The Excursion

by William Wordsworth

Table of contents

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- PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814

- BOOK FIRST THE WANDERER ARGUMENT

- BOOK SECOND THE SOLITARY ARGUMENT

- BOOK THIRD DESPONDENCY ARGUMENT

- BOOK FOURTH DESPONDENCY CORRECTED ARGUMENT

- BOOK FIFTH THE PASTOR ARGUMENT

- BOOK SIXTH THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS ARGUMENT

- BOOK SEVENTH THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS—(continued) ARGUMENT

- BOOK EIGHTH THE PARSONAGE ARGUMENT

- BOOK NINTH DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE ARGUMENT

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Something must now be said of this poem, but chiefly, as has been done through the whole of these notes, with reference to my personal friends, and especially to her who has perseveringly taken them down from my dictation. Towards the close of the first book stand the lines that were first written, beginning, “Nine tedious years,” and ending, “Last human tenant of these ruined walls.” These were composed in '95 at Racedown; and for several passages describing the employment and demeanour of Margaret during her affliction, I was indebted to observations made in Dorsetshire, and afterwards at Alfoxden in Somersetshire, where I resided in '97 and '98. The lines towards the conclusion of the fourth book—beginning, “For, the man, who, in this spirit,” to the words “intellectual soul”—were in order of time composed the next, either at Racedown or Alfoxden, I do not remember which. The rest of the poem was written in the vale of Grasmere, chiefly during our residence at Allan Bank. The long poem on my own education was, together with many minor poems, composed while we lived at the cottage at Town-end. Perhaps my purpose of giving an additional interest to these my poems in the eyes of my nearest and dearest friends may be promoted by saying a few words upon the character of the Wanderer, the Solitary, and the Pastor, and some other of the persons introduced. And first, of the principal one, the Wanderer. My lamented friend Southey (for this is written a month after his decease) used to say that had he been born a papist, the course of life which would in all probability have been his was the one for which he was most fitted and most to his mind,—that of a Benedictine monk in a convent, furnished, as many once were and some still are, with an inexhaustible library. 'Books', as appears from many passages in his writings, and as was evident to those who had opportunities of observing his daily life, were in fact 'his passion'; and 'wandering', I can with truth affirm, was 'mine'; but this propensity in me was happily counteracted by inability from want of fortune to fulfil my wishes. But, had I been born in a class which would have deprived me of what is called a liberal education, it is not unlikely that, being strong in body, I should have taken to a way of life such as that in which my Pedlar passed the greater part of his days. At all events, I am here called upon freely to acknowledge that the character I have represented in his person is chiefly an idea of what I fancied my own character might have become in his circumstances. Nevertheless, much of what he says and does had an external existence that fell under my own youthful and subsequent observation. An individual named Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, followed this humble occupation for many years, and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal. He married a kinswoman of my wife's, and her sister Sarah was brought up from her ninth year under this good man's roof. My own imaginations I was happy to find clothed in reality, and fresh ones suggested, by what she reported of this man's tenderness of heart, his strong and pure imagination, and his solid attainments in literature, chiefly religious whether in prose or verse. At Hawkshead also, while I was a schoolboy, there occasionally resided a Packman (the name then generally given to persons of this calling) with whom I had frequent conversations upon what had befallen him, and what he had observed, during his wandering life; and, as was natural, we took much to each other: and, upon the subject of “Pedlarism” in general, as 'then' followed, and its favourableness to an intimate knowledge of human concerns, not merely among the humbler classes of society, I need say nothing here in addition to what is to be found in the “Excursion,” and a note attached to it. Now for the Solitary. Of him I have much less to say. Not long after we took up our abode at Grasmere, came to reside there, from what motive I either never knew or have forgotten, a Scotchman a little past the middle of life, who had for many years been chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was in no respect as far as I know, an interesting character, though in his appearance there was a good deal that attracted attention, as if he had been shattered in fortune and not happy in mind. Of his quondam position I availed myself, to connect with the Wanderer, also a Scotchman, a character suitable to my purpose, the elements of which I drew from several persons with whom I had been connected, and who fell under my observation during frequent residences in London at the beginning of the French Revolution. The chief of these was, one may 'now' say, a Mr. Fawcett, a preacher at a dissenting meeting-house at the Old Jewry. It happened to me several times to be one of his congregation through my connection with Mr. Nicholson of Cateaton Street, who at that time, when I had not many acquaintances in London, used often to invite me to dine with him on Sundays; and I took that opportunity (Mr. N. being a dissenter) of going to hear Fawcett, who was an able and eloquent man. He published a poem on war, which had a good deal of merit, and made me think more about him than I should otherwise have done. But his Christianity was probably never very deeply rooted; and, like many others in those times of like showy talents, he had not strength of character to withstand the effects of the French Revolution, and of the wild and lax opinions which had done so much towards producing it, and far more in carrying it forward in its extremes. Poor Fawcett, I have been told, became pretty much such a person as I have described; and early disappeared from the stage, having fallen into habits of intemperance, which I have heard (though I will not answer for the fact) hastened his death. Of him I need say no more: there were many like him at that time, which the world will never be without, but which were more numerous then for reasons too obvious to be dwelt upon.

To what is said of the Pastor in the poem I have little to add, but what may be deemed superfluous. It has ever appeared to me highly favourable to the beneficial influence of the Church of England upon all gradations and classes of society, that the patronage of its benefices is in numerous instances attached to the estates of noble families of ancient gentry; and accordingly I am gratified by the opportunity afforded me in the “Excursion,” to pourtray the character of a country clergyman of more than ordinary talents, born and bred in the upper ranks of society so as to partake of their refinements, and at the same time brought by his pastoral office and his love of rural life into intimate connection with the peasantry of his native district. To illustrate the relation which in my mind this Pastor bore to the Wanderer, and the resemblance between them, or rather the points of community in their nature, I likened one to an oak and the other to a sycamore; and, having here referred to this comparison, I need only add, I had no one individual in my mind, wishing rather to embody this idea than to break in upon the simplicity of it, by traits of individual character or of any peculiarity of opinion.

And now for a few words upon the scene where these interviews and conversations are supposed to occur. The scene of the first book of the poem is, I must own, laid in a tract of country not sufficiently near to that which soon comes into view in the second book, to agree with the fact. All that relates to Margaret and the ruined cottage, etc., was taken from observations made in the south-west of England, and certainly it would require more than seven-league boots to stretch in one morning from a common in Somersetshire or Dorsetshire to the heights of Furness Fells and the deep valleys they embosom. For thus dealing with space I need make, I trust, no apology, but my friends may be amused by the truth. In the poem, I suppose that the Pedlar and I ascended from a plain country up the vale of Langdale, and struck off a good way above the chapel to the western side of the vale. We ascended the hill and thence looked down upon the circular recess in which lies Blea-Tarn, chosen by the Solitary for his retreat. After we quit his cottage, passing over a low ridge we descend into another vale, that of Little Langdale, towards the head of which stands, embowered or partly shaded by yews and other trees, something between a cottage and a mansion or gentleman's house such as they once were in this country. This I convert into the Parsonage, and at the same time, and as by the waving of a magic wand, I turn the comparatively confined vale of Langdale, its Tarn, and the rude chapel which once adorned the valley, into the stately and comparatively spacious vale of Grasmere, its Lake, and its ancient Parish Church; and upon the side of Loughrigg Fell, at the foot of the Lake, and looking down upon it and the whole vale and its encompassing mountains, the Pastor is supposed by me to stand, when at sunset he addresses his companions in words which I hope my readers will remember, or I should not have taken the trouble of giving so much in detail the materials on which my mind actually worked. Now for a few particulars of 'fact' respecting the persons whose stories are told or characters are described by the different speakers. To Margaret I have already alluded. I will add here, that the lines beginning, “She was a woman of a steady mind,” faithfully delineate, as far as they go, the character possessed in common by many women whom it has been my happiness to know in humble life; and that several of the most touching things which she is represented as saying and doing are taken from actual observation of the distresses and trials under which different persons were suffering, some of them strangers to me, and others daily under my notice. I was born too late to have a distinct remembrance of the origin of the American war, but the state in which I represent Robert's mind to be I had frequent opportunities of observing at the commencement of our rupture with France in '93, opportunities of which I availed myself in the story of the Female Vagrant as told in the poem on “Guilt and Sorrow.” The account given by the Solitary towards the close of the second book, in all that belongs to the character of the Old Man, was taken from a Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last house quitting the vale on the road to Ambleside: the character of his hostess, and all that befell the poor man upon the mountain, belong to Paterdale: the woman I knew well; her name was ——— J———, and she was exactly such a person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel, among which the man was found lying, may yet be traced, and stood upon the ridge that divides Paterdale from Boardale and Martindale, having been placed there for the convenience of both districts. The glorious appearance disclosed above and among the mountains was described partly from what my friend Mr. Luff, who then lived in Paterdale, witnessed upon that melancholy occasion, and partly from what Mrs. Wordsworth and I had seen in company with Sir George and Lady Beaumont above Hartshope Hall on our way from Paterdale to Ambleside.

And now for a few words upon the Church, its Monuments, and the Deceased who are spoken of as lying in the surrounding churchyard. But first for the one picture, given by the Pastor and the Wanderer, of the Living. In this nothing is introduced but what was taken from nature and real life. The cottage is called Hacket, and stands as described on the southern extremity of the ridge which separates the two Langdales: the pair who inhabited it were called Jonathan and Betty Yewdale. Once when our children were ill, of whooping-cough I think, we took them for change of air to this cottage, and were in the habit of going there to drink tea upon fine summer afternoons, so that we became intimately acquainted with the characters, habits, and lives of these good, and, let me say, in the main, wise people. The matron had, in her early youth, been a servant in a house at Hawkshead, where several boys boarded, while I was a schoolboy there. I did not remember her as having served in that capacity; but we had many little anecdotes to tell to each other of remarkable boys, incidents and adventures which had made a noise in their day in that small town. These two persons afterwards settled at Rydal, where they both died.

The church, as already noticed, is that of Grasmere. The interior of it has been improved lately—made warmer by under- drawing the roof and raising the floor—but the rude and antique majesty of its former appearance has been impaired by painting the rafters; and the oak benches, with a simple rail at the back dividing them from each other, have given way to seats that have more the appearance of pews. It is remarkable that, excepting only the pew belonging to Rydal Hall, that to Rydal Mount, the one to the Parsonage, and I believe another, the men and women still continue, as used to be the custom in Wales, to sit separate from each other. Is this practice as old as the Reformation? and when and how did it originate? In the Jewish synagogues and in Lady Huntingdon's chapels the sexes are divided in the same way. In the adjoining churchyard greater changes have taken place. It is now not a little crowded with tombstones; and near the school-house which stands in the churchyard is an ugly structure, built to receive the hearse, which is recently come into use. It would not be worth while to allude to this building or the hearse-vehicle it contains, but that the latter has been the means of introducing a change much to be lamented in the mode of conducting funerals among the mountains. Now, the coffin is lodged in the hearse at the door of the house of the deceased, and the corpse is so conveyed to the churchyard gate: all the solemnity which formerly attended its progress, as described in the poem, is put an end to. So much do I regret this, that I beg to be excused for giving utterance here to a wish that, should it befall me to die at Rydal Mount, my own body may be carried to Grasmere church after the manner in which, till lately, that of every one was borne to that place of sepulture, namely, on the shoulders of neighbours, no house being passed without some words of a funeral psalm being sung at the time by the attendants. When I put into the mouth of the Wanderer, “Many precious rites and customs of our rural ancestry are gone or stealing from us; this I hope will last for ever,” and what follows, little did I foresee that the observance and mode of proceeding, which had often affected me so much, would so soon be superseded. Having said much of the injury done to this churchyard, let me add that one is at liberty to look forward to a time when, by the growth of the yew-trees, thriving there, a solemnity will be spread over the place that will in some degree make amends for the old simple character which has already been so much encroached upon, and will be still more every year. I will here set down, more at length, what has been mentioned in a previous note, that my friend Sir George Beaumont, having long ago purchased the beautiful piece of water called Loughrigg Tarn, on the Banks of which he intended to build, I told him that a person in Kendal who was attached to the place wished to purchase it. Sir George, finding the possession of no use to him, consented to part with it, and placed the purchase-money—twenty pounds—at my disposal for any local use which I thought proper. Accordingly I resolved to plant yew-trees in the churchyard, and had four pretty strong large oak enclosures made, in each of which was planted, under my own eye, and principally if not entirely by my own hand, two young trees, with the intention of leaving the one that throve best to stand. Many years after, Mr. Barber, who will long be remembered in Grasmere; Mr. Greenwood, the chief landed proprietor; and myself, had four other enclosures made in the churchyard at our own expense, in each of which was planted a tree taken from its neighbour, and they all stand thriving admirably, the fences having been removed as no longer necessary. May the trees be taken care of hereafter when we are all gone, and some of them will perhaps at some far distant time rival in majesty the yew of Lorton and those which I have described as growing in Borrowdale, where they are still to be seen in grand assemblage.

And now for the persons that are selected as lying in the churchyard. But first for the individual whose grave is prepared to receive him. His story is here truly related: he was a school- fellow of mine for some years. He came to us when he was at least seventeen years of age, very tall, robust, and full-grown. This prevented him from falling into the amusements and games of the school: consequently he gave more time to books. He was not remarkably bright or quick, but by industry he made a progress more than respectable. His parents not being wealthy enough to send him to college, when he left Hawkshead he became a schoolmaster, with a view to prepare himself for holy orders. About this time he fell in love as related in the poem, and everything followed as there described, except that I do not know when and where he died. The number of youths that came to Hawkshead school, from the families of the humble yeomanry, to be educated to a certain degree of scholarship as a preparation for the church, was considerable, and the fortunes of these persons in after life various of course, and of some not a little remarkable. I have now one of this class in my eye who became an usher in a preparatory school and ended in making a large fortune. His manners when he came to Hawkshead were as uncouth as well could be; but he had good abilities, with skill to turn them to account; and when the master of the school, to which he was usher, died, he stept into his place and became proprietor of the establishment. He contrived to manage it with such address, and so much to the taste of what is called high society and the fashionable world, that no school of the kind, even till he retired, was in such high request. Ministers of state, the wealthiest gentry, and nobility of the first rank, vied with each other in bespeaking a place for their sons in the seminary of this fortunate teacher. In the solitude of Grasmere, while living as a married man in a cottage of eight pounds per annum rent, I often used to smile at the tales which reached me of his brilliant career. Not two hundred yards from the cottage in Grasmere, just mentioned, to which I retired, this gentleman, who many years afterwards purchased a small estate in the neighbourhood, is now erecting a boat-house, with an upper story, to be resorted to as an entertaining-room when he and his associates may feel inclined to take their pastime on the lake. Every passenger will be disgusted with the sight of this edifice, not merely as a tasteless thing in itself, but as utterly out of place, and peculiarly fitted, as far as it is observed (and it obtrudes itself on notice at every point of view), to mar the beauty and destroy the pastoral simplicity of the vale. For my own part and that of my household it is our utter detestation, standing by a shore to which, before the highroad was made to pass that way, we used daily and hourly to repair for seclusion and for the shelter of a grove under which I composed many of my poems, the “Brothers” especially, and for this reason we gave the grove that name.

“That which each man loved

And prized in his peculiar nook of earth

Dies with him, or is changed.”

So much for my old school-fellow and his exploits. I will only add that the foundation has twice failed, from the lake no doubt being intolerant of the intrusion.

