew 200 Two lovely Children—all that they possessed! The Mother followed:—miserably bare The one Survivor stood; he wept, he prayed For his dismissal, day and night, compelled To hold communion with the grave, and face 205 With pain the regions of eternity.[129] An uncomplaining apathy displaced This anguish; and, indifferent to delight, To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, To private interest dead, and public care. So lived he; so he might have died. 210 "But now, To the wide world's astonishment, appeared A[130] glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, That promised everlasting joy to France![BO] Her voice of social transport[131] reached even him! 215 He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired To the great City, an emporium then Of golden expectations, and receiving Freights every day from a new world of hope. Thither his popular talents he transferred; 220 And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained The cause of Christ and civil liberty, As one, and moving to one glorious end. Intoxicating service! I might say A happy service; for he was sincere 225 As vanity and fondness for applause, And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. "That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) bound, For one hostility, in friendly league,[132] Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves; 230 Was served by rival advocates that came From regions opposite as heaven and hell. One courage seemed to animate them all: And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained By their united efforts, there arose 235 A proud and most presumptuous confidence In the transcendent wisdom of the age, And her[133] discernment; not alone in rights, And in the origin and bounds of power Social and temporal; but in laws divine, 240 Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. An overweening trust was raised; and fear Cast out, alike of person and of thing. Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane The strongest did not easily escape; 245 And He, what wonder! took a mortal taint. How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell That he broke faith with them[134] whom he had laid In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope! An infidel contempt of holy writ 250 Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced; Vilest hypocrisy—the laughing, gay Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls; 255 But, for disciples of the inner school, Old freedom was old servitude, and they The wisest whose opinions stooped the least To known restraints; and who most boldly drew Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 260 That,[135] in the light of false philosophy, Spread like a halo round a misty moon, Widening its circle as the storms advance. "His sacred function was at length renounced; And every day and every place enjoyed 265 The unshackled layman's natural liberty; Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. I do not wish to wrong him; though the course Of private life licentiously displayed Unhallowed actions—planted like a crown 270 Upon the insolent aspiring brow Of spurious notions—worn as open signs Of prejudice subdued—still he[136] retained, 'Mid much[137] abasement, what he had received From nature, an intense and glowing mind. 275 Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, And mortal sickness on her face appeared, He coloured objects to his own desire As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods Of pain were keen as those of better men, 280 Nay keener, as his fortitude was less: And he continued, when worse days were come, To deal about his sparkling eloquence, Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal That showed like happiness. But, in despite 285 Of all this outside bravery, within, He neither felt encouragement nor hope: For moral dignity, and strength of mind, Were wanting; and simplicity of life; And reverence for himself; and, last and best, Confiding thoughts, through[138] love and fear of Him 291 Before whose sight the troubles of this world Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. "The glory of the times fading away— The splendour, which had given a festal air 295 To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled From his own sight—this gone, he forfeited[139] All joy in human nature; was consumed, And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, And fruitless indignation; galled by pride; 300 Made desperate by contempt of men who throve Before his sight in power or fame, and won, Without desert, what he desired; weak men, Too weak even for his envy or his hate! Tormented thus, after a wandering course 305 Of discontent, and inwardly opprest[140] With malady—in part, I fear, provoked By weariness of life—he fixed his home, Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells, 310 And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not[141] Its own voluptuousness;—on this resolved, With this content, that he will live and die Forgotten,—at safe distance from 'a world Not moving to his mind.'"[BP] 315 These serious words Closed the preparatory notices That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile[142] The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.[BQ] Diverging now (as if his quest had been[143] 320 Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall Of water, or some lofty eminence,[144] Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, A steep ascent;[BR] and reached a dreary plain,[145][BS] 325 With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops Before us;[BT] savage region! which I paced Dispirited:[146] when, all at once, behold! Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,[BU] A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 330 Among the mountains; even as if the spot Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs So placed, to be shut out from all the world! Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn;[BU] 334 With rocks encompassed, save that to the south Was one small opening,[BV] where a heath-clad ridge Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close; A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,[BW] A liquid pool that glittered in the sun,[BX] And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more![BY] 340 It seemed the home of poverty and toil, Though not of want: the little fields, made green By husbandry of many thrifty years, Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house. —There crows the cock, single in his domain: 345 The small birds find in spring no thicket there To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. Ah! