Chapter II: Part 2

"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
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed; 5
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.
--To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 10
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,
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; 15
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
Inviolate retirement, subject there 20
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--
In holiest mood.[1] Urania,[P] I shall need 25
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
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 30
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--
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 35
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
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man-- 40
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
From earth's materials--waits upon my steps; 45
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
A history only of departed things, 50
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
A simple produce of the common day. 55
--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,
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 60
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
Of the whole species) to the external World 65
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
Can it be called) which they with blended might 70
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
Of madding passions mutually inflamed; 75
Must hear Humanity in fields and groves
Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore
Within the walls of cities--may these sounds 80
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,
Dreaming on things to come;[R] and dost possess 85
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,
Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 90
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
Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 95
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!
Whose gracious favour is the primal source 101
Of all illumination--may my Life
Express the image of a better time,
More wise desires, and simpler manners;--nurse
My Heart in genuine freedom:--all pure thoughts 105
Be with me;--so shall thy unfailing love
Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end!"

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 1: 1845.

Holiest of Men.-- ... 1814.
]

[Footnote 2: 1827.

--Come thou prophetic Spirit, ... 1814.
]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote K: The grounds of Lowther Castle. Compare the sonnet in "Poems, composed or suggested during a Tour, in the Summer of 1833," beginning--

Lowther! in thy majestic Pile are seen. ED.
]

[Footnote L: The Lowther stream, rising among the Shap Fells, joins the Emont at Brougham Castle.--ED.]

[Footnote M: _The Prelude_.--ED.]

[Footnote N: As they were--according to their Author's somewhat arbitrary classification--in the editions of 1815 and subsequent years.--ED.]

[Footnote O: See _Paradise Lost_, book vii. l. 31.--ED.]

[Footnote P: "Daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne. She was regarded as the Muse of Astronomy, and was represented with a celestial globe, to which she points with a little staff" (Hirt. _Mythol. Bilderb._ p. 210).--ED.]

[Footnote Q: Compare _The Prelude_, book i. l. 191 (see vol. iii. p. 138, notes * and ☨); Strabo, 1; Pliny, 6, c. 31 and 32; Horace, _Odes_ IV., 8, v. 27; Plutarch, _The Life of Sertorius_.--ED.]

[Footnote R: See Wordsworth's note (p. 383).--ED.]

Book First

THE WANDERER[S]

ARGUMENT

_A summer forenoon--The Author reaches a ruined Cottage upon a
Common, and there meets with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, of
whose education and course of life he gives an account[3]--The
Wanderer, while resting under the shade of the Trees that
surround the Cottage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant._

'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
A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 5
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]
Extends his careless limbs along the front 10
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,
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene,[V] 15
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
Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy.[6] 20
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,
And ever with me as I paced along.[8] 25

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]
Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls 30
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.
There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 35
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
Afforded, to the figure of the man[11] 41
Detained for contemplation or repose,
Graceful support; his countenance as he stood
Was hidden from my view, and he remained[12]
Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight, 45
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
He by appointment waited for me here, 50
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,
To which at intervals the Wanderer drew,[14] 55
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.
As I grew up, it was my best delight 60
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
Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 65
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
As cool refreshing water, by the care 70
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
To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 75
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]
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 80
(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,
Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 85
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,
Husbanding that which they possess within, 90
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.
But, as the mind was filled with inward light,[AA] 95
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
The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 100
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,
The high and tender Muses shall accept 105
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,
An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 110
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
Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 115
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;
But, through the inclement and the perilous days 120
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
Of minster clock! From that bleak tenement 125
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
To whom he might confess the things he saw. 131