The Miner, next described as having found his treasure after twice ten years of labour, lived in Paterdale, and the story is true to the letter. It seems to me, however, rather remarkable that the strength of mind which had supported him through this long unrewarded labour did not enable him to bear its successful issue. Several times in the course of my life I have heard of sudden influxes of great wealth being followed by derangement, and in one instance the shock of good fortune was so great as to produce absolute idiocy: but these all happened where there had been little or no previous effort to acquire the riches, and therefore such a consequence might the more naturally be expected than in the case of the solitary Miner. In reviewing his story, one cannot but regret that such perseverance was not sustained by a worthier object. Archimedes leapt out of his bath and ran about the streets proclaiming his discovery in a transport of joy, but we are not told that he lost either his life or his senses in consequence. The next character, to whom the Priest is led by contrast with the resoluteness displayed by the foregoing, is taken from a person born and bred in Grasmere, by name Dawson; and whose talents, disposition, and way of life were such as are here delineated. I did not know him, but all was fresh in memory when we settled at Grasmere in the beginning of the century. From this point, the conversation leads to the mention of two individuals who, by their several fortunes, were, at different times, driven to take refuge at the small and obscure town of Hawkshead on the skirt of these mountains. Their stories I had from the dear old dame with whom, as a schoolboy and afterwards, I lodged for nearly the space of ten years. The elder, the Jacobite, was named Drummond, and was of a high family in Scotland: the Hanoverian Whig bore the name of Vandeput, and might perhaps be a descendant of some Dutchman who had come over in the train of King William. At all events his zeal was such that he ruined himself by a contest for the representation of London or Westminster, undertaken to support his party; and retired to this corner of the world, selected, as it had been by Drummond, for that obscurity which, since visiting the Lakes became fashionable, it has no longer retained. So much was this region considered out of the way till a late period, that persons who had fled from justice used often to resort hither for concealment; and some were so bold as to, not unfrequently, make excursions from the place of their retreat, for the purpose of committing fresh offences. Such was particularly the case with two brothers of the name of Weston who took up their abode at Old Brathay, I think about seventy years ago. They were highwaymen, and lived there some time without being discovered, though it was known that they often disappeared in a way and upon errands which could not be accounted for. Their horses were noticed as being of a choice breed, and I have heard from the Relph family, one of whom was a saddler in the town of Kendal, that they were curious in their saddles and housings and accoutrements of their horses. They, as I have heard, and as was universally believed, were in the end both taken and hanged.

“Tall was her stature; her complexion dark

And saturnine.”

This person lived at Town-end, and was almost our next neighbour. I have little to notice concerning her beyond what is said in the poem. She was a most striking instance how far a woman may surpass in talent, in knowledge, and culture of mind, those with and among whom she lives, and yet fall below them in Christian virtues of the heart and spirit. It seemed almost, and I say it with grief, that in proportion as she excelled in the one, she failed in the other. How frequently has one to observe in both sexes the same thing, and how mortifying is the reflection!

“As, on a sunny bank, a tender lamb

Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March.”

The story that follows was told to Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister by the sister of this unhappy young woman; and every particular was exactly as I have related. The party was not known to me, though she lived at Hawkshead, but it was after I left school. The clergyman, who administered comfort to her in her distress, I knew well. Her sister who told the story was the wife of a leading yeoman in the vale of Grasmere, and they were an affectionate pair and greatly respected by every one who knew them. Neither lived to be old; and their estate—which was perhaps the most considerable then in the vale, and was endeared to them by many remembrances of a salutary character not easily understood, or sympathised with, by those who are born to great affluence—passed to their eldest son, according to the practice of these vales, who died soon after he came into possession. He was an amiable and promising youth, but was succeeded by an only brother, a good-natured man, who fell into habits of drinking, by which he gradually reduced his property; and the other day the last acre of it was sold, and his wife and children and he himself, still surviving, have very little left to live upon, which it would not perhaps have been worth while to record here but that, through all trials, this woman has proved a model of patience, meekness, affectionate forbearance, and forgiveness. Their eldest son, who, through the vices of his father, has thus been robbed of an ancient family inheritance, was never heard to murmur or complain against the cause of their distress, and is now (1843) deservedly the chief prop of his mother's hopes.

The clergyman and his family described at the beginning of the seventh book were, during many years, our principal associates in the vale of Grasmere, unless I were to except our very nearest neighbours. I have entered so particularly into the main points of their history, that I will barely testify in prose that—with the single exception of the particulars of their journey to Grasmere, which, however, was exactly copied from in another instance—the whole that I have said of them is as faithful to the truth as words can make it. There was much talent in the family: the eldest son was distinguished for poetical talent, of which a specimen is given in my notes to the sonnets to the Duddon. Once, when in our cottage at Town-end I was talking with him about poetry, in the course of conversation I presumed to find fault with the versification of Pope, of whom he was an enthusiastic admirer: he defended him with a warmth that indicated much irritation: nevertheless I would not abandon my point, and said, “In compass and variety of sound your own versification surpasses his.” Never shall I forget the change in his countenance and tone of voice: the storm was laid in a moment; he no longer disputed my judgment, and I passed immediately in his mind, no doubt, for as great a critic as ever lived. I ought to add, he was a clergyman and a well-educated man, and his verbal memory was the most remarkable of any individual I have known, except a Mr. Archer, an Irishman, who lived several years in this neighbourhood, and who, in this faculty, was a prodigy; he afterwards became deranged, and I fear continues so, if alive. Then follows the character of Robert Walker, for which see notes to the Duddon. Then that of the deaf man, whose epitaph may be seen in the churchyard at the head of Haweswater, and whose qualities of mind and heart, and their benign influence in conjunction with his privation, I had from his relatives on the spot. The blind man, next commemorated, was John Gough, of Kendal, a man known, far beyond his neighbourhood, for his talents and attainments in natural history and science. Of the Infant's grave, next noticed, I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under my own observation; and all persons who are intimately acquainted with cottage life must often have observed like instances of the working of the domestic affections.

“A volley thrice repeated o'er the corse

Let down into the hollow of that grave.”

This young volunteer bore the name of Dawson, and was younger brother, if I am not mistaken, to the prodigal of whose character and fortunes an account is given towards the beginning of the preceding book. The father of the family I knew well; he was a man of literary education and of experience in society much beyond what was common among the inhabitants of the vale. He had lived a good while in the Highlands of Scotland, as a manager of iron- works at Bunaw, and had acted as clerk to one of my predecessors in the office of Distributor of Stamps, when he used to travel round the country collecting and bringing home the money due to Government, in gold, which, it may be worth while to mention for the sake of my friends, was deposited in the cell or iron closet under the west window of the long room at Rydal Mount, which still exists with the iron doors that guarded the property. This of course was before the time of Bills and Notes. The two sons of this person had no doubt been led by the knowledge of their father to take more delight in scholarship, and had been accustomed in their own minds to take a wider view of social interests than was usual among their associates. The premature death of this gallant young man was much lamented, and, as an attendant at the funeral, I myself witnessed the ceremony and the effect of it as described in the poem.

“Tradition tells

That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight

Came on a war-horse.”

“The house is gone.”

The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion remained when we first took up our abode at Grasmere. Two or three cottages still remain, which are called Knott-houses from the name of the gentleman (I have called him a knight) concerning whom these traditions survive. He was the ancestor of tho Knott family, formerly considerable proprietors in the district. What follows in the discourse of the Wanderer upon the changes he had witnessed in rural life, by the introduction of machinery, is truly described from what I myself saw during my boyhood and early youth, and from what was often told me by persons of this humble calling. Happily, most happily, for these mountains, the mischief was diverted from the banks of their beautiful streams, and transferred to open and flat countries abounding in coal, where the agency of steam was found much more effectual for carrying on those demoralising works. Had it not been for this invention, long before the present time every torrent and river in this district would have had its factory, large and populous in proportion to the power of the water that could there have been commanded. Parliament has interfered to prevent the night-work which was once carried on in these mills as actively as during the daytime, and by necessity still more perniciously—a sad disgrace to the proprietors, and to the nation which could so long tolerate such unnatural proceedings. Reviewing at this late period, 1843, what I put into the mouths of my interlocutors a few years after the commencement of the century, I grieve that so little progress has been made in diminishing the evils deplored, or promoting the benefits of education which the Wanderer anticipates. The results of Lord Ashley's labours to defer the time when children might legally be allowed to work in factories, and his endeavours to limit still farther the hours of permitted labour, have fallen far short of his own humane wishes, and those of every benevolent and right- minded man who has carefully attended to this subject: and in the present session of Parliament (1843) Sir James Graham's attempt to establish a course of religious education among the children employed in factories has been abandoned, in consequence of what might easily have been foreseen, the vehement and turbulent opposition of the Dissenters: so that, for many years to come, it may be thought expedient to leave the religious instruction of children entirely in the hands of the several denominations of Christians in the island, each body to work according to its own means and in its own way. Such is my own confidence, a confidence I share with many others of my most valued friends, in the superior advantages, both religious and social, which attend a course of instruction presided over and guided by the clergy of the Church of England, that I have no doubt that, if but once its members, lay and clerical, were duly sensible of those benefits, their church would daily gain ground, and rapidly, upon every shape and fashion of Dissent: and in that case, a great majority in Parliament being sensible of these benefits, the Ministers of the country might be emboldened, were it necessary, to apply funds of the State to the support of education on Church principles. Before I conclude, I cannot forbear noticing the strenuous efforts made at this time in Parliament, by so many persons, to extend manufacturing and commercial industry at the expense of agricultural, though we have recently had abundant proofs that the apprehensions expressed by the Wanderer were not groundless.

“I spake of mischief by the wise diffused

With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads

The healthier, the securer, we become—

Delusion which a moment may destroy!”

The Chartists are well aware of this possibility, and cling to it with an ardour and perseverance which nothing but wiser and more brotherly dealing towards the many, on the part of the wealthy few, can moderate or remove.

“While, from the grassy mountain's open side,

We gazed, in silence hushed.”

The point here fixed upon in my imagination is half-way up the northern side of Loughrigg Fell, from which the Pastor and his companions were supposed to look upwards to the sky and mountain- tops, and round the vale, with the lake lying immediately beneath them.

“But turned not without welcome promise made,

That he would share the pleasures and pursuits

Of yet another summer's day, consumed

In wandering with us.”

When I reported this promise of the Solitary, and long after, it was my wish, and I might say intention, that we should resume our wanderings, and pass the Borders into his native country, where, as I hoped, he might witness, in the society of the Wanderer, some religious ceremony—a sacrament, say, in the open fields, or a preaching among the mountains—which, by recalling to his mind the days of his early childhood, when he had been present on such occasions in company with his parents and nearest kindred, might have dissolved his heart into tenderness, and so have done more towards restoring the Christian faith in which he had been educated, and, with that, contentedness and even cheerfulness of mind, than all that the Wanderer and Pastor, by their several effusions and addresses, had been able to effect. An issue like this was in my intentions. But, alas!

“'Mid the wreck of IS and WAS,

Things incomplete and purposes betrayed

Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass

Than noblest objects utterly decayed!”

_____________

TO THE RIGHT HON.

WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K.G.

ETC. ETC.

OFT, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer!

In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent:

And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent,

Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear.

—Now, by thy care befriended, I appear

Before thee, LONSDALE, and this Work present,

A token (may it prove a monument!)

Of high respect and gratitude sincere.

Gladly would I have waited till my task

Had reached its close; but Life is insecure,

And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream:

Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask

Thy favour; trusting that thou wilt not deem

The offering, though imperfect, premature.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND, July 29, 1814.

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814

THE Title-page announces that this is only a portion of a poem; and the Reader must be here apprised that it belongs to the second part of a long and laborious Work, which is to consist of three parts.—The Author will candidly acknowledge that, if the first of these had been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy his own mind, he should have preferred the natural order of publication, and have given that to the world first; but, as the second division of the Work was designed to refer more to passing events, and to an existing state of things, than the others were meant to do, more continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and greater progress made here than in the rest of the poem; and as this part does not depend upon the preceding to a degree which will materially injure its own peculiar interest, the Author, complying with the earnest entreaties of some valued Friends, presents the following pages to the Public.

It may be proper to state whence the poem, of which “The Excursion” is a part, derives its Title of THE RECLUSE.—Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains, with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary Work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such employment. As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them. That Work [The Prelude], addressed to a dear Friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the Author's Intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished; and the result of the investigation which gave rise to it was a determination to compose a philosophical poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society; and to be entitled, “The Recluse”; as having for its principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement.—The preparatory poem 1 is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself; and the two Works have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the ante- chapel has to the body of a Gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor Pieces, which have been long before the Public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found by the attentive Reader to have such connection with the main Work as may give them claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices.

The Author would not have deemed himself justified in saying, upon this occasion, so much of performances either unfinished or unpublished, if he had not thought that the labour bestowed by him upon what he has heretofore and now laid before the Public entitled him to candid attention for such a statement as he thinks necessary to throw light upon his endeavours to please and, he would hope, to benefit his countrymen.—Nothing further need be added, than that the first and third parts of “The Recluse” will consist chiefly of meditations in the Author's own person; and that in the intermediate part (”The Excursion”) the intervention of characters speaking is employed, and something of a dramatic form adopted.

It is not the Author's intention formally to announce a system; it was more animating to him to proceed in a different course; and if he shall succeed in conveying to the mind clear thoughts, lively images, and strong feelings, the Reader will have no difficulty in extracting the system for himself. And in the meantime the following passage, taken from the conclusion of the first book of “The Recluse,” may be acceptable as a kind of “Prospectus” of the design and scope of the whole Poem.

BOOK FIRST
THE WANDERER
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—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; but all the northern downs,

In clearest air ascending, showed far off

A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung

From brooding clouds; shadows that lay in spots

Determined and unmoved, with steady beams

Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed;

To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss

Extends his careless limbs along the front

Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts

A twilight of its own, 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,

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.

Across a bare wide Common I was toiling

With languid steps that by the slippery turf

Were baffled; nor could my weak arm disperse

The host of insects gathering round my face,

And ever with me as I paced along.

Upon that open moorland stood a grove,

The wished-for port to which my course was bound.

Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom

Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms,

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; a Man of reverend age,

But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired.

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

Afforded, to the figure of the man

Detained for contemplation or repose,

Graceful support; his countenance as he stood

Was hidden from my view, and he remained

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

He by appointment waited for me here,

Under the covert of these clustering elms.

We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale,

In the antique market-village where was passed

My school-time, an apartment he had owned,

To which at intervals the Wanderer drew,

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

To be his chosen comrade. Many a time,

On holidays, we rambled through the woods:

We sate—we walked; he pleased me with report

Of things which he had seen; and often touched

Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind

Turned inward; or at my request would sing

Old songs, the product of his native hills;

A skilful distribution of sweet sounds,

Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed

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

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;

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,

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,

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; else surely this Man had not left

His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed.

But, as the mind was filled with inward light,

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,

His observations, and the thoughts his mind

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

With gracious smile, deliberately pleased,

And listening Time reward with sacred praise.

Among the hills of Athol he was born;

Where, on a small hereditary farm,

An unproductive slip of rugged ground,

His Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt;

A virtuous household, though exceeding poor!

Pure livers were they all, austere and grave,

And fearing God; the very children taught

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;

But, through the inclement and the perilous days

Of long-continuing winter, he repaired,

Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood

Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge,

Remote from view of city spire, or sound

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

To whom he might confess the things he saw.

So the foundations of his mind were laid.

In such communion, not from terror free,

While yet a child, and long before his time,

Had he 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

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

An active power to fasten images

Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines

Intensely brooded, even till they acquired

The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail,

While yet a child, with a child's eagerness

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,

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,

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,

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.

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

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 the preternatural tale,

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!

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,

Or by the silent looks of happy things,

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,

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

Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked—

Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth

And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay

Beneath him:—Far and wide the clouds were touched,

And in their silent faces could he read

Unutterable love. Sound needed none,

Nor any voice of joy; 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.

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

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

Was his existence oftentimes 'possessed'.

O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared

The written promise! Early had he learned

To reverence the volume that displays

The mystery, the life which cannot die;

But in the mountains did he 'feel' his faith.

All things, responsive to the writing, there

Breathed immortality, revolving life,

And greatness still revolving; infinite:

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

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 through patience; thence he learned

In oft-recurring hours 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

He duly went with what small overplus

His earnings might supply, and brought away

The book that 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. Lore of different kind,

The annual savings of a toilsome life,

His Schoolmaster supplied; books that explain

The purer elements of truth involved

In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe,

(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,

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? Yet, still uppermost,

Nature was at his heart as if he felt,

Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power

In all things that 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

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 of some tall crag

That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak

Familiar with forgotten years, that shows,

Inscribed upon its visionary sides,

The history of many a winter storm,

Or obscure records of the path of fire.