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here! 350 Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease Upon a bed of heath;—full many a spot Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy Among the mountains; never one like this; So lonesome, and so perfectly secure; 355 Not melancholy—no, for it is green, And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself With the few needful things that[147] life requires. —In rugged arms how softly does it lie,[148] How tenderly protected! Far and near 360 We have an image of the pristine earth, The planet in its nakedness: were this Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, First, last, and single, in the breathing world, It could not be more quiet: peace is here 365 Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale Of public news or private; years that pass Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay The common penalties of mortal life, Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 370 On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay In silence musing by my Comrade's side,[149] He also silent; when from out the heart Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, Or several voices in one solemn sound, 375 Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow The cadence, as of psalms—a funeral dirge![BZ] We listened, looking down upon the hut,[150] But seeing no one: meanwhile from below The strain continued, spiritual as before; 380 And now distinctly could I recognise These words:—'Shall in the grave thy love be known, In death thy faithfulness?'—"God rest his soul!"[151] Said the old man,[152] abruptly breaking silence,— "He is departed, and finds peace at last!" 385 This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band Of rustic persons, from behind the hut Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which They shaped their course along the sloping side 390 Of that small valley, singing as they moved;[CA] A sober company and few, the men Bare-headed, and all decently attired! Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued 395 Recovering, to my Friend I said, "You spake, Methought, with apprehension that these rites Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat This day we purposed to intrude."—"I did so, But let us hence, that we may learn the truth: 400 Perhaps it is not he[153] but some one else For whom this pious service is performed; Some other tenant of the solitude." So, to a steep and difficult descent Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, 405 Where passage could be won;[CB] and, as the last Of the mute train, behind[154] the heathy top Of that off-sloping outlet,[CC] disappeared, I, more impatient in my downward course,[155] Had landed upon easy ground; and there 410 Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold An object that enticed my steps aside! A narrow, winding, entry opened out[156] Into a platform—that lay, sheepfold-wise, Enclosed between an upright[157] mass of rock 415 And one old moss-grown wall;—a cool recess, And fanciful! For where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed By thrusting two rude staves into the wall[158] And overlaying them with mountain sods; 420 To weather-fend a little turf-built seat Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands![CD] Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show[159] 425 Of baby-houses, curiously arranged; Nor wanting ornament of walks between, With mimic trees inserted in the turf, And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 429 I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,[160] "Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,[CE] 435 Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise One of those petty structures. "His it must be!" Exclaimed the Wanderer, "cannot but be his,[161] And he is gone!"[162] The book, which in my hand Had opened of itself (for it was swoln 440 With searching damp, and seemingly had lain To the injurious elements exposed From week to week,) I found to be a work In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 444 His famous Optimist. "Unhappy Man!" Exclaimed my Friend: "here then has been to him Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place Within how deep a shelter! He had fits, Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, And loved the haunts of children: here, no doubt, Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, 451 Or sate companionless; and here the book, Left and forgotten in his careless way, Must by the cottage-children have been found:[163] Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work! 455 To what odd purpose have the darlings turned This sad memorial of their hapless friend!" "Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find Such book in such a place!"—" A book it is," He answered,"to the Person suited well, 460 Though little suited to surrounding things: 'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here,[164] With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!— Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, 465 As from these intimations I forebode, Grieved shall I be—less for my sake than yours, And least of all for him who is no more." By this, the book was in the old Man's hand; 469 And he continued, glancing on the leaves An eye of scorn:—"The lover," said he, "doomed To love when hope hath failed him—whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide, Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, And that is joy to him. When change of times 475 Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give The faithful servant, who must hide his head Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, And he too hath his comforter. How poor, 480 Beyond all poverty how destitute, Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him No dearer relique, and no better stay, Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,[CF] 485 Impure conceits discharging from a heart Hardened by impious pride!