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,
Had he[23] perceived the presence and the power 135
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]
[25]A precious gift; for, as he grew in years, 140
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
An active power to fasten images 145
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
Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 150
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,
And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 155
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,
Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 160
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,
And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, 165
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.
But eagerly he read, and read again, 170
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
Of persecution, and the Covenant--times 175
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,
Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 180
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!
In his heart, 185
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]
Or flowing from the universal face 190
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,
Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 195
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--
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 201
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]
Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 205
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,
And by them did he live; they were his life. 210
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;
Rapt into still communion that transcends 215
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,
Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 220
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
The mystery, the life which cannot die; 225
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:
There littleness was not; the least of things 230
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
Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude, 236
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
In oft-recurring hours[31] of sober thought 240
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]
He duly went with what small overplus 245
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,
The divine Milton.[AK] Lore of different kind, 250
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,
(Especially perceived where nature droops 255
And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind
Busy in solitude and poverty.
These occupations oftentimes deceived
The listless hours, while in the hollow vale,
Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 260
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,
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 265
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.
While yet he lingered in the rudiments 270
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
That[38] is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 275
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]

And thus before his eighteenth year was told, 280
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,
And the first virgin passion of a soul 285
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
Tempestuous nights--the conflict and the sounds 290
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
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 295
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
To mitigate the fever of his heart. 300

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
Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 305
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
Of humble industry that[44] promised best 310
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]
A task he was unable to perform. 315

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
Like their own stedfast clouds) did now impel 320
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,
Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest;[46] 325
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
In rustic sequestration--all dependent 330
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
By perseverance in this track of life 335
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
Foreboding evil. From his native hills 340
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,
That,[49] 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 345
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
The better portion of his time; and there 350
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
His mind in a just equipoise of love. 355
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,
No wild varieties of joy and grief. 360
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
To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 365
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
With coward fears. He could _afford_ to suffer 370
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,
He had observed the progress and decay 375
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
Among the unthinking masters of the earth 380
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
With needless services, from hardship free. 385
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
And journey far, revisiting the scenes 390
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
By knowledge gathered up from day to day; 395
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
Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 400
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,
By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 405
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
Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; 410
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
A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 415
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.
Plain his garb; 420
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
And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 425
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
From years of youth;[AS] which, like a Being made 430
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
Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 435
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,
The shadows of the breezy elms above 440
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
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 445
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]
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 450
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,
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 456
Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems,
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap[61]
The broken wall. I looked around, and there,
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 460
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
Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench; 465
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
Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, 470
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]
--The Poets, in their elegies and songs 475
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
Obedient to the strong creative power 480
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,
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 485
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
In mortal stillness; and they ministered 490
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
To the soft handling of the elements: 495
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
As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,[AV] 500
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
From that forsaken spring; and no one came 505
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,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 510

"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;
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 515
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.
Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 520
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]
In summer, ere the mower was abroad 525
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,
After his daily work, until the light 530
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.

"Not twenty years ago, but you I think 535
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:
This happy Land was stricken to the heart! 540
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;
And of the poor did many cease to be, 545
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
With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 550
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
The hour of accident or crippling age, 555
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
From ill-requited labour turned adrift 560
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
That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks![66] 565
"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
That had no mirth in them;[AY] or with his knife 570
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,
Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 575
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:
And poverty brought on a petted mood 580
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.
One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585
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,'
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 590
'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,
This hour when all things which are not at rest 595
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,
And in the weakness of humanity, 600
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?"

* * * * *

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 605
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
Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 610
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
Her homely tale with such familiar power, 615
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.
I rose; and, having left the breezy shade, 620
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.
He replied, 625
"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
A momentary pleasure, never marked 630
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,
I am a dreamer among men, indeed 635
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.
"While thus it fared with them, 640
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
What pleasant expectations lured me on 645
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
Speechless,--and, sitting down upon a chair, 650
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:--
With fervent love, and with a face of grief 655
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,
Nor had I power to answer ere she told 660
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,
Like one in trouble, for returning light, 665
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]
Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 670
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,
From one who by my husband had been sent 675
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
That I should follow with my babes, and sink 680
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.'