And thus before his eighteenth year was told,

Accumulated feelings pressed his heart

With still increasing weight; he was o'er-powered

By Nature; by the turbulence subdued

Of his own mind; by mystery and hope,

And the first virgin passion of a soul

Communing with the glorious universe.

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

That live in darkness. From his intellect

And from the stillness of abstracted thought

He asked repose; and, failing oft to win

The peace required, he scanned the laws of light

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. But vainly thus,

And vainly by all other means, he strove

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,

And every moral feeling of his soul

Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content

The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty,

And drinking from the well of homely life.

—But, from past liberty, and tried restraints,

He now was summoned to select the course

Of humble industry that 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

A task he was unable to perform.

That stern yet kindly Spirit, 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

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;

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

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

To competence and ease:—to him it offered

Attractions manifold;—and this he chose.

—His Parents on the enterprise bestowed

Their farewell benediction, but with hearts

Foreboding evil. From his native hills

He wandered far; much did he see of men,

Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits,

Their passions and their feelings; chiefly those

Essential and eternal in the heart,

That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life,

Exist more simple in their elements,

And speak a plainer language. 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

Spontaneously had his affections thriven

Amid the bounties of the year, the peace

And liberty of nature; there he kept

In solitude and solitary thought

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,

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

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

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,

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

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

To pass the remnant of his days, untasked

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

And journey far, revisiting the scenes

That to his memory were most endeared.

—Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped

By worldly-mindedness or anxious care;

Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed

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

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,

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

Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods;

Who to the model of his own pure heart

Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired,

And human reason dictated with awe.

—And surely never did there live on earth

A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports

And teasing ways of children vexed not him;

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;

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.

Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek

Into a narrower circle of deep red,

But had not tamed his eye; that, under brows

Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought

From years of youth; 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

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,

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.

At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat

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, “a burning day:

My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems

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. 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,

Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems,

In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap

The broken wall. I looked around, and there,

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

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

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.

—The Poets, in their elegies and songs

Lamenting the departed, call the groves,

They call upon the hills and streams, to mourn,

And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak,

In these their invocations, with a voice

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,

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

In mortal stillness; and they ministered

To human comfort. Stooping down 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:

There let it lie—how foolish are such thoughts!

Forgive them;—never—never did my steps

Approach this door but she who dwelt within

A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her

As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,

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

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.

I speak,” continued he, “of One whose stock

Of virtues bloomed beneath this lonely 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

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

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,

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,

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.

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:

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;

And of the poor did many cease to be,

And their place knew them not. 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,

When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,

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,

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

Sought daily bread from public charity,

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!

A sad reverse it was for him who long

Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace,

This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood,

And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes

That had no mirth in them; 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,

Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty,

He mingled, 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

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;

Or wander here and there among the fields.

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,'

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.

At this still season of repose and peace,

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;

Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek?

Why should we thus, with an untoward mind,

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?”

_____________

HE spake with somewhat of a solemn tone:

But, when he ended, there was in his face

Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,

That for a little time it stole away

All recollection; and that simple tale

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

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.

I rose; and, having left the breezy shade,

Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun,

That had not cheered me long—ere, looking round

Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned,

And begged of the old Man that, for my sake,

He would resume his story.

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

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; were't not so,

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.

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 when these lofty elms once more appeared

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

A little while; then turned her head away

Speechless,—and, sitting down upon a chair,

Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,

Nor 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

Unutterably helpless, and a look

That seemed to cling upon me, 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

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,

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

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,

From one who by my husband had been sent

With the sad news, that he had joined a troop

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

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

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;

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

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,

Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall;

My best companions now the driving winds,

And now the 'trotting brooks' 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,

When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat

Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass,

Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread

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,

The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,

Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed,

The yellow stone-crop, 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

To lag behind the season, and had lost

Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift

Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled

O'er paths they used to deck: carnations, once

Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less

For the peculiar pains they had required,

Declined their languid heads, wanting support.

The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells,

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;

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

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—

The longer I remained, more desolate:

And, looking round me, now I first observed

The corner stones, on either side the porch,

With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er

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;—

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

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—

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; today

I have been travelling far; and many days

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

Weeping, and weeping have I waked; 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

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

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;

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

For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved

Your very soul to see her: evermore

Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast;

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

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,

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,

Which with a look of welcome she received;

And I exhorted her to place her trust

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

With the best hope and comfort I could give:

She thanked me for my wish;—but for my hope

It seemed she did not thank me.

I returned,

And took my rounds along this road again

When 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,

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;

The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth

Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,

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

Had from his Mother caught the trick of grief,

And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew,

And once again entering the garden saw,

More plainly still, that poverty and grief

Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced

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 was gnawed away

Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,

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,

She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone

Ere Robert come again.' When to the House

We had returned together, she enquired

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

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,

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;

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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,

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

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;

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

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;

Last human tenant of these ruined walls!”

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.

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

Fondly, though with an interest more mild,

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.

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 ofttimes 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. Why then should we read

The forms of things with an unworthy eye?

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

So still an image of tranquillity,

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

That passing shows 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,

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,

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

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.

BOOK SECOND
THE SOLITARY
ARGUMENT

The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose character is further illustrated—Morning scene, and View of a Village Wake—Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit—View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for his retreat—Sound of singing from below—A funeral procession—Descent into the Valley—Observations drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a book accidentally discovered in a recess in the Valley—Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary— Wanderer's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district—Solitary contrasts with this, that of the individual carried a few minutes before from the cottage—The cottage entered—Description of the Solitary's apartment—Repast there— View, from the window, of two mountain summits; and the Solitary's description of the companionship they afford him—Account of the departed inmate of the cottage—Description of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's mind— Leave the house.

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;

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;

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

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

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

Of these our unimaginative days;

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,

Looked on this guide with reverential love?

Each with the other pleased, we now pursued

Our journey, under favourable skies.

Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light

Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass,

Rarely a house, that 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;

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,

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

To happy contemplation soothed his walk;

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

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; we took our seats

By many a cottage-hearth, where he received

The welcome of an Inmate from afar,

And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger.

—Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts,

Huts where his charity was blest; his voice

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

Struggling against it; with a soul perplexed,

And finding in herself no steady power

To draw the line of comfort that divides

Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven,

From the injustice of our brother men—

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

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

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.

We started—and he led me toward the hills,

Up through an ample vale, with higher hills

Before us, mountains stern and desolate;

But, in the majesty of distance, now

Set off, and to our ken appearing fair

Of aspect, with aerial 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

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,

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,

And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves.

Mount slowly, sun! that we may journey long,

By this dark hill protected from thy beams!

Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish;

But quickly from among our morning thoughts

'Twas chased away: for, toward the western side

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

Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual Wake,

Which the bright season favours.—Tabor and pipe

In purpose join to hasten or reprove

The laggard Rustic; and repay with boons

Of merriment a party-coloured knot,

Already formed upon the village-green.

—Beyond the limits of the shadow cast

By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight

That gay assemblage. Round them and above,

Glitter, with dark recesses interposed,

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

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

These festive matins?”—He replied, “Not loth

To linger I would here 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,

The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed;

There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall 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;

Checking the finer spirits that refuse

To flow when purposes are lightly changed?

A length of journey yet remains untraced:

Let us proceed.” Then, pointing with his staff

Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent

He thus imparted:—

“In a spot that lies

Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed,

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,

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,

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.

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

Of Chaplain to a military troop

Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched

In plaided vest,—his fellow-countrymen.

This office filling, yet by native power

And force of native inclination made

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

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,

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.

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!

In the short course of one undreaded year

Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew

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

With pain the regions of eternity.

An uncomplaining apathy displaced

This anguish; and, indifferent to delight,

To aim and purpose, he consumed his days,

To private interest dead, and public care.

So lived he; so he might have died.

But now,

To the wide world's astonishment, appeared

A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn,

That promised everlasting joy to France!

Her voice of social transport reached even him!

He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired

To the great City, an emporium then

Of golden expectations, and receiving

Freights every day from a new world of hope.

Thither his popular talents he transferred;

And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained

The cause of Christ and civil liberty,

As one, and moving to one glorious end.

Intoxicating service! I might say

A happy service; for he was sincere

As vanity and fondness for applause,

And new and shapeless wishes, would allow.

That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) bound,

For one hostility, in friendly league,

Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves;

Was served by rival advocates that came

From regions opposite as heaven and hell.

One courage seemed to animate them all:

And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained

By their united efforts, there arose

A proud and most presumptuous confidence

In the transcendent wisdom of the age,

And her discernment; not alone in rights,

And in the origin and bounds of power

Social and temporal; but in laws divine,

Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed.

An overweening trust was raised; and fear

Cast out, alike of person and of thing.

Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane

The strongest did not easily escape;

And He, what wonder! took a mortal taint.

How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell

That he broke faith with them whom he had laid

In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope!

An infidel contempt of holy writ

Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence

Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced;

Vilest hypocrisy—the laughing, gay

Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride.

Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls;

But, for disciples of the inner school,

Old freedom was old servitude, and they

The wisest whose opinions stooped the least

To known restraints; and who most boldly drew

Hopeful prognostications from a creed,

That, in the light of false philosophy,

Spread like a halo round a misty moon,

Widening its circle as the storms advance.

His sacred function was at length renounced;

And every day and every place enjoyed

The unshackled layman's natural liberty;

Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise.

I do not wish to wrong him; though the course

Of private life licentiously displayed

Unhallowed actions—planted like a crown

Upon the insolent aspiring brow

Of spurious notions—worn as open signs

Of prejudice subdued—still he retained,

'Mid much abasement, what he had received

From nature, an intense and glowing mind.

Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak,

And mortal sickness on her face appeared,

He coloured objects to his own desire

As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods

Of pain were keen as those of better men,

Nay keener, as his fortitude was less:

And he continued, when worse days were come,

To deal about his sparkling eloquence,

Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal

That showed like happiness. But, in despite

Of all this outside bravery, within,

He neither felt encouragement nor hope:

For moral dignity, and strength of mind,

Were wanting; and simplicity of life;

And reverence for himself; and, last and best,

Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him

Before whose sight the troubles of this world

Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea.

The glory of the times fading away—

The splendour, which had given a festal air

To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled

From his own sight—this gone, he forfeited

All joy in human nature; was consumed,

And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn,

And fruitless indignation; galled by pride;

Made desperate by contempt of men who throve

Before his sight in power or fame, and won,

Without desert, what he desired; weak men,

Too weak even for his envy or his hate!

Tormented thus, after a wandering course

Of discontent, and inwardly opprest

With malady—in part, I fear, provoked

By weariness of life—he fixed his home,

Or, rather say, sate down by very chance,

Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells,

And wastes the sad remainder of his hours,

Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not

Its own voluptuousness;—on this resolved,

With this content, that he will live and die

Forgotten,—at safe distance from 'a world

Not moving to his mind.'”

These serious words

Closed the preparatory notices

That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile

The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.

Diverging now (as if his quest had been

Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall

Of water, or some lofty eminence,

Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide)

We scaled, without a track to ease our steps,

A steep ascent; and reached a dreary plain,

With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops

Before us; savage region! which I paced

Dispirited: when, all at once, behold!

Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,

A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high

Among the mountains; even as if the spot

Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs

So placed, to be shut out from all the world!

Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn;

With rocks encompassed, save that to the south

Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge

Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close;

A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,

A liquid pool that glittered in the sun,

And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more!

It seemed the home of poverty and toil,

Though not of want: the little fields, made green

By husbandry of many thrifty years,

Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house.

—There crows the cock, single in his domain:

The small birds find in spring no thicket there

To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales

The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops,

Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place.

Ah! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here!

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;

Not melancholy—no, for it is green,

And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself

With the few needful things that life requires.

—In rugged arms how softly does it lie,

How tenderly protected! Far and near

We have an image of the pristine earth,

The planet in its nakedness: were this

Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat,

First, last, and single, in the breathing world,

It could not be more quiet; peace is here

Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale

Of public news or private; years that pass

Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay

The common penalties of mortal life,

Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain.

On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay

In silence musing by my Comrade's side,

He also silent; when from out the heart

Of that profound abyss a solemn voice,

Or several voices in one solemn sound,

Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow

The cadence, as of psalms—a funeral dirge!

We listened, looking down upon the hut,

But seeing no one: meanwhile from below

The strain continued, spiritual as before;

And now distinctly could I recognise

These words:—“Shall in the grave thy love be known,

In death thy faithfulness?”—“God rest his soul!”

Said the old man, abruptly breaking silence,—

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

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains

Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band

Of rustic persons, from behind the hut

Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which

They shaped their course along the sloping side

Of that small valley, singing as they moved;

A sober company and few, the men

Bare-headed, and all decently attired!

Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge

Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued

Recovering, to my Friend I said, “You spake,

Methought, with apprehension that these rites

Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat

This day we purposed to intrude.”—“I did so,

But let us hence, that we may learn the truth:

Perhaps it is not he but some one else

For whom this pious service is performed;

Some other tenant of the solitude.”

So, to a steep and difficult descent

Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag,

Where passage could be won; and, as the last

Of the mute train, behind the heathy top

Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared,

I, more impatient in my downward course,

Had landed upon easy ground; and there

Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold

An object that enticed my steps aside!

A narrow, winding, entry opened out

Into a platform—that lay, sheepfold-wise,

Enclosed between an upright mass of rock

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

And fanciful! For where the rock and wall

Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed

By thrusting two rude staves into the wall

And overlaying them with mountain sods;

To weather-fend a little turf-built seat

Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread

The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;

But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands!

Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show

Of baby-houses, curiously arranged;

Nor wanting ornament of walks between,

With mimic trees inserted in the turf,

And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight,

I could not choose but beckon to my Guide,

Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance,

Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,

“Lo! what is here?” and, stooping down, drew forth

A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss

And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,

Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise

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

Exclaimed the Wanderer, “cannot but be his,

And he is gone!” The book, which in my hand

Had opened of itself (for it was swoln

With searching damp, and seemingly had lain

To the injurious elements exposed

From week to week,) I found to be a work

In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire,

His famous Optimist. “Unhappy Man!”

Exclaimed my Friend: “here then has been to him

Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place

Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,

Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,

And loved the haunts of children: here, no doubt,

Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports,

Or sate companionless; and here the book,

Left and forgotten in his careless way,

Must by the cottage-children have been found:

Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work!

To what odd purpose have the darlings turned

This sad memorial of their hapless friend!”

“Me,” said I, “most doth it surprise, to find

Such book in such a place!”—“A book it is,”

He answered, “to the Person suited well,

Though little suited to surrounding things:

'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been

To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here,

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

Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,

As from these intimations I forebode,

Grieved shall I be—less for my sake than yours,

And least of all for him who is no more.”

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand;

And he continued, glancing on the leaves

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

To love when hope hath failed him—whom no depth

Of privacy is deep enough to hide,

Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair,

And that is joy to him. When change of times

Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give

The faithful servant, who must hide his head

Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may,

A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood,

And he too hath his comforter. How poor,

Beyond all poverty how destitute,

Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven,

Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him

No dearer relique, and no better stay,

Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,

Impure conceits discharging from a heart

Hardened by impious pride!—I did not fear

To tax you with this journey;”—mildly said

My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped

Into the presence of the cheerful light—

“For I have knowledge that you do not shrink

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 gate

That opened from the enclosure of green fields

Into the rough uncultivated ground,

Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead!

I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress,

That it could be no other; a pale face,

A meagre person, tall, and in a garb

Not rustic—dull and faded like himself!

He saw us not, though distant but few steps;

For he was busy, dealing, from a store

Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings

Of red ripe currants; gift by which he strove,

With intermixture of endearing words,

To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping

As if disconsolate.—“They to the grave

Are bearing him, my Little-one,” he said,

“To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain;

His body is at rest, his soul in heaven.”

More might have followed—but my honoured Friend

Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank

And cordial greeting.—Vivid was the light

That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes;

He was all fire: no shadow on his brow

Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.