—I did not fear To tax you with this journey;"—mildly said My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped Into the presence of the cheerful light— 490 "For I have knowledge that you do not shrink From moving spectacles;—but let us on." So speaking, on he went, and at the word I followed, till he made a sudden stand: For full in view, approaching through a[165] gate 495 That opened from the enclosure of green fields Into the rough uncultivated ground,[CG] Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead! I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress,[166] That it could be no other; a pale face, 500 A meagre person, tall, and in a garb[167] Not rustic—dull and faded like himself! He saw us not, though distant but few steps; For he was busy, dealing, from a store Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 505 Of red ripe currants;[168] gift by which he strove, With intermixture of endearing words, To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping As if disconsolate.—"They to the grave Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, 510 "To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain; His body is at rest, his soul in heaven." More might have followed—but my honoured Friend Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 514 And cordial greeting.—Vivid was the light That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes;[169][CH] He was all fire: no shadow on his brow Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.[170] Hands joined he with his Visitant,—a grasp, An eager grasp; and many moments' space— 520 When the first glow of pleasure was no more, And, of the sad appearance which at once Had vanished, much was come and coming back—[171] An amicable smile retained the life Which it had unexpectedly received, 525 Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, "Nor could your coming have been better timed; For this, you see, is in our narrow[172] world A day of sorrow. I have here a charge"— And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 530 The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child— "A little mourner, whom it is my task To comfort;—but how came ye?—if yon track (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 535 Ye could not miss the funeral train—they yet Have scarcely disappeared." "This blooming Child," Said the old Man, "is of an age to weep At any grave or solemn spectacle, Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, 540 He knows not wherefore;—but the boy to-day, Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you also[173] Must have sustained a loss."—"The hand of Death," He answered, "has been here; but could not well Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 545 Upon myself."—The other left these words Unnoticed, thus continuing— "From yon crag, Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, We heard the hymn they sang—a solemn sound Heard any where; but in a place like this 550 'Tis more than human! Many precious rites And customs of our rural ancestry Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, Will last for ever.[CI] Oft on my way have I Stood still, though but a casual passenger, 555 So much I felt the awfulness of life,[174] In that one moment when the corse is lifted In silence, with a hush of decency; Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home, 560 Its final home on earth.[175] What traveller—who— (How far soe'er a stranger) does not own The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, A mute procession on the houseless road; Or passing by some single tenement 565 Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise The monitory voice? But most of all It touches, it confirms, and elevates, Then, when the body, soon to be consigned Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, 570 Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne Upon the shoulders of the next in love, The nearest in affection or in blood; Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt Beside the coffin, resting on its lid 575 In silent grief their unuplifted heads,[CJ] And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, And that most awful scripture which declares We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed! —Have I not seen—ye likewise may have seen— 580 Son, husband, brothers—brothers side by side, And son and father also side by side, Rise from that posture:—and in concert move, On the green turf following the vested Priest, Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, 585 From which they do not shrink, and under which They faint not, but advance towards the open grave[176] Step after step—together, with their firm Unhidden faces: he that suffers most, He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, 590 The most serene, with most undaunted eye!— Oh! blest are they who live and die like these, Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!" "That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile Which did not please me, "must be deemed, I fear, 596 Of the unblest; for he will surely sink Into his mother earth without such pomp Of grief, depart without occasion given By him for such array of fortitude. 600 Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark! This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, And I shall miss him; scanty tribute! yet, This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, If love were his sole claim upon their care, 605 Like a ripe date which in the desert falls Without a hand to gather it." At this I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, "Can it be thus among so small a band As ye must needs be here? in such a place 610 I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight Of a departing cloud."—"'Twas not for love" Answered the sick Man with a careless voice— "That I came hither; neither have I found Among associates who have power of speech, 615 Nor in such other converse as is here, Temptation so prevailing as to change That mood, or undermine my first resolve." Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said To my benign Companion,—"Pity 'tis 620 That fortune did not guide you to this house A few days earlier; then would you have seen What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, That seems by Nature hollowed out to be The seat and bosom of pure innocence,[177] 625 Are made of, an ungracious matter this! Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too Of past discussions with this zealous friend And advocate of humble life, I now Will force upon his notice; undeterred 630 By the example of his own pure course, And that respect and deference which a soul May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched In what she most doth value, love of God[178] And his frail creature Man;—but ye shall hear. 635 I talk—and ye are standing in the sun Without refreshment!" Quickly had he spoken, And, with light steps still quicker than his words, Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot;[179] And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door, 640 Had almost a forbidding nakedness; Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair, Than it appeared when from the beetling rock[180] We had looked down upon it. All within, As left by the[181] departed company, 645 Was silent; save the solitary clock That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.—[182] Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs And reached a small apartment dark and low, Which was no sooner entered than our Host 650 Said gaily, "This is my domain, my cell, My hermitage, my cabin, what you will— I love it better than a snail his house. But now ye shall be feasted with our best."[CK] So, with more ardour than an unripe girl 655 Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, He went about his hospitable task. My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend, As if to thank him; he returned that look, 660 Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck Had we about us![183] scattered was the floor, And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers, And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools 665 Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some[184] Scribbled with verse: a broken angling-rod And shattered telescope, together linked By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook; And instruments of music, some half-made, 670 Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. But speedily the promise was fulfilled; A feast before us, and a[185] courteous Host Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board; 676 And was itself half-covered with a store[186] Of dainties,—oaten bread, curd,[187] cheese, and cream; And cakes of butter curiously embossed, Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers 680 A golden hue, delicate as their own Faintly reflected in a lingering stream."[188] Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, Our table small parade of garden fruits, And whortle-berries from the mountain side. 685 The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, Was now[189] a help to his late comforter, And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, Ministering to our need. In genial mood, While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 690 Fronting the window of that little cell, I could not, ever and anon, forbear To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, That from some other vale peered into this.[CL] "Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, "if here 695 It were your lot to dwell, would soon become[190] Your prized companions.—Many are the notes Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores; And well those lofty brethren bear their part 700 In the wild concert—chiefly when the storm Rides high; then all the upper air they fill With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, Like smoke, along the level of the blast, In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song 705 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, Methinks that I have heard them echo back The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's laws Left them ungifted with a power to yield 710 Music of finer tone;[191] a harmony, So do I call it, though it be the hand Of silence, though there be no voice;—the clouds, The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, Motions of moonlight, all come thither—touch, 715 And have an answer—thither come, and shape A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits:—there the sun himself, At the calm close of summer's longest day,[CM] Rests his substantial orb;—between those heights 720 And on the top of either pinnacle, More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man Than the mute agents stirring there:—alone Here do I sit and watch."—[CN] 725 A fall of voice, Regretted like the nightingale's last note, Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of rapture Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said:[192] "Now for the tale with which you threatened us!" 730 "In truth the threat escaped me unawares: Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind, As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed[193] When ye looked down upon us from the crag, 735 Islanders mid[194] a stormy mountain sea, We are not so;—perpetually we touch Upon the vulgar ordinances[195] of the world; And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day Relinquished, lived[196] dependent for his bread 740 Upon the laws of public charity. The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains As might from that occasion be distilled, Opened, as she before had done for me, Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner; 745 The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare Which appetite required—a blind dull nook, Such as she had, the kennel of his rest! This, in itself not ill, would yet have been Ill borne in earlier life; but his was now 750 The still contentedness of seventy years. Calm did he sit under[197] the wide-spread tree Of his old age: and yet less calm and meek, Winningly meek or venerably calm, Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise 755 A penalty, if penalty it were, For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. I loved the old Man, for I pitied him! A task it was, I own, to hold discourse With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, 760 But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes; Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way, And helpful[198] to his utmost power: and there Our housewife knew full well what she possessed He was her vassal of all labour, tilled 765 Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine; And, one among the orderly array Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun Maintained his place; or heedfully pursued His course, on errands bound, to other vales, 770 Leading sometimes an inexperienced child Too young for any profitable task. So moved he like a shadow that performed Substantial service.