"This tale did Margaret tell with many tears:
And, when she ended, I had little power
To give her comfort, and was glad to take 684
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.
We parted.--'Twas the time of early spring; 690
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,
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 695
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,
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 700
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.
"I journeyed back this way, 706
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
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 710
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]
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 715
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,
And strolled into her garden. It appeared 720
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
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 725
For the peculiar pains they had required,
Declined their languid heads, wanting support.[82]
The cumbrous bind-weed,[BF] with its wreaths and bells,
Had twined about her two small rows of peas, 729
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
I sate with sad impatience. From within 735
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.
The spot, though fair, was very desolate-- 740
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
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, 745
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;--
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 750
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
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 756
While on the board she spread our evening meal,
She told me--interrupting not the work
Which gave employment to her listless hands--
That she had parted with her elder child; 760
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
About the fields I wander, knowing this 765
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
Weeping, and weeping have I waked;[85] my tears 770
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]
Will give me patience to endure the things 775
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
To that poor Woman:--so familiarly 780
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;
And to myself I seem to muse on One 785
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
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 790
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,
Her body was subdued. In every act 795
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,
But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 800
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,
For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 805
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,
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 810
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
When[90] on its sunny bank the primrose flower 815
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]
She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, 819
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,
Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 825
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
Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 830
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
The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: 835
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,
Which had been twined about the slender stem 840
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,
She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone 845
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,
She had no wish to live, that she must die 850
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,
In bleak December, I retraced this way, 855
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,
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 860
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,
Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort 865
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
Did many seasons pass ere I returned 870
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
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, 875
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
For hours she sate; and evermore her eye 880
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
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 885
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,
The little child who sate to turn the wheel 890
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,
That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, 895
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
The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 900
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
Through the long winter, reckless and alone; 905
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,
Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 910
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,--
In sickness she remained; and here she died; 915
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
To thank him for the tale which he had told. 920
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.
Then towards the cottage I returned; and traced 925
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,
And silent overgrowings, still survived. 930
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
Who, in her worst distress, had oft-times felt 935
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
The forms of things with an unworthy eye?[96] 940
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,
As once I passed, into my heart conveyed[97] 945
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
From ruin and from change, and all the grief 950
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
Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away,[99] 955
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,
We sate on that low bench: and now we felt, 960
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.
The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 965
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
A village-inn,--our evening resting-place. 970

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 3: 1836.

_the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account_-- 1814.
]

[Footnote 4: 1827.

From many a brooding cloud; far as the sight
Could reach, those many shadows lay in spots 1814.
]

[Footnote 5: 1845.

Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 1814.
]

[Footnote 6: 1845.

By that impending covert made more soft,
More low and distant! Other lot was mine;
Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain
As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 1814.

By power of that impending covert thrown
To finer distance. Other lot was mine; 1827.

... Other lot was mine;
Though with good hope to cheer the sultry hour
That under shade as grateful I should soon
Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. C.

... Mine was at that hour
A toilsome lot, yet with good hope that soon
Under a shade as grateful I should find C.
]

[Footnote 7: 1845.

With languid feet, which by the slippery ground 1814.

With languid steps that ... 1827.
]

[Footnote 8:

Across a bare wide common I was toiling
When oft each footstep by the slippery turf
Was baffled: nor could my arm disperse
The host of insects gathered round my face,
And ever with me as I paced along.
Now with eyes turned towards the far-distant hills,
Now towards a grove that from the wide-spread moor
Rose up! the port to which my course was bound. C.
]

[Footnote 9: 1845.

Upon that open level stood a Grove,
The wished-for Port to which my steps were bound. 1814.

... my course was bound. 1827.
] [Footnote 10: 1845.

Him whom I sought; ... 1814.
]

[Footnote 11: 1827.

And in the middle of the public way
Stationed, as if to rest himself, with face
Turned tow'rds the sun then setting, while that staff
Afforded to his Figure, as he stood,

1814.

Him had I chanced to mark the day before
Alone, and stationed in the public way;
Westward he looked as if his gaze were fixed
Upon the sun then setting, ... C.
]

[Footnote 12: 1845.

... the countenance of the Man
Was hidden from my view, and he himself 1814.

... his countenance meanwhile
Was hidden from my view, and he remain'd 1827.
]

[Footnote 13: C. and 1845.

Beneath the shelter ... 1814.
]

[Footnote 14: 1845.