Hands joined he with his Visitant,—a grasp,

An eager grasp; and many moments' space—

When the first glow of pleasure was no more,

And, of the sad appearance which at once

Had vanished, much was come and coming back—

An amicable smile retained the life

Which it had unexpectedly received,

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

“Nor could your coming have been better timed;

For this, you see, is in our narrow world

A day of sorrow. I have here a charge”—

And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly

The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child—

“A little mourner, whom it is my task

To comfort;—but how came ye?—if yon track

(Which doth at once befriend us and betray)

Conducted hither your most welcome feet,

Ye could not miss the funeral train—they yet

Have scarcely disappeared.” “This blooming Child,”

Said the old Man, “is of an age to weep

At any grave or solemn spectacle,

Inly distressed or overpowered with awe,

He knows not wherefore;—but the boy today,

Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you also

Must have sustained a loss.”—“The hand of Death,”

He answered, “has been here; but could not well

Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen

Upon myself.”—The other left these words

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 anywhere; but in a place like this

'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. Oft on my way have I

Stood still, though but a casual passenger,

So much I felt the awfulness of life,

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, towards its home,

Its final home on earth. 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

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,

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

In silent grief their unuplifted heads,

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—

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,

From which they do not shrink, and under which

They faint not, but advance towards the open grave

Step after step—together, with their firm

Unhidden faces: he that suffers most,

He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps,

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,

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.

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,

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

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,

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

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,

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

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

And his frail creature Man;—but ye shall hear.

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;

And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door,

Had almost a forbidding nakedness;

Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair,

Than it appeared when from the beetling rock

We had looked down upon it. All within,

As left by the departed company,

Was silent; save the solitary clock

That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.—

Following our Guide we clomb the cottage-stairs

And reached a small apartment dark and low,

Which was no sooner entered than our Host

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.”

So, with more ardour than an unripe girl

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,

Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck

Had we about us! 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

Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some

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,

Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls.

But speedily the promise was fulfilled;

A feast before us, and a 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;

And was itself half-covered with a store

Of dainties,—oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream;

And cakes of butter curiously embossed,

Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers

A golden hue, delicate as their own

Faintly reflected in a lingering stream.

Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day,

Our table, small parade of garden fruits,

And whortle-berries from the mountain side.

The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs,

Was now 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

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.

“Those lusty twins,” exclaimed our host, “if here

It were your lot to dwell, would soon become

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

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

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

Music of finer tone; 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,

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,

Rests his substantial orb;—between those heights

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——”

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:

“Now for the tale with which you threatened us!”

“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

When ye looked down upon us from the crag,

Islanders 'mid a stormy mountain sea,

We are not so;—perpetually we touch

Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world;

And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day

Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread

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;

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

The still contentedness of seventy years.

Calm did he sit under 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

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,

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes;

Mild, inoffensive, ready in 'his' way,

And helpful to his utmost power: and there

Our housewife knew full well what she possessed!

He was her vassal of all labour, tilled

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,

Leading sometimes an inexperienced child

Too young for any profitable task.

So moved he like a shadow that performed

Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn

For what reward!—The moon her monthly round

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 humanized,

And features in deplorable dismay.

I treat the matter lightly, but, alas!

It is most serious: persevering rain

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,

Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend—

Who at her bidding, early and alone,

Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf

For winter fuel—to his noontide meal

Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights

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.

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,

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 resentment could not dry.

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;

And long and hopelessly we sought in vain:

Till, chancing on that 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,

The peasants of these lonely valleys used

To meet for worship on that central height)—

We there espied the object of our search,

Lying full three parts buried among tufts

Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn,

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

At our entreaty; less from want of power

Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.

So was he lifted gently from the ground,

And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved

Through the dull mist, I following—when a step,

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, instantaneously disclosed,

Was of a mighty city—boldly say

A wilderness of building, sinking far

And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth,

Far sinking into splendour—without end!

Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,

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

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

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,

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,

In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.

Right in the midst, where interspace appeared

Of open court, an object like a throne

Under a shining canopy of state

Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen

To implements of ordinary use,

But vast in size, in substance glorified;

Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld

In vision—forms uncouth of mightiest power

For admiration and mysterious awe.

This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,

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

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:

The apparition faded not away,

And I descended.

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

By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam,

Of comfort, spread over his pallid face.

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,

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;

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,

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.

BOOK THIRD
DESPONDENCY
ARGUMENT

Images in the Valley—Another Recess in it entered and described—Wanderer's sensations—Solitary's excited by the same objects—Contrast between these—Despondency of the Solitary gently reproved—Conversation exhibiting the Solitary's past and present opinions and feelings, till he enters upon his own History at length—His domestic felicity—Afflictions—Dejection—Roused by the French Revolution—Disappointment and disgust—Voyage to America—Disappointment and disgust pursue him—His return—His languor and depression of mind, from want of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want of confidence in the virtue of Mankind.

A HUMMING BEE—a little tinkling rill—

A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing,

In clamorous agitation, round the crest

Of a tall rock, their airy citadel—

By each and all of these the pensive ear

Was greeted, in the silence that ensued,

When through the cottage-threshold we had passed,

And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood

Once more beneath the concave of a blue

And cloudless sky.—Anon exclaimed our Host—

Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt

The shade of discontent which on his brow

Had gathered,—“Ye have left my cell,—but see

How Nature hems you in with friendly arms!

And by her help ye are my prisoners still.

But which way shall I lead you?—how contrive,

In spot so parsimoniously endowed,

That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap

Some recompense of knowledge or delight?”

So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed;

And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired Friend

Said—“Shall we take this pathway for our guide?—

Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats,

Its line had first been fashioned by the flock

Seeking a place of refuge at the root

Of yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded boughs

Darken the silver bosom of the crag,

From which she draws her meagre sustenance.

There in commodious shelter may we rest.

Or let us trace this streamlet to its source;

Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound,

And a few steps may bring us to the spot

Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs,

The mountain infant to the sun comes forth,

Like human life from darkness.”—A quick turn

Through a strait passage of encumbered ground,

Proved that such hope was vain:—for now we stood

Shut out from prospect of the open vale,

And saw the water, that composed this rill,

Descending, disembodied, and diffused

O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag,

Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower.

All further progress here was barred;—And who,

Thought I, if master of a vacant hour,

Here would not linger, willingly detained?

Whether to such wild objects he were led

When copious rains have magnified the stream

Into a loud and white-robed waterfall,

Or introduced at this more quiet time.

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground,

The hidden nook discovered to our view

A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay

Right at the foot of that moist precipice,

A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests

Fearless of winds and waves. Three several stones

Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike

To monumental pillars: and, from these

Some little space disjoined a pair were seen,

That with united shoulders bore aloft

A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth:

Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared

A tall and shining holly, that had found

A hospitable chink, and stood upright,

As if inserted by some human hand

In mockery, to wither in the sun,

Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze,

The first that entered. But no breeze did now

Find entrance;—high or low appeared no trace

Of motion, save the water that descended,

Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock,

And softly creeping, like a breath of air,

Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen,

To brush the still breast of a crystal lake.

“Behold a cabinet for sages built,

Which kings might envy!”—Praise to this effect

Broke from the happy old Man's reverend lip;

Who to the Solitary turned, and said,

“In sooth, with love's familiar privilege,

You have decried the wealth which is your own.

Among these rocks and stones, methinks, I see

More than the heedless impress that belongs

To lonely nature's casual work: they bear

A semblance strange of power intelligent,

And of design not wholly worn away.

Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind,

How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth

From its fantastic birth-place! And I own,

Some shadowy intimations haunt me here,

That in these shows a chronicle survives

Of purposes akin to those of Man,

But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails.

—Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf

With timid lapse;—and lo! while in this strait

I stand—the chasm of sky above my head

Is heaven's profoundest azure; no domain

For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy,

Or to pass through; but rather an abyss

In which the everlasting stars abide;

And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might tempt

The curious eye to look for them by day.

—Hail Contemplation! from the stately towers,

Reared by the industrious hand of human art

To lift thee high above the misty air

And turbulence of murmuring cities vast;

From academic groves, that have for thee

Been planted, hither come and find a lodge

To which thou mayst resort for holier peace,—

From whose calm centre thou, through height or depth,

Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead;

Measuring through all degrees, until the scale

Of time and conscious nature disappear,

Lost in unsearchable eternity!”

A pause ensued; and with minuter care

We scanned the various features of the scene:

And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale

With courteous voice thus spake—

“I should have grieved

Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach,

If from my poor retirement ye had gone

Leaving this nook unvisited: but, in sooth,

Your unexpected presence had so roused

My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise;

And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot,

Or, shall I say?—disdained, the game that lurks

At my own door. The shapes before our eyes

And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed

The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance

Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man.

And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn stone,

From Fancy, willing to set off her stores

By sounding titles, hath acquired the name

Of Pompey's pillar; that I gravely style

My Theban obelisk; and, there, behold

A Druid cromlech!—thus I entertain

The antiquarian humour, and am pleased

To skim along the surfaces of things,

Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours.

But if the spirit be oppressed by sense

Of instability, revolt, decay,

And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature

And her blind helper Chance, do 'then' suffice

To quicken, and to aggravate—to feed

Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride,

Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss

Of mortal power unquestionably sprung)

Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks

Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and round

Eddying within its vast circumference,

On Sarum's naked plain—than pyramid

Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved—

Or Syria's marble ruins towering high

Above the sandy desert, in the light

Of sun or moon.—Forgive me, if I say

That an appearance which hath raised your minds

To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause

Different effect producing) is for me

Fraught rather with depression than delight,

Though shame it were, could I not look around,

By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased.

Yet happier in my judgment, even than you

With your bright transports fairly may be deemed,

The wandering Herbalist,—who, clear alike

From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts,

Casts, if he ever chance to enter here,

Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard

Of transitory interest, and peeps round

For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant

Of craggy fountain; what he hopes for wins,

Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won:

Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound,

By soul-engrossing instinct driven along

Through wood or open field, the harmless Man

Departs, intent upon his onward quest!—

Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I,

Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft

By scars which his activity has left

Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven!

This covert nook reports not of his hand)

He who with pocket-hammer smites the edge

Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised

In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature

With her first growths, detaching by the stroke

A chip or splinter—to resolve his doubts;

And, with that ready answer satisfied,

The substance classes by some barbarous name,

And hurries on; or from the fragments picks

His specimen, if but haply interveined

With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube

Lurk in its cells—and thinks himself enriched,

Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before!

Intrusted safely each to his pursuit,

Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill

Range; if it please them, speed from clime to clime;

The mind is full—and free from pain their pastime.”

“Then,” said I, interposing, “One is near,

Who cannot but possess in your esteem

Place worthier still of envy. May I name,

Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy?

Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form,

Youngest apprentice in the school of art!

Him, as we entered from the open glen,

You might have noticed, busily engaged,

Heart, soul, and hands,—in mending the defects

Left in the fabric of a leaky dam

Raised for enabling this penurious stream

To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything)

For his delight—the happiest he of all!”

“Far happiest,” answered the desponding Man,

“If such as now he is, he might remain!

Ah! what avails imagination high

Or question deep? what profits all that earth,

Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put forth

Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul

To quit the beaten track of life, and soar

Far as she finds a yielding element

In past or future; far as she can go

Through time or space—if neither in the one,

Nor in the other region, nor in aught

That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things,

Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds,

Words of assurance can be heard; if nowhere

A habitation, for consummate good,

Or for progressive virtue, by the search

Can be attained,—a better sanctuary

From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave?”

“Is this,” the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said,

“The voice, which we so lately overheard,

To that same child, addressing tenderly

The consolations of a hopeful mind?

'His body is at rest, his soul in heaven.'

These were your words; and, verily, methinks

Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop

Than when we soar.”—

The Other, not displeased,

Promptly replied—“My notion is the same.

And I, without reluctance, could decline

All act of inquisition whence we rise,

And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become.

Here are we, in a bright and breathing world.

Our origin, what matters it? In lack

Of worthier explanation, say at once

With the American (a thought which suits

The place where now we stand) that certain men

Leapt out together from a rocky cave;

And these were the first parents of mankind:

Or, if a different image be recalled

By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice

Of insects chirping out their careless lives

On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf,

Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit

As sound—blithe race! whose mantles were bedecked

With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they

Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil

Whereon their endless generations dwelt.

But stop!—these theoretic fancies jar

On serious minds: then, as the Hindoos draw

Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount,

Even so deduce the stream of human life

From seats of power divine; and hope, or trust,

That our existence winds her stately course

Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part

Of a living ocean; or, to sink engulfed,

Like Niger, in impenetrable sands

And utter darkness: thought which may be faced,

Though comfortless!—

Not of myself I speak;

Such acquiescence neither doth imply,

In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed

By natural piety; nor a lofty mind,

By philosophic discipline prepared

For calm subjection to acknowledged law;

Pleased to have been, contented not to be.

Such palms I boast not;—no! to me, who find

Reviewing my past way, much to condemn,

Little to praise, and nothing to regret,

(Save some remembrances of dream-like joys

That scarcely seem to have belonged to me)

If I must take my choice between the pair

That rule alternately the weary hours,

Night is than day more acceptable; sleep

Doth, in my estimate of good, appear

A better state than waking; death than sleep:

Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm,

Though under covert of the wormy ground!

Yet be it said, in justice to myself,

That in more genial times, when I was free

To explore the destiny of human kind

(Not as an intellectual game pursued

With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat

Irksome sensations; but by love of truth

Urged on, or haply by intense delight

In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed)

I did not rank with those (too dull or nice,

For to my judgment such they then appeared,

Or too aspiring, thankless at the best)

Who, in this frame of human life, perceive

An object whereunto their souls are tied

In discontented wedlock; nor did e'er,

From me, those dark impervious shades, that hang

Upon the region whither we are bound,

Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams

Of present sunshine.—Deities that float

On wings, angelic Spirits! I could muse

O'er what from eldest time we have been told

Of your bright forms and glorious faculties,

And with the imagination rest content,

Not wishing more; repining not to tread

The little sinuous path of earthly care,

By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed.

—'Blow winds of autumn!—let your chilling breath

'Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip

'The shady forest of its green attire,—

'And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse

'The gentle brooks!—Your desolating sway,

'Sheds,' I exclaimed, 'no sadness upon me,

'And no disorder in your rage I find.

'What dignity, what beauty, in this change

'From mild to angry, and from sad to gay,

'Alternate and revolving! How benign,

'How rich in animation and delight,

'How bountiful these elements—compared

'With aught, as more desirable and fair,

'Devised by fancy for the golden age;

'Or the perpetual warbling that prevails

'In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies,

'Through the long year in constant quiet bound,

'Night hushed as night, and day serene as day!'

—But why this tedious record?—Age, we know

Is garrulous; and solitude is apt

To anticipate the privilege of Age,

From far ye come; and surely with a hope

Of better entertainment:—let us hence!”

Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth

To be diverted from our present theme,

I said, “My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with yours,

Would push this censure farther;—for, if smiles

Of scornful pity be the just reward

Of Poesy thus courteously employed

In framing models to improve the scheme

Of Man's existence, and recast the world,

Why should not grave Philosophy be styled,

Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock,

A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull?

Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts

Establish sounder titles of esteem

For her, who (all too timid and reserved

For onset, for resistance too inert,

Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame)

Placed, among flowery gardens curtained round

With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood

Of soft Epicureans, taught—if they

The ends of being would secure, and win

The crown of wisdom—to yield up their souls

To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring

Tranquillity to all things. Or is she,”

I cried, “more worthy of regard, the Power,

Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed

The Stoic's heart against the vain approach

Of admiration, and all sense of joy?”

His countenance gave notice that my zeal

Accorded little with his present mind;

I ceased, and he resumed.—“Ah! gentle Sir,

Slight, if you will, the 'means'; but spare to slight

The 'end' of those, who did, by system, rank,

As the prime object of a wise man's aim,

Security from shock of accident,

Release from fear; and cherished peaceful days

For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good,

And only reasonable felicity.

What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask,

Through a long course of later ages, drove,

The hermit to his cell in forest wide;

Or what detained him, till his closing eyes

Took their last farewell of the sun and stars,

Fast anchored in the desert?—Not alone

Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse,

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged

And unavengeable, defeated pride,

Prosperity subverted, maddening want,

Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned,

Love with despair, or grief in agony;—

Not always from intolerable pangs

He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed

For independent happiness; craving peace,

The central feeling of all happiness,

Not as a refuge from distress or pain,

A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce,

But for its absolute self; a life of peace,

Stability without regret or fear;

That hath been, is, and shall be evermore!—

Such the reward he sought; and wore out life,

There, where on few external things his heart

Was set, and those his own; or, if not his,

Subsisting under nature's stedfast law.