[CO] Mark me now, and learn For what reward!—The moon her monthly round 775 Hath not completed since our dame, the queen Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, Into my little sanctuary rushed— Voice to a rueful treble humanised, And features in deplorable dismay. 780 I treat the matter lightly, but, alas! It is most serious: persevering rain[199] Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain tops Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides; This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake, 785 Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend— Who at her bidding, early and alone, Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland[200] turf For winter fuel—to his noontide meal Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights[201] 790 Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 'Inhuman!'—said I, 'was an old Man's life Not worth the trouble of a thought?—alas! This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw Her husband enter—from a distant vale. 795 We sallied forth together; found the tools Which the neglected veteran had dropped, But through all quarters looked for him in vain. We shouted—but no answer! Darkness fell Without remission of the blast or shower, 800 And fears for our own safety drove us home. "I, who weep little, did, I will confess, The moment I was seated here alone, Honour my little cell with some few tears Which anger and[202] resentment could not dry. 805 All night the storm endured; and, soon as help Had been collected from the neighbouring vale, With morning we renewed our quest: the wind Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist; 810 And long and hopelessly we sought in vain: 'Till, chancing on that[203] lofty ridge to pass A heap of ruin—almost without walls And wholly without roof (the bleached remains Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, 815 The peasants of these lonely valleys used To meet for worship on that central height)— We there espied the object of our search,[204] Lying full three parts buried among tufts Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 820 To baffle, as he might, the watery storm: And there we found him breathing peaceably, Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. We spake—he made reply, but would not stir 825 At our entreaty; less from want of power Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.[CP] "So was he lifted gently from the ground, And with their freight homeward the shepherds[205] moved Through the dull mist, I following—when a step, 830 A single step, that freed me from the skirts Of the blind vapour, opened to my view Glory beyond all glory ever seen By waking sense or by the dreaming soul! The appearance,[206] instantaneously disclosed, 835 Was of a mighty city—boldly say A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a boundless[207] depth, Far sinking into splendour—without end! Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 840 With alabaster domes, and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts 845 Bore stars—illumination of all gems! By earthly nature had the effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified; on them, and on the coves And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 850 The vapours had receded, taking there Their station under a cerulean sky. Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight! Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 855 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, Molten together, and composing thus, Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 860 In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. Right in the midst, where interspace appeared Of open court, an object like a throne Under[208] a shining canopy of state Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen 865 To implements of ordinary use, But vast in size, in substance glorified; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision[CQ]—forms uncouth of mightiest power For admiration and mysterious awe. 870 This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,[209] Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible— I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the revealed abode 874 Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart Swelled in my breast.—'I have been dead,' I cried, 'And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I live?' And with that pang I prayed to be no more!— —But I forget our Charge, as utterly I then forgot him:—there I stood and gazed: 880 The apparition faded not away, And I descended.[CR] "Having reached the house, I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, And in serene possession of himself, Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed met 885 By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam Of comfort, spread over his pallid face.[210] Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly Was glad to find her conscience set at ease; And not less glad, for sake of her good name, 890 That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. But, though he seemed at first to have received No harm, and uncomplaining as before Went through his usual tasks, a silent change Soon showed itself: he lingered three short weeks; 895 And from the cottage hath been borne to-day. "So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am That it is ended." At these words he turned— And, with blithe air of open fellowship, Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 900 Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, My grey-haired Friend said courteously—"Nay, nay, You have regaled us as a hermit ought; Now let us forth into the sun!"—Our Host Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went.