What other yearning was the master tie

Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock

Aerial, or in green secluded vale,

One after one, collected from afar,

An undissolving fellowship?—What but this,

The universal instinct of repose,

The longing for confirmed tranquillity,

Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime:

The life where hope and memory are as one;

Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged

Save by the simplest toil of human hands

Or seasons' difference; the immortal Soul

Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed

To meditation in that quietness!—

Such was their scheme: and though the wished-for end

By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained

By none, they for the attempt, and pains employed,

Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed

From the unqualified disdain, that once

Would have been cast upon them by my voice

Delivering her decisions from the seat

Of forward youth—that scruples not to solve

Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules

Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone

To overweening faith; and is inflamed,

By courage, to demand from real life

The test of act and suffering, to provoke

Hostility—how dreadful when it comes,

Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt!

A child of earth, I rested, in that stage

Of my past course to which these thoughts advert,

Upon earth's native energies; forgetting

That mine was a condition which required

Nor energy, nor fortitude—a calm

Without vicissitude; which, if the like

Had been presented to my view elsewhere,

I might have even been tempted to despise.

But no—for the serene was also bright;

Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing,

With joy, and—oh! that memory should survive

To speak the word—with rapture! Nature's boon,

Life's genuine inspiration, happiness

Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign;

Abused, as all possessions 'are' abused

That are not prized according to their worth.

And yet, what worth? what good is given to men,

More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven?

What joy more lasting than a vernal flower?—

None! 'tis the general plaint of human kind

In solitude: and mutually addressed

From each to all, for wisdom's sake:—This truth

The priest announces from his holy seat:

And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove,

The poet fits it to his pensive lyre.

Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained,

Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom

Of this same life, compelling us to grieve

That the prosperities of love and joy

Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure

So long, and be at once cast down for ever.

Oh! tremble, ye, to whom hath been assigned

A course of days composing happy months,

And they as happy years; the present still

So like the past, and both so firm a pledge

Of a congenial future, that the wheels

Of pleasure move without the aid of hope:

For Mutability is Nature's bane;

And slighted Hope 'will' be avenged; and, when

Ye need her favours, ye shall find her not;

But in her stead—fear—doubt—and agony!”

This was the bitter language of the heart:

But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice,

Though discomposed and vehement, were such

As skill and graceful nature might suggest

To a proficient of the tragic scene

Standing before the multitude, beset

With dark events. Desirous to divert

Or stem the current of the speaker's thoughts,

We signified a wish to leave that place

Of stillness and close privacy, a nook

That seemed for self-examination made;

Or, for confession, in the sinner's need,

Hidden from all men's view. To our attempt

He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope

Of mossy turf defended from the sun,

And on that couch inviting us to rest,

Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned

A serious eye, and his speech thus renewed.

“You never saw, your eyes did never look

On the bright form of Her whom once I loved:—

Her silver voice was heard upon the earth,

A sound unknown to you; else, honoured Friend!

Your heart had borne a pitiable share

Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss,

And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought

That I remember, and can weep no more.—

Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit

Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts

Of self-reproach familiarly assailed;

Yet would I not be of such wintry bareness

But that some leaf of your regard should hang

Upon my naked branches:—lively thoughts

Give birth, full often, to unguarded words;

I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue

Too much of frailty hath already dropped;

But that too much demands still more.

You know,

Revered Compatriot—and to you, kind Sir,

(Not to be deemed a stranger, as you come

Following the guidance of these welcome feet

To our secluded vale) it may be told—

That my demerits did not sue in vain

To One on whose mild radiance many gazed

With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride—

In the devotedness of youthful love,

Preferring me to parents, and the choir

Of gay companions, to the natal roof,

And all known places and familiar sights

(Resigned with sadness gently weighing down

Her trembling expectations, but no more

Than did to her due honour, and to me

Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime

In what I had to build upon)—this Bride,

Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led

To a low cottage in a sunny bay,

Where the salt sea innocuously breaks,

And the sea breeze as innocently breathes,

On Devon's leafy shores;—a sheltered hold,

In a soft clime encouraging the soil

To a luxuriant bounty!—As our steps

Approach the embowered abode—our chosen seat—

See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed,

The unendangered myrtle, decked with flowers,

Before the threshold stands to welcome us!

While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbourhood,

Not overlooked but courting no regard,

Those native plants, the holly and the yew,

Gave modest intimation to the mind

How willingly their aid they would unite

With the green myrtle, to endear the hours

Of winter, and protect that pleasant place.

—Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs,

Track leading into track; how marked, how worn

Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse

Winding away its never-ending line

On their smooth surface, evidence was none;

But, there, lay open to our daily haunt,

A range of unappropriated earth,

Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large;

Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld

The shining giver of the day diffuse

His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land

Gay as our spirits, free as our desires;

As our enjoyments, boundless.—From those heights

We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs;

Where arbours of impenetrable shade,

And mossy seats, detained us side by side,

With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts

'That all the grove and all the day was ours.'

O happy time! still happier was at hand;

For Nature called my Partner to resign

Her share in the pure freedom of that life,

Enjoyed by us in common.—To my hope,

To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became

The thankful captive of maternal bonds;

And those wild paths were left to me alone.

There could I meditate on follies past;

And, like a weary voyager escaped

From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace

A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt,

And self-indulgence—without shame pursued.

There, undisturbed, could think of and could thank

Her whose submissive spirit was to me

Rule and restraint—my guardian—shall I say

That earthly Providence, whose guiding love

Within a port of rest had lodged me safe;

Safe from temptation, and from danger far?

Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed

To an authority enthroned above

The reach of sight; from whom, as from their source

Proceed all visible ministers of good

That walk the earth—Father of heaven and earth,

Father, and king, and judge, adored and feared!

These acts of mind, and memory, and heart,

And spirit—interrupted and relieved

By observations transient as the glance

Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form

Cleaving with power inherent and intense,

As the mute insect fixed upon the plant

On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup

It draws its nourishment imperceptibly—

Endeared my wanderings; and the mother's kiss

And infant's smile awaited my return.

In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair,

Companions daily, often all day long;

Not placed by fortune within easy reach

Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught

Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side,

The twain within our happy cottage born,

Inmates, and heirs of our united love;

Graced mutually by difference of sex,

And with no wider interval of time

Between their several births than served for one

To establish something of a leader's sway;

Yet left them joined by sympathy in age;

Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit.

On these two pillars rested as in air

Our solitude.

It soothes me to perceive,

Your courtesy withholds not from my words

Attentive audience. But, oh! gentle Friends,

As times of quiet and unbroken peace,

Though, for a nation, times of blessedness,

Give back faint echoes from the historian's page;

So, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse,

Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice

Which those most blissful days reverberate.

What special record can, or need, be given

To rules and habits, whereby much was done,

But all within the sphere of little things;

Of humble, though, to us, important cares,

And precious interests? Smoothly did our life

Advance, swerving not from the path prescribed;

Her annual, her diurnal, round alike!

Maintained with faithful care. And you divine

The worst effects that our condition saw

If you imagine changes slowly wrought,

And in their progress unperceivable;

Not wished for; sometimes noticed with a sigh,

(Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring)

Sighs of regret, for the familiar good

And loveliness endeared which they removed.

Seven years of occupation undisturbed

Established seemingly a right to hold

That happiness; and use and habit gave,

To what an alien spirit had acquired,

A patrimonial sanctity. And thus,

With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world,

I lived and breathed; most grateful—if to enjoy

Without repining or desire for more,

For different lot, or change to higher sphere,

(Only except some impulses of pride

With no determined object, though upheld

By theories with suitable support)—

Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy

Be proof of gratitude for what we have;

Else, I allow, most thankless.—But, at once,

From some dark seat of fatal power was urged

A claim that shattered all.—Our blooming girl,

Caught in the gripe of death, with such brief time

To struggle in as scarcely would allow

Her cheek to change its colour, was conveyed

From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions

Where height, or depth, admits not the approach

Of living man, though longing to pursue.

—With even as brief a warning—and how soon,

With what short interval of time between,

I tremble yet to think of—our last prop,

Our happy life's only remaining stay—

The brother followed; and was seen no more!

Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless winds

Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky,

The Mother now remained; as if in her,

Who, to the lowest region of the soul,

Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed,

This second visitation had no power

To shake; but only to bind up and seal;

And to establish thankfulness of heart

In Heaven's determinations, ever just.

The eminence whereon her spirit stood,

Mine was unable to attain. Immense

The space that severed us! But, as the sight

Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs

Incalculably distant; so, I felt

That consolation may descend from far

(And that is intercourse, and union, too,)

While, overcome with speechless gratitude,

And, with a holier love inspired, I looked

On her—at once superior to my woes

And partner of my loss.—O heavy change,

Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept

Insensibly;—the immortal and divine

Yielded to mortal reflux; her pure glory,

As from the pinnacle of worldly state

Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell

Into a gulf obscure of silent grief,

And keen heart-anguish—of itself ashamed,

Yet obstinately cherishing itself:

And, so consumed, she melted from my arms;

And left me, on this earth, disconsolate!

What followed cannot be reviewed in thought;

Much less, retraced in words. If she, of life

Blameless, so intimate with love and joy

And all the tender motions of the soul,

Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand—

Infirm, dependent, and now destitute?

I called on dreams and visions, to disclose

That which is veiled from waking thought; conjured

Eternity, as men constrain a ghost

To appear and answer; to the grave I spake

Imploringly;—looked up, and asked the Heavens

If Angels traversed their cerulean floors,

If fixed or wandering star could tidings yield

Of the departed spirit—what abode

It occupies—what consciousness retains

Of former loves and interests. Then my soul

Turned inward,—to examine of what stuff

Time's fetters are composed; and life was put

To inquisition, long and profitless!

By pain of heart—now checked—and now impelled—

The intellectual power, through words and things,

Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!

And from those transports, and these toils abstruse,

Some trace am I enabled to retain

Of time, else lost;—existing unto me

Only by records in myself not found.

From that abstraction I was roused,—and how?

Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash

Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave

Of these wild hills. For, lo! the dread Bastile,

With all the chambers in its horrid towers,

Fell to the ground:—by violence overthrown

Of indignation; and with shouts that drowned

The crash it made in falling! From the wreck

A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise,

The appointed seat of equitable law

And mild paternal sway. The potent shock

I felt: the transformation I perceived,

As marvellously seized as in that moment

When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld

Glory—beyond all glory ever seen,

Confusion infinite of heaven and earth,

Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps

In every grove were ringing, 'War shall cease;

'Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured?

'Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck

'The tree of Liberty.'—My heart rebounded;

My melancholy voice the chorus joined;

—'Be joyful all ye nations; in all lands,

'Ye that are capable of joy be glad!

'Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves

'In others ye shall promptly find;—and all,

'Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth,

'Shall with one heart honour their common kind.'

Thus was I reconverted to the world;

Society became my glittering bride,

And airy hopes my children.—From the depths

Of natural passion, seemingly escaped,

My soul diffused herself in wide embrace

Of institutions, and the forms of things;

As they exist, in mutable array,

Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins

There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed

The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal

Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs

Of my exhausted heart. If busy men

In sober conclave met, to weave a web

Of amity, whose living threads should stretch

Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole,

There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise

And acclamation, crowds in open air

Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice

There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song

I left not uninvoked; and, in still groves,

Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay

Of thanks and expectation, in accord

With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule

Returned,—a progeny of golden years

Permitted to descend, and bless mankind.

—With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem:

I felt their invitation; and resumed

A long-suspended office in the House

Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase

Of ancient inspiration serving me,

I promised also,—with undaunted trust

Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy;

The admiration winning of the crowd;

The help desiring of the pure devout.

Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed!

But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell

How rapidly the zealots of the cause

Disbanded—or in hostile ranks appeared;

Some, tired of honest service; these, outdone,

Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims

Of fiercer zealots—so confusion reigned,

And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim,

As Brutus did to Virtue, 'Liberty,

'I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade!'

Such recantation had for me no charm,

Nor would I bend to it; who should have grieved

At aught, however fair, that bore the mien

Of a conclusion, or catastrophe.

Why then conceal, that, when the simply good

In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought

Other support, not scrupulous whence it came;

And, by what compromise it stood, not nice?

Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched,

And qualities determined.—Among men

So charactered did I maintain a strife

Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour;

But, in the process, I began to feel

That, if the emancipation of the world

Were missed, I should at least secure my own,

And be in part compensated. For rights,

Widely—inveterately usurped upon,

I spake with vehemence; and promptly seized

All that Abstraction furnished for my needs

Or purposes, nor scrupled to proclaim,

And propagate, by liberty of life,

Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced,

Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course,

For its own sake; but farthest from the walk

Which I had trod in happiness and peace,

Was most inviting to a troubled mind;

That, in a struggling and distempered world,

Saw a seductive image of herself.

Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man

Is still the sport! Here Nature was my guide,

The Nature of the dissolute; but thee,

O fostering Nature! I rejected—smiled

At others' tears in pity; and in scorn

At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew

From my unguarded heart.—The tranquil shores

Of Britain circumscribed me; else, perhaps

I might have been entangled among deeds,

Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor—

Despise, as senseless: for my spirit relished

Strangely the exasperation of that Land,

Which turned an angry beak against the down

Of her own breast; confounded into hope

Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings.

But all was quieted by iron bonds

Of military sway. The shifting aims,

The moral interests, the creative might,

The varied functions and high attributes

Of civil action, yielded to a power

Formal, and odious, and contemptible.

—In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change;

The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced;

And, from the impulse of a just disdain,

Once more did I retire into myself.

There feeling no contentment, I resolved

To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore,

Remote from Europe; from her blasted hopes;

Her fields of carnage, and polluted air.

Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main

The ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew;

And who among them but an Exile, freed

From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit

Among the busily-employed, not more

With obligation charged, with service taxed,

Than the loose pendant—to the idle wind

Upon the tall mast streaming. But, ye Powers

Of soul and sense mysteriously allied,

Oh, never let the Wretched, if a choice

Be left him, trust the freight of his distress

To a long voyage on the silent deep!

For, like a plague, will memory break out;

And, in the blank and solitude of things,

Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength,

Will conscience prey.—Feebly must they have felt

Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips

The vengeful Furies. 'Beautiful' regards

Were turned on me—the face of her I loved;

The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing

Tender reproaches, insupportable!

Where now that boasted liberty? No welcome

From unknown objects I received; and those,

Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky

Did, in the placid clearness of the night,

Disclose, had accusations to prefer

Against my peace. Within the cabin stood

That volume—as a compass for the soul—

Revered among the nations. I implored

Its guidance; but the infallible support

Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused

To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds;

Perplexed with currents; of his weakness sick;

Of vain endeavours tired; and by his own,

And by his nature's, ignorance, dismayed!

Long-wished-for sight, the Western World appeared;

And, when the ship was moored, I leaped ashore

Indignantly—resolved to be a man,

Who, having o'er the past no power, would live

No longer in subjection to the past,

With abject mind—from a tyrannic lord

Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured:

So, like a fugitive, whose feet have cleared

Some boundary, which his followers may not cross

In prosecution of their deadly chase,

Respiring I looked round.—How bright the sun,

The breeze how soft! Can anything produced

In the old World compare, thought I, for power

And majesty with this gigantic stream,

Sprung from the desert? And behold a city

Fresh, youthful, and aspiring! What are these

To me, or I to them? As much at least

As he desires that they should be, whom winds

And waves have wafted to this distant shore,

In the condition of a damaged seed,

Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root.

Here may I roam at large;—my business is,

Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel,

And, therefore, not to act—convinced that all

Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er

Beginning, ends in servitude—still painful,

And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say,

On nearer view, a motley spectacle

Appeared, of high pretensions,—unreproved

But by the obstreperous voice of higher still;

Big passions strutting on a petty stage;

Which a detached spectator may regard

Not unamused.—But ridicule demands

Quick change of objects; and, to laugh alone,

At a composing distance from the haunts

Of strife and folly, though it be a treat

As choice as musing Leisure can bestow;

Yet, in the very centre of the crowd,

To keep the secret of a poignant scorn,

Howe'er to airy Demons suitable,

Of all unsocial courses, is least fit

For the gross spirit of mankind,—the one

That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns

Into vexation.

Let us, then, I said,

Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge

Of her own passions; and to regions haste,

Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe,

Or soil endured a transfer in the mart

Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides,

Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak

In combination, (wherefore else driven back

So far, and of his old inheritance

So easily deprived?) but, for that cause,

More dignified, and stronger in himself;

Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy.

True, the intelligence of social art

Hath overpowered his forefathers, and soon

Will sweep the remnant of his line away;

But contemplations, worthier, nobler far

Than her destructive energies, attend

His independence, when along the side

Of Mississippi, or that northern stream

That spreads into successive seas, he walks;

Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life,

And his innate capacities of soul,

There imaged: or when, having gained the top

Of some commanding eminence, which yet

Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys

Regions of wood and wide savannah, vast

Expanse of unappropriated earth,

With mind that sheds a light on what he sees;

Free as the sun, and lonely as the sun,

Pouring above his head its radiance down

Upon a living and rejoicing world!

So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated woods

I bent my way; and, roaming far and wide,

Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird;

And, while the melancholy Muccawiss

(The sportive bird's companion in the grove)

Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry,

I sympathised at leisure with the sound;

But that pure archetype of human greatness,

I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared

A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure;

Remorseless, and submissive to no law

But superstitious fear, and abject sloth.

Enough is told! Here am I—ye have heard

What evidence I seek, and vainly seek;

What from my fellow-beings I require,

And either they have not to give, or I

Lack virtue to receive; what I myself,

Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost

Nor can regain. How languidly I look

Upon this visible fabric of the world,

May be divined—perhaps it hath been said:—

But spare your pity, if there be in me

Aught that deserves respect: for I exist,

Within myself, not comfortless.—The tenor

Which my life holds, he readily may conceive

Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain brook

In some still passage of its course, and seen,

Within the depths of its capacious breast,

Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky;

And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam,

And conglobated bubbles undissolved,

Numerous as stars; that, by their onward lapse,

Betray to sight the motion of the stream,

Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard

A softened roar, or murmur; and the sound

Though soothing, and the little floating isles

Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged

With the same pensive office; and make known

Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt

Precipitations, and untoward straits,

The earth-born wanderer hath passed; and quickly,

That respite o'er, like traverses and toils

Must he again encounter.—Such a stream

Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares

In the best quiet to her course allowed;

And such is mine,—save only for a hope

That my particular current soon will reach

The unfathomable gulf, where all is still!”

BOOK FOURTH
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED
ARGUMENT

State of feeling produced by the foregoing Narrative—A belief in a superintending Providence the only adequate support under affliction—Wanderer's ejaculation—Acknowledges the difficulty of a lively faith—Hence immoderate sorrow—Exhortations—How received—Wanderer applies his discourse to that other cause of dejection in the Solitary's mind—Disappointment from the French Revolution—States grounds of hope, and insists on the necessity of patience and fortitude with respect to the course of great revolutions—Knowledge the source of tranquillity—Rural Solitude favourable to knowledge of the inferior Creatures; Study of their habits and ways recommended; exhortation to bodily exertion and communion with Nature—Morbid Solitude pitiable—Superstition better than apathy—Apathy and destitution unknown in the infancy of society—The various modes of Religion prevented it— Illustrated in the Jewish, Persian, Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian modes of belief—Solitary interposes—Wanderer points out the influence of religious and imaginative feeling in the humble ranks of society, illustrated from present and past times—These principles tend to recall exploded superstitions and popery— Wanderer rebuts this charge, and contrasts the dignities of the Imagination with the presumptuous littleness of certain modern Philosophers—Recommends other lights and guides—Asserts the power of the soul to regenerate herself; Solitary asks how— Reply—Personal appeal—Exhortation to activity of body renewed— How to commune with Nature—Wanderer concludes with a legitimate union of the imagination, affections, understanding, and reason— Effect of his discourse—Evening; Return to the Cottage.

HERE closed the Tenant of that lonely vale

His mournful narrative—commenced in pain,

In pain commenced, and ended without peace:

Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with strains

Of native feeling, grateful to our minds;

And yielding surely some relief to his,

While we sate listening with compassion due.

A pause of silence followed; then, with voice

That did not falter though the heart was moved,

The Wanderer said:—

“One adequate support

For the calamities of mortal life

Exists—one only; an assured belief

That the procession of our fate, howe'er

Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being

Of infinite benevolence and power;

Whose everlasting purposes embrace

All accidents, converting them to good.

—The darts of anguish 'fix' not where the seat

Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified

By acquiescence in the Will supreme

For time and for eternity; by faith,

Faith absolute in God, including hope,

And the defence that lies in boundless love

Of his perfections; with habitual dread

Of aught unworthily conceived, endured

Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone,

To the dishonour of his holy name.

Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world!

Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart;

Restore their languid spirits, and recall

Their lost affections unto thee and thine!”

Then, as we issued from that covert nook,

He thus continued, lifting up his eyes

To heaven:—“How beautiful this dome of sky;

And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed

At thy command, how awful! Shall the Soul,

Human and rational, report of thee

Even less than these?—Be mute who will, who can,

Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice:

My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd,

Cannot forget thee here; where thou hast built,

For thy own glory, in the wilderness!

Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine,

In such a temple as we now behold

Reared for thy presence: therefore, am I bound

To worship, here, and everywhere—as one

Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread,

From childhood up, the ways of poverty;

From unreflecting ignorance preserved,

And from debasement rescued.—By thy grace

The particle divine remained unquenched;

And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil,

Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers,

From paradise transplanted: wintry age

Impends; the frost will gather round my heart;

If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead!

—Come, labour, when the worn-out frame requires

Perpetual sabbath; come, disease and want;

And sad exclusion through decay of sense;

But leave me unabated trust in thee—

And let thy favour, to the end of life,

Inspire me with ability to seek

Repose and hope among eternal things—

Father of heaven and earth! and I am rich,

And will possess my portion in content!

And what are things eternal?—powers depart,”

The grey-haired Wanderer stedfastly replied,

Answering the question which himself had asked,

“Possessions vanish, and opinions change,

And passions hold a fluctuating seat:

But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken,

And subject neither to eclipse nor wane,

Duty exists;—immutably survive,

For our support, the measures and the forms,

Which an abstract intelligence supplies;

Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not.

Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart,

Do, with united urgency, require,

What more that may not perish?—Thou, dread source,

Prime, self-existing cause and end of all

That in the scale of being fill their place;

Above our human region, or below,

Set and sustained;—thou, who didst wrap the cloud

Of infancy around us, that thyself,

Therein, with our simplicity awhile

Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed;

Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep,

Or from its death-like void, with punctual care,

And touch as gentle as the morning light,

Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense

And reason's stedfast rule—thou, thou alone

Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits,

Which thou includest, as the sea her waves:

For adoration thou endur'st; endure

For consciousness the motions of thy will;

For apprehension those transcendent truths

Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws

(Submission constituting strength and power)

Even to thy Being's infinite majesty!

This universe shall pass away—a work

Glorious! because the shadow of thy might,

A step, or link, for intercourse with thee.

Ah! if the time must come, in which my feet

No more shall stray where meditation leads,

By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild,

Loved haunts like these; the unimprisoned Mind

May yet have scope to range among her own,

Her thoughts, her images, her high desires.

If the dear faculty of sight should fail,

Still, it may be allowed me to remember

What visionary powers of eye and soul

In youth were mine; when, stationed on the top

Of some huge hill—expectant, I beheld

The sun rise up, from distant climes returned

Darkness to chase, and sleep; and bring the day

His bounteous gift! or saw him toward the deep

Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds

Attended; then, my spirit was entranced

With joy exalted to beatitude;

The measure of my soul was filled with bliss,

And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with light,

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence!

Those fervent raptures are for ever flown;

And, since their date, my soul hath undergone

Change manifold, for better or for worse:

Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire

Heavenward; and chide the part of me that flags,

Through sinful choice; or dread necessity

On human nature from above imposed.

'Tis, by comparison, an easy task

Earth to despise; but, to converse with heaven—

This is not easy:—to relinquish all

We have, or hope, of happiness and joy,

And stand in freedom loosened from this world,

I deem not arduous; but must needs confess

That 'tis a thing impossible to frame

Conceptions equal to the soul's desires;

And the most difficult of tasks to 'keep'

Heights which the soul is competent to gain.

—Man is of dust: ethereal hopes are his,

Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft,

Want due consistence; like a pillar of smoke,

That with majestic energy from earth

Rises; but, having reached the thinner air,

Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen.

From this infirmity of mortal kind

Sorrow proceeds, which else were not; at least,

If grief be something hallowed and ordained,

If, in proportion, it be just and meet,

Yet, through this weakness of the general heart,

Is it enabled to maintain its hold

In that excess which conscience disapproves.

For who could sink and settle to that point

Of selfishness; so senseless who could be

As long and perseveringly to mourn

For any object of his love, removed

From this unstable world, if he could fix

A satisfying view upon that state

Of pure, imperishable, blessedness,

Which reason promises, and holy writ

Ensures to all believers?—Yet mistrust

Is of such incapacity, methinks,

No natural branch; despondency far less;

And, least of all, is absolute despair.

—And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped

Even to the dust; apparently, through weight

Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power

An agonizing sorrow to transmute;

Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld

When wanted most; a confidence impaired

So pitiably, that, having ceased to see

With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love

Of what is lost, and perish through regret.

Oh! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees

Too clearly; feels too vividly; and longs

To realize the vision, with intense

And over-constant yearning,—there—there lies

The excess, by which the balance is destroyed.

Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh,

This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs,

Though inconceivably endowed, too dim

For any passion of the soul that leads

To ecstasy; and, all the crooked paths

Of time and change disdaining, takes its course

Along the line of limitless desires.

I, speaking now from such disorder free,

Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled peace,

I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore

Are glorified; or, if they sleep, shall wake

From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love.

Hope, below this, consists not with belief

In mercy, carried infinite degrees

Beyond the tenderness of human hearts:

Hope, below this, consists not with belief

In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power,

That finds no limits but her own pure will.

Here then we rest; not fearing for our creed

The worst that human reasoning can achieve,

To unsettle or perplex it: yet with pain

Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach,

That, though immovably convinced, we want

Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith

As soldiers live by courage; as, by strength

Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas.

Alas! the endowment of immortal power

Is matched unequally with custom, time,

And domineering faculties of sense

In 'all'; in most, with superadded foes,

Idle temptations; open vanities,

Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world;

And, in the private regions of the mind,

Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite,

Immoderate wishes, pining discontent,

Distress and care. What then remains?—To seek

Those helps for his occasions ever near

Who lacks not will to use them; vows, renewed

On the first motion of a holy thought;

Vigils of contemplation; praise; and prayer—

A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart

Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows

Without access of unexpected strength.

But, above all, the victory is most sure

For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives

To yield entire submission to the law

Of conscience—conscience reverenced and obeyed,

As God's most intimate presence in the soul,

And his most perfect image in the world.

—Endeavour thus to live; these rules regard;

These helps solicit; and a stedfast seat

Shall then be yours among the happy few

Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air

Sons of the morning. For your nobler part,

Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains,

Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away;

With only such degree of sadness left

As may support longings of pure desire;

And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly

In the sublime attractions of the grave.”

While, in this strain, the venerable Sage

Poured forth his aspirations, and announced

His judgments, near that lonely house we paced

A plot of greensward, seemingly preserved

By nature's care from wreck of scattered stones,

And from encroachment of encircling heath:

Small space! but, for reiterated steps,

Smooth and commodious; as a stately deck

Which to and fro the mariner is used

To tread for pastime, talking with his mates,

Or haply thinking of far-distant friends,

While the ship glides before a steady breeze.

Stillness prevailed around us: and the voice

That spake was capable to lift the soul

Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, methought,

That he, whose fixed despondency had given

Impulse and motive to that strong discourse,

Was less upraised in spirit than abashed;

Shrinking from admonition, like a man

Who feels that to exhort is to reproach.

Yet not to be diverted from his aim,

The Sage continued:—

“For that other loss,

The loss of confidence in social man,

By the unexpected transports of our age

Carried so high, that every thought, which looked

Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind,

To many seemed superfluous—as, no cause

Could e'er for such exalted confidence

Exist; so, none is now for fixed despair:

The two extremes are equally disowned

By reason: if, with sharp recoil, from one

You have been driven far as its opposite,

Between them seek the point whereon to build

Sound expectations. So doth he advise

Who shared at first the illusion; but was soon

Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks

Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fields;

Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking

To the inattentive children of the world:

'Vainglorious Generation! what new powers

'On you have been conferred? what gifts, withheld

'From your progenitors, have ye received,

'Fit recompense of new desert? what claim

'Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees

'For you should undergo a sudden change;

'And the weak functions of one busy day,

'Reclaiming and extirpating, perform

'What all the slowly-moving years of time,

'With their united force, have left undone?

'By nature's gradual processes be taught;

'By story be confounded! Ye aspire

'Rashly, to fall once more; and that false fruit,

'Which, to your overweening spirits, yields

'Hope of a flight celestial, will produce

'Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons

'Shall not the less, though late, be justified.'

Such timely warning,” said the Wanderer, “gave

That visionary voice; and, at this day,

When a Tartarean darkness overspreads

The groaning nations; when the impious rule,

By will or by established ordinance,

Their own dire agents, and constrain the good

To acts which they abhor; though I bewail

This triumph, yet the pity of my heart

Prevents me not from owning, that the law,

By which mankind now suffers, is most just.

For by superior energies; more strict

Affiance in each other; faith more firm

In their unhallowed principles; the bad

Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak,

The vacillating, inconsistent good.

Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait—in hope

To see the moment, when the righteous cause

Shall gain defenders zealous and devout

As they who have opposed her; in which Virtue

Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds

That are not lofty as her rights; aspiring

By impulse of her own ethereal zeal.

That spirit only can redeem mankind;

And when that sacred spirit shall appear,

Then shall 'four' triumph be complete as theirs.

Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the wise

Have still the keeping of their proper peace;

Are guardians of their own tranquillity.

They act, or they recede, observe, and feel;

'Knowing the heart of man is set to be

The centre of this world, about the which

Those revolutions of disturbances

Still roll; where all the aspects of misery

Predominate; whose strong effects are such

As he must bear, being powerless to redress;

“And that unless above himself he can

Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man!”'

Happy is he who lives to understand,

Not human nature only, but explores

All natures,—to the end that he may find

The law that governs each; and where begins

The union, the partition where, that makes

Kind and degree, among all visible Beings;

The constitutions, powers, and faculties,

Which they inherit,—cannot step beyond,—

And cannot fall beneath; that do assign

To every class its station and its office,

Through all the mighty commonwealth of things

Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man.

Such converse, if directed by a meek,

Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love:

For knowledge is delight; and such delight

Breeds love: yet, suited as it rather is

To thought and to the climbing intellect,

It teaches less to love, than to adore;

If that be not indeed the highest love!”

“Yet,” said I, tempted here to interpose,

“The dignity of life is not impaired

By aught that innocently satisfies

The humbler cravings of the heart; and he

Is a still happier man, who, for those heights

Of speculation not unfit, descends;

And such benign affections cultivates

Among the inferior kinds; not merely those

That he may call his own, and which depend,

As individual objects of regard,

Upon his care, from whom he also looks

For signs and tokens of a mutual bond;

But others, far beyond this narrow sphere,

Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves.

Nor is it a mean praise of rural life

And solitude, that they do favour most,

Most frequently call forth, and best sustain,

These pure sensations; that can penetrate

The obstreperous city; on the barren seas

Are not unfelt; and much might recommend,

How much they might inspirit and endear,

The loneliness of this sublime retreat!”

“Yes,” said the Sage, resuming the discourse

Again directed to his downcast Friend,

“If, with the froward will and grovelling soul

Of man, offended, liberty is here,

And invitation every hour renewed,

To mark 'their' placid state, who never heard

Of a command which they have power to break,

Or rule which they are tempted to transgress:

These, with a soothed or elevated heart,

May we behold; their knowledge register;

Observe their ways; and, free from envy, find

Complacence there:—but wherefore this to you?

I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth,

The redbreast, ruffled up by winter's cold

Into a 'feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand:

A box, perchance, is from your casement hung

For the small wren to build in;—not in vain,

The barriers disregarding that surround

This deep abiding place, before your sight

Mounts on the breeze the butterfly; and soars,

Small creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers,

Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns

In the waste wilderness: the Soul ascends

Drawn towards her native firmament of heaven,

When the fresh eagle, in the month of May,

Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing,

This shaded valley leaves; and leaves the dark

Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing

A proud communication with the sun

Low sunk beneath the horizon!—List!—I heard,

From yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent forth

As if the visible mountain made the cry.

Again!”—The effect upon the soul was such

As he expressed: from out the mountain's heart

The solemn voice appeared to issue, startling

The blank air—for the region all around

Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent

Save for that single cry, the unanswered bleat

Of a poor lamb—left somewhere to itself,

The plaintive spirit of the solitude!

He paused, as if unwilling to proceed,

Through consciousness that silence in such place

Was best, the most affecting eloquence.

But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves,

And, in soft tone of speech, thus he resumed.

“Ah! if the heart, too confidently raised,

Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled

Too easily, despise or overlook

The vassalage that binds her to the earth,

Her sad dependence upon time, and all

The trepidations of mortality,

What place so destitute and void—but there

The little flower her vanity shall check;

The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless pride?

These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds,

Does that benignity pervade, that warms

The mole contented with her darksome walk

In the cold ground; and to the emmet gives

Her foresight, and intelligence that makes

The tiny creatures strong by social league;

Supports the generations, multiplies

Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain

Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills—

Their labour, covered, as a lake with waves;

Thousands of cities, in the desert place

Built up of life, and food, and means of life!

Nor wanting here, to entertain the thought,

Creatures that in communities exist,

Less, as might seem, for general guardianship

Or through dependence upon mutual aid,

Than by participation of delight

And a strict love of fellowship, combined.

What other spirit can it be that prompts

The gilded summer flies to mix and weave

Their sports together in the solar beam,

Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy?

More obviously the self-same influence rules

The feathered kinds; the fieldfare's pensive flock,

The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar,

Hovering above these inland solitudes,

By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call

Up through the trenches of the long-drawn vales

Their voyage was begun: nor is its power

Unfelt among the sedentary fowl

That seek yon pool, and there prolong their stay

In silent congress; or together roused

Take flight; while with their clang the air resounds:

And, over all, in that ethereal vault,

Is the mute company of changeful clouds;

Bright apparition, suddenly put forth,

The rainbow smiling on the faded storm;

The mild assemblage of the starry heavens;

And the great sun, earth's universal lord!

How bountiful is Nature! he shall find

Who seeks not; and to him, who hath not asked,

Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath-days

Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent

Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights;

And what a marvellous and heavenly show

Was suddenly revealed!—the swains moved on,

And heeded not: you lingered, you perceived

And felt, deeply as living man could feel.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise;

And inward self-disparagement affords

To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert,

You judge unthankfully: distempered nerves

Infect the thoughts: the languor of the frame

Depresses the soul's vigour. Quit your couch—

Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell;

Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed from heaven

Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye

Look down upon your taper, through a watch

Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling

In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star

Dimly reflected in a lonely pool.

Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways

That run not parallel to nature's course.

Rise with the lark! your matins shall obtain

Grace, be their composition what it may,

If but with hers performed; climb once again,

Climb every day, those ramparts; meet the breeze

Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee

That from your garden thither soars, to feed

On new-blown heath; let yon commanding rock

Be your frequented watch-tower; roll the stone

In thunder down the mountains; with all your might

Chase the wild goat; and if the bold red deer

Fly to those harbours, driven by hound and horn

Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit;

So, wearied to your hut shall you return,

And sink at evening into sound repose.”

The Solitary lifted toward the hills

A kindling eye:—accordant feelings rushed

Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth:

“Oh! what a joy it were, in vigorous health,

To have a body (this our vital frame

With shrinking sensibility endued,

And all the nice regards of flesh and blood)

And to the elements surrender it

As if it were a spirit!—How divine,

The liberty, for frail, for mortal, man

To roam at large among unpeopled glens

And mountainous retirements, only trod

By devious footsteps; regions consecrate

To oldest time! and, reckless of the storm

That keeps the raven quiet in her nest,

Be as a presence or a motion—one

Among the many there; and while the mists

Flying, and rainy vapours, call out shapes

And phantoms from the crags and solid earth

As fast as a musician scatters sounds

Out of an instrument; and while the streams

(As at a first creation and in haste

To exercise their untried faculties)

Descending from the region of the clouds,

And starting from the hollows of the earth

More multitudinous every moment, rend

Their way before them—what a joy to roam

An equal among mightiest energies;

And haply sometimes with articulate voice,

Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard

By him that utters it, exclaim aloud,

'Rage on ye elements! let moon and stars

Their aspects lend, and mingle in their turn

With this commotion (ruinous though it be)

From day to night, from night to day, prolonged!'”

“Yes,” said the Wanderer, taking from my lips

The strain of transport, “whosoe'er in youth

Has, through ambition of his soul, given way

To such desires, and grasped at such delight,

Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long,

In spite of all the weakness that life brings,

Its cares and sorrows; he, though taught to own

The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake,

Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness—

Loving the sports which once he gloried in.

Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's hills,

The streams far distant of your native glen;

Yet is their form and image here expressed

With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps

Wherever fancy leads; by day, by night,

Are various engines working, not the same

As those with which your soul in youth was moved,

But by the great Artificer endowed

With no inferior power. You dwell alone;

You walk, you live, you speculate alone;

Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign prince,

For you a stately gallery maintain

Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen,

Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed

With no incurious eye; and books are yours,

Within whose silent chambers treasure lies

Preserved from age to age; more precious far

Than that accumulated store of gold

And orient gems, which, for a day of need,

The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs.

These hoards of truth you can unlock at will:

And music waits upon your skilful touch,

Sounds which the wandering shepherd from these heights

Hears, and forgets his purpose;—furnished thus,

How can you droop, if willing to be upraised?

A piteous lot it were to flee from Man—

Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose hours

Are by domestic pleasures uncaressed

And unenlivened; who exists whole years

Apart from benefits received or done

'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd;

Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear,

Of the world's interests—such a one hath need

Of a quick fancy, and an active heart,

That, for the day's consumption, books may yield

Food not unwholesome; earth and air correct

His morbid humour, with delight supplied

Or solace, varying as the seasons change.

—Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease

And easy contemplation; gay parterres,

And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades

And shady groves in studied contrast—each,

For recreation, leading into each:

These may he range, if willing to partake

Their soft indulgences, and in due time

May issue thence, recruited for the tasks

And course of service Truth requires from those

Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne,

And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and feels,

And recognises ever and anon

The breeze of nature stirring in his soul,

Why need such man go desperately astray,

And nurse 'the dreadful appetite of death?'

If tired with systems, each in its degree

Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn,

Let him build systems of his own, and smile

At the fond work, demolished with a touch;

If unreligious, let him be at once,

Among ten thousand innocents, enrolled

A pupil in the many-chambered school,

Where superstition weaves her airy dreams.

Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's verge;

And daily lose what I desire to keep:

Yet rather would I instantly decline

To the traditionary sympathies

Of a most rustic ignorance, and take

A fearful apprehension from the owl

Or death-watch: and as readily rejoice,

If two auspicious magpies crossed my way;—

To this would rather bend than see and hear

The repetitions wearisome of sense,

Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place;

Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark

On outward things, with formal inference ends;

Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils

At once—or, not recoiling, is perplexed—

Lost in a gloom of uninspired research;

Meanwhile, the heart within the heart, the seat

Where peace and happy consciousness should dwell,

On its own axis restlessly revolving,

Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of truth.

Upon the breast of new-created earth

Man walked; and when and wheresoe'er he moved,

Alone or mated, solitude was not.

He heard, borne on the wind, the articulate voice

Of God; and Angels to his sight appeared

Crowning the glorious hills of paradise;

Or through the groves gliding like morning mist

Enkindled by the sun. He sate—and talked

With winged Messengers; who daily brought

To his small island in the ethereal deep

Tidings of joy and love.—From those pure heights

(Whether of actual vision, sensible

To sight and feeling, or that in this sort

Have condescendingly been shadowed forth

Communications spiritually maintained,

And intuitions moral and divine)

Fell Human-kind—to banishment condemned

That flowing years repealed not: and distress

And grief spread wide; but Man escaped the doom

Of destitution;—solitude was not.

—Jehovah—shapeless Power above all Powers,

Single and one, the omnipresent God,

By vocal utterance, or blaze of light,

Or cloud of darkness, localised in heaven;

On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark;

Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne

Between the Cherubim—on the chosen Race

Showered miracles, and ceased not to dispense

Judgments, that filled the land from age to age

With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear;

And with amazement smote;—thereby to assert

His scorned, or unacknowledged, sovereignty.

And when the One, ineffable of name,

Of nature indivisible, withdrew

From mortal adoration or regard,

Not then was Deity engulphed; nor Man,

The rational creature, left, to feel the weight

Of his own reason, without sense or thought

Of higher reason and a purer will,

To benefit and bless, through mightier power:—

Whether the Persian—zealous to reject

Altar and image, and the inclusive walls

And roofs of temples built by human hands—

To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops,

With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow,

Presented sacrifice to moon and stars,

And to the winds and mother elements,

And the whole circle of the heavens, for him

A sensitive existence, and a God,

With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise:

Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense

Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed

For influence undefined a personal shape;

And, from the plain, with toil immense, upreared

Tower eight times planted on the top of tower,

That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch

Descending, there might rest; upon that height

Pure and serene, diffused—to overlook

Winding Euphrates, and the city vast

Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched,

With grove and field and garden interspersed;

Their town, and foodful region for support

Against the pressure of beleaguering war.

Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields,

Beneath the concave of unclouded skies

Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude,

Looked on the polar star, as on a guide

And guardian of their course, that never closed

His stedfast eye. The planetary Five

With a submissive reverence they beheld;

Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocks,

Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move

Carrying through ether, in perpetual round,

Decrees and resolutions of the Gods;

And, by their aspects, signifying works

Of dim futurity, to Man revealed.

—The imaginative faculty was lord

Of observations natural; and, thus

Led on, those shepherds made report of stars

In set rotation passing to and fro,

Between the orbs of our apparent sphere

And its invisible counterpart, adorned

With answering constellations, under earth,

Removed from all approach of living sight

But present to the dead; who, so they deemed,

Like those celestial messengers beheld

All accidents, and judges were of all.

The lively Grecian, in a land of hills,

Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,—

Under a cope of sky more variable,

Could find commodious place for every God,

Promptly received, as prodigally brought,

From the surrounding countries, at the choice

Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill,

As nicest observation furnished hints

For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed

On fluent operations a fixed shape;

Metal or stone, idolatrously served.

And yet—triumphant o'er this pompous show

Of art, this palpable array of sense,

On every side encountered; in despite

Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets

By wandering Rhapsodists; and in contempt

Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged

Amid the wrangling schools—a SPIRIT hung,

Beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms,

Statues and temples, and memorial tombs;

And emanations were perceived; and acts

Of immortality, in Nature's course,

Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt

As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed

And armed warrior; and in every grove

A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed,

When piety more awful had relaxed.

—'Take, running river, take these locks of mine'—

Thus would the Votary say—'this severed hair,

'My vow fulfilling, do I here present,

'Thankful for my beloved child's return.

'Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod,

'Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph

'With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip,

'And, all day long, moisten these flowery fields!'

And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed

Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose

Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired;

That hath been, is, and where it was and is

There shall endure,—existence unexposed

To the blind walk of mortal accident;

From diminution safe and weakening age;

While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays;

And countless generations of mankind

Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod.

We live by Admiration, Hope and Love;

And, even as these are well and wisely fixed,

In dignity of being we ascend.

But what is error?”—“Answer he who can!”

The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed:

“Love, Hope, and Admiration,—are they not

Mad Fancy's favourite vassals? Does not life

Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin,

Guides to destruction? Is it well to trust

Imagination's light when reason's fails,

The unguarded taper where the guarded faints?

—Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare

What error is; and, of our errors, which

Doth most debase the mind; the genuine seats

Of power, where are they? Who shall regulate,

With truth, the scale of intellectual rank?”

“Methinks,” persuasively the Sage replied,

“That for this arduous office you possess

Some rare advantages. Your early days

A grateful recollection must supply

Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed

To dignify the humblest state.—Your voice

Hath, in my hearing, often testified

That poor men's children, they, and they alone,

By their condition taught, can understand

The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks

For daily bread. A consciousness is yours

How feelingly religion may be learned

In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue—

Heard where the dwelling vibrates to the din

Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength

At every moment—and, with strength, increase

Of fury; or, while snow is at the door,

Assaulting and defending, and the wind,

A sightless labourer, whistles at his work—

Fearful; but resignation tempers fear,

And piety is sweet to infant minds.

—The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves,

On the green turf, a dial—to divide

The silent hours; and who to that report

Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt,

Throughout a long and lonely summer's day

His round of pastoral duties, is not left

With less intelligence for 'moral' things

Of gravest import. Early he perceives,

Within himself, a measure and a rule,

Which to the sun of truth he can apply,

That shines for him, and shines for all mankind.

Experience daily fixing his regards

On nature's wants, he knows how few they are,

And where they lie, how answered and appeased.

This knowledge ample recompense affords

For manifold privations; he refers

His notions to this standard; on this rock

Rests his desires; and hence, in after life,

Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content.

Imagination—not permitted here

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind,

On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares,

And trivial ostentation—is left free

And puissant to range the solemn walks

Of time and nature, girded by a zone

That, while it binds, invigorates and supports.

Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side

Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top,

Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred

(Take from him what you will upon the score

Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes

For noble purposes of mind: his heart

Beats to the heroic song of ancient days;

His eye distinguishes, his soul creates.

And those illusions, which excite the scorn

Or move the pity of unthinking minds,

Are they not mainly outward ministers

Of inward conscience? with whose service charged

They came and go, appeared and disappear,

Diverting evil purposes, remorse

Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief,

Or pride of heart abating: and, whene'er

For less important ends those phantoms move,

Who would forbid them, if their presence serve—

On thinly-peopled mountains and wild heaths,

Filling a space, else vacant—to exalt

The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers?

Once more to distant ages of the world

Let us revert, and place before our thoughts

The face which rural solitude might wear

To the unenlightened swains of pagan Greece.

—In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched

On the soft grass through half a summer's day,

With music lulled his indolent repose:

And, in some fit of weariness, if he,

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear

A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds

Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched,

Even from the blazing chariot of the sun,

A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute,

And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.

The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye

Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart

Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed

That timely light, to share his joyous sport:

And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs,

Across the lawn and through the darksome grove,

Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

By echo multiplied from rock or cave,

Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and stars

Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven,

When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked

His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked

The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills

Gliding apace, with shadows in their train,

Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed

Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.

The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings,

Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed

With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,

Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,

From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth

In the low vale, or on steep mountain side;

And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns

Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard,—

These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood

Of gamesome Deities; or Pan himself,

The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God!”

The strain was aptly chosen; and I could mark

Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow

Of our Companion, gradually diffused;

While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf,

Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream

Detains; but tempted now to interpose,

He with a smile exclaimed:—

“'Tis well you speak

At a safe distance from our native land,

And from the mansions where our youth was taught.

The true descendants of those godly men

Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal,

Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles

That harboured them,—the souls retaining yet

The churlish features of that after-race

Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks,

In deadly scorn of superstitious rites,

Or what their scruples construed to be such—

How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme

Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged

Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh

The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain

Uprooted; would re-consecrate our wells

To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne;

And from long banishment recall Saint Giles,

To watch again with tutelary love

O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags?

A blessed restoration, to behold

The patron, on the shoulders of his priests,

Once more parading through her crowded streets,

Now simply guarded by the sober powers

Of science, and philosophy, and sense!”

This answer followed.—“You have turned my thoughts

Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose

Against idolatry with warlike mind,

And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk

In woods, and dwell under impending rocks

Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and food;

Why?—for this very reason that they felt,

And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved,

A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived,

But still a high dependence, a divine

Bounty and government, that filled their hearts

With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love;

And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise,

That through the desert rang. Though favoured less,

Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree,

Were those bewildered Pagans of old time.

Beyond their own poor natures and above

They looked; were humbly thankful for the good

Which the warm sun solicited, and earth

Bestowed; were gladsome,—and their moral sense

They fortified with reverence for the Gods;

And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave.

Now, shall our great Discoverers,” he exclaimed,

Raising his voice triumphantly, “obtain

From sense and reason, less than these obtained,

Though far misled? Shall men for whom our age

Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared,

To explore the world without and world within,

Be joyless as the blind? Ambitious spirits—

Whom earth, at this late season, hath produced

To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh

The planets in the hollow of their hand;

And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains

Have solved the elements, or analysed

The thinking principle—shall they in fact

Prove a degraded Race? and what avails

Renown, if their presumption make them such?

Oh! there is laughter at their work in heaven!

Inquire of ancient Wisdom; go, demand

Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant

That we should pry far off yet be unraised;

That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore,

Viewing all objects unremittingly

In disconnection dead and spiritless;

And still dividing, and dividing still,

Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied

With the perverse attempt, while littleness

May yet become more little; waging thus

An impious warfare with the very life

Of our own souls!

And if indeed there be

An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom

Our dark foundations rest, could he design

That this magnificent effect of power,

The earth we tread, the sky that we behold

By day, and all the pomp which night reveals;

That these—and that superior mystery

Our vital frame, so fearfully devised,

And the dread soul within it—should exist

Only to be examined, pondered, searched,

Probed, vexed, and criticised? Accuse me not

Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am,

If, having walked with Nature threescore years,

And offered, far as frailty would allow,

My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth,

I now affirm of Nature and of Truth,

Whom I have served, that their DIVINITY

Revolts, offended at the ways of men

Swayed by such motives, to such ends employed;

Philosophers, who, though the human soul

Be of a thousand faculties composed,

And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize

This soul, and the transcendent universe,

No more than as a mirror that reflects

To proud Self-love her own intelligence;

That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss

Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly!

Nor higher place can be assigned to him

And his compeers—the laughing Sage of France.—

Crowned was he, if my memory do not err,

With laurel planted upon hoary hairs,

In sign of conquest by his wit achieved

And benefits his wisdom had conferred;

His stooping body tottered with wreaths of flowers

Opprest, far less becoming ornaments

Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree;

Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man,

And a most frivolous people. Him I mean

Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith,

This sorry Legend; which by chance we found

Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem,

Among more innocent rubbish.”—Speaking thus,

With a brief notice when, and how, and where,

We had espied the book, he drew it forth;

And courteously, as if the act removed,

At once, all traces from the good Man's heart

Of unbenign aversion or contempt,

Restored it to its owner. “Gentle Friend,”

Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand,

“You have known lights and guides better than these.

Ah! let not aught amiss within dispose

A noble mind to practise on herself,

And tempt opinion to support the wrongs

Of passion: whatsoe'er be felt or feared,

From higher judgment-seats make no appeal

To lower: can you question that the soul

Inherits an allegiance, not by choice

To be cast off, upon an oath proposed

By each new upstart notion? In the ports

Of levity no refuge can be found,

No shelter, for a spirit in distress.

He, who by wilful disesteem of life

And proud insensibility to hope,

Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn

That her mild nature can be terrible;

That neither she nor Silence lack the power

To avenge their own insulted majesty.

O blest seclusion! when the mind admits

The law of duty; and can therefore move

Through each vicissitude of loss and gain,

Linked in entire complacence with her choice;

When youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down,

And manhood's vain anxiety dismissed;

When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit,

Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung

In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops

To drink with gratitude the crystal stream

Of unreproved enjoyment; and is pleased

To muse, and be saluted by the air

Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents

From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride

And chambers of transgression, now forlorn.

O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights!

Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive

To reconcile his manhood to a couch

Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise,

Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past

For fixed annoyance; and full oft beset

With floating dreams, black and disconsolate,

The vapoury phantoms of futurity?

Within the soul a faculty abides,

That with interpositions, which would hide

And darken, so can deal that they become

Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt

Her native brightness. As the ample moon,

In the deep stillness of a summer even

Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,

Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,

In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides

Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil

Into a substance glorious as her own,

Yea, with her own incorporated, by power

Capacious and serene. Like power abides

In man's celestial spirit; virtue thus

Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds

A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire,

From the encumbrances of mortal life,

From error, disappointment—nay, from guilt;

And sometimes, so relenting justice wills,

From palpable oppressions of despair.”

The Solitary by these words was touched

With manifest emotion, and exclaimed;

“But how begin? and whence?—'The Mind is free—

Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say,

'This single act is all that we demand.'

Alas! such wisdom bids a creature fly

Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn

His natural wings!—To friendship let him turn

For succour, but perhaps he sits alone

On stormy waters, tossed in a little boat

That holds but him, and can contain no more!

Religion tells of amity sublime

Which no condition can preclude; of One

Who sees all suffering, comprehends all wants,

All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs:

But is that bounty absolute?—His gifts,

Are they not, still, in some degree, rewards

For acts of service? Can his love extend

To hearts that own not him? Will showers of grace,

When in the sky no promise may be seen,

Fall to refresh a parched and withered land?

Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load

At the Redeemer's feet?”

In rueful tone,

With some impatience in his mien, he spake:

Back to my mind rushed all that had been urged

To calm the Sufferer when his story closed;

I looked for counsel as unbending now;

But a discriminating sympathy

Stooped to this apt reply:—

“As men from men

Do, in the constitution of their souls,

Differ, by mystery not to be explained;

And as we fall by various ways, and sink

One deeper than another, self-condemned,

Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame;

So manifold and various are the ways

Of restoration, fashioned to the steps

Of all infirmity, and tending all

To the same point, attainable by all—

Peace in ourselves, and union with our God.

For you, assuredly, a hopeful road

Lies open: we have heard from you a voice

At every moment softened in its course

By tenderness of heart; have seen your eye,

Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven,

Kindle before us.—Your discourse this day,

That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow

In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades

Of death and night, has caught at every turn

The colours of the sun. Access for you

Is yet preserved to principles of truth,

Which the imaginative Will upholds

In seats of wisdom, not to be approached

By the inferior Faculty that moulds,

With her minute and speculative pains,

Opinion, ever changing!

I have seen

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract

Of inland ground, applying to his ear

The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;

To which, in silence hushed, his very soul

Listened intensely; and his countenance soon

Brightened with joy; for from within were heard

Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed

Mysterious union with its native sea.

Even such a shell the universe itself

Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,

I doubt not, when to you it doth impart

Authentic tidings of invisible things;

Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;

And central peace, subsisting at the heart

Of endless agitation. Here you stand,

Adore, and worship, when you know it not;

Pious beyond the intention of your thought;

Devout above the meaning of your will.

—Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel.

The estate of man would be indeed forlorn

If false conclusions of the reasoning power

Made the eye blind, and closed the passages

Through which the ear converses with the heart.

Has not the soul, the being of your life,

Received a shock of awful consciousness,

In some calm season, when these lofty rocks

At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky,

To rest upon their circumambient walls;

A temple framing of dimensions vast,

And yet not too enormous for the sound

Of human anthems,—choral song, or burst

Sublime of instrumental harmony,

To glorify the Eternal! What if these

Did never break the stillness that prevails

Here,—if the solemn nightingale be mute,

And the soft woodlark here did never chant

Her vespers,—Nature fails not to provide

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air

Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights,

And blind recesses of the caverned rocks;

The little rills, and waters numberless,

Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes

With the loud streams: and often, at the hour

When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard,

Within the circuit of this fabric huge,

One voice—the solitary raven, flying

Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome,

Unseen, perchance above all power of sight—

An iron knell! with echoes from afar

Faint—and still fainter—as the cry, with which

The wanderer accompanies her flight

Through the calm region, fades upon the ear,

Diminishing by distance till it seemed

To expire; yet from the abyss is caught again,

And yet again recovered!

But descending

From these imaginative heights, that yield

Far-stretching views into eternity,

Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power

Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend

Even here, where her amenities are sown

With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad

To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields,

Where on the labours of the happy throng

She smiles, including in her wide embrace

City, and town, and tower,—and sea with ships

Sprinkled;—be our Companion while we track

Her rivers populous with gliding life;

While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march,

Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods;

Roaming, or resting under grateful shade

In peace and meditative cheerfulness;

Where living things, and things inanimate,

Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear,

And speak to social reason's inner sense,

With inarticulate language.

For, the Man—

Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms

Of nature, who with understanding heart

Both knows and loves such objects as excite

No morbid passions, no disquietude,

No vengeance, and no hatred—needs must feel

The joy of that pure principle of love

So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught

Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose

But seek for objects of a kindred love

In fellow-natures and a kindred joy.

Accordingly he by degrees perceives

His feelings of aversion softened down;

A holy tenderness pervade his frame.

His sanity of reason not impaired,

Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear,

From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round

And seeks for good; and finds the good he seeks:

Until abhorrence and contempt are things

He only knows by name; and, if he hear,

From other mouths, the language which they speak,

He is compassionate; and has no thought,

No feeling, which can overcome his love.

And further; by contemplating these Forms

In the relations which they bear to man,

He shall discern, how, through the various means

Which silently they yield, are multiplied

The spiritual presences of absent things.

Trust me, that for the instructed, time will come

When they shall meet no object but may teach

Some acceptable lesson to their minds

Of human suffering, or of human joy.

So shall they learn, while all things speak of man,

Their duties from all forms; and general laws,

And local accidents, shall tend alike

To rouse, to urge; and, with the will, confer

The ability to spread the blessings wide

Of true philanthropy. The light of love

Not failing, perseverance from their steps

Departing not, for them shall be confirmed

The glorious habit by which sense is made

Subservient still to moral purposes,

Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe

The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore

The burthen of existence. Science then

Shall be a precious visitant; and then,

And only then, be worthy of her name:

For then her heart shall kindle; her dull eye,

Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang

Chained to its object in brute slavery;

But taught with patient interest to watch

The processes of things, and serve the cause

Of order and distinctness, not for this

Shall it forget that its most noble use,

Its most illustrious province, must be found

In furnishing clear guidance, a support

Not treacherous, to the mind's 'excursive' power.

—So build we up the Being that we are;

Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things

We shall be wise perforce; and, while inspired

By choice, and conscious that the Will is free,

Shall move unswerving, even as if impelled

By strict necessity, along the path

Of order and of good. Whate'er we see,

Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine;

Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength,

Earthly desires; and raise, to loftier heights

Of divine love, our intellectual soul.”

Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue,

Poured forth with fervour in continuous stream,

Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness,

An Indian Chief discharges from his breast

Into the hearing of assembled tribes,

In open circle seated round, and hushed

As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf

Stirs in the mighty woods.—So did he speak:

The words he uttered shall not pass away

Dispersed, like music that the wind takes up

By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten;

No—they sank into me, the bounteous gift

Of one whom time and nature had made wise,

Gracing his doctrine with authority

Which hostile spirits silently allow;

Of one accustomed to desires that feed

On fruitage gathered from the tree of life;

To hopes on knowledge and experience built;

Of one in whom persuasion and belief

Had ripened into faith, and faith become

A passionate intuition; whence the Soul,

Though bound to earth by ties of pity and love,

From all injurious servitude was free.

The Sun, before his place of rest were reached,

Had yet to travel far, but unto us,

To us who stood low in that hollow dell,

He had become invisible,—a pomp

Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread

Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold

With ample shadows, seemingly, no less

Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest;

A dispensation of his evening power.

—Adown the path that from the glen had led

The funeral train, the Shepherd and his Mate

Were seen descending:—forth to greet them ran

Our little Page: the rustic pair approach;

And in the Matron's countenance may be read

Plain indication that the words, which told

How that neglected Pensioner was sent

Before his time into a quiet grave,

Had done to her humanity no wrong:

But we are kindly welcomed—promptly served

With ostentatious zeal.—Along the floor

Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell

A grateful couch was spread for our repose;

Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we lay,

Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound

Of far-off torrents charming the still night,

And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts,

Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.

BOOK FIFTH
THE PASTOR
ARGUMENT

Farewell to the Valley—Reflections—A large and populous Vale described—The Pastor's Dwelling, and some account of him—Church and Monuments—The Solitary musing, and where—Roused—In the Churchyard the Solitary communicates the thoughts which had recently passed through his mind—Lofty tone of the Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to—Rite of Baptism, and the professions accompanying it, contrasted with the real state of human life—Apology for the Rite—Inconsistency of the best men— Acknowledgment that practice falls far below the injunctions of duty as existing in the mind—General complaint of a falling-off in the value of life after the time of youth—Outward appearances of content and happiness in degree illusive—Pastor approaches— Appeal made to him—His answer—Wanderer in sympathy with him— Suggestion that the least ambitious enquirers may be most free from error—The Pastor is desired to give some portraits of the living or dead from his own observation of life among these Mountains—And for what purpose—Pastor consents—Mountain cottage—Excellent qualities of its Inhabitants—Solitary expresses his pleasure; but denies the praise of virtue to worth of this kind—Feelings of the Priest before he enters upon his account of persons interred in the Churchyard—Graves of unbaptized Infants—Funeral and sepulchral observances, whence— Ecclesiastical Establishments, whence derived—Profession of belief in the doctrine of Immortality.

“FAREWELL, deep Valley, with thy one rude House,

And its small lot of life-supporting fields,

And guardian rocks!—Farewell, attractive seat!

To the still influx of the morning light

Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled

From human observation, as if yet

Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark

Impenetrable shade; once more farewell,

Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss,

By Nature destined from the birth of things

For quietness profound!”

Upon the side

Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale

Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt,

Lingering behind my comrades, thus I breathed

A parting tribute to a spot that seemed

Like the fixed centre of a troubled world.

Again I halted with reverted eyes;

The chain that would not slacken, was at length

Snapt,—and, pursuing leisurely my way,

How vain, thought I, is it by change of place

To seek that comfort which the mind denies;

Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned

Wisely; and by such tenure do we hold

Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate

Yields no peculiar reason of complaint

Might, by the promise that is here, be won

To steal from active duties, and embrace

Obscurity, and undisturbed repose.

—Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times,

Should be allowed a privilege to have

Her anchorites, like piety of old;

Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained

By war, might, if so minded, turn aside

Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few

Living to God and nature, and content

With that communion. Consecrated be

The spots where such abide! But happier still

The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends

That meditation and research may guide

His privacy to principles and powers

Discovered or invented; or set forth,

Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth,

In lucid order; so that, when his course

Is run, some faithful eulogist may say,

He sought not praise, and praise did overlook

His unobtrusive merit; but his life,

Sweet to himself, was exercised in good

That shall survive his name and memory.

Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere

Accompanied these musings; fervent thanks

For my own peaceful lot and happy choice;

A choice that from the passions of the world

Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat;

Sheltered, but not to social duties lost,

Secluded, but not buried; and with song

Cheering my days, and with industrious thought;

With the ever-welcome company of books;

With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid,

And with the blessings of domestic love.

Thus occupied in mind I paced along,

Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel

Worn in the moorland, till I overtook

My two Associates, in the morning sunshine

Halting together on a rocky knoll,

Whence the bare road descended rapidly

To the green meadows of another vale.

Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand

In sign of farewell. “Nay,” the old Man said,

“The fragrant air its coolness still retains;

The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop

The dewy grass; you cannot leave us now,

We must not part at this inviting hour.”

He yielded, though reluctant; for his mind

Instinctively disposed him to retire

To his own covert; as a billow, heaved

Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea.

—So we descend: and winding round a rock

Attain a point that showed the valley—stretched

In length before us; and, not distant far,

Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower,

Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees.

And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond

Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed

A copious stream with boldly-winding course;

Here traceable, there hidden—there again

To sight restored, and glittering in the sun.

On the stream's bank, and everywhere, appeared

Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots;

Some scattered o'er the level, others perched

On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene,

Now in its morning purity arrayed.

“As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps,”

Said I, “once happy, ere tyrannic power,

Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss,

Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth,

A popular equality reigns here,

Save for yon stately House beneath whose roof

A rural lord might dwell.”—“No feudal pomp,

Or power,” replied the Wanderer, “to that House

Belongs, but there in his allotted Home

Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest,

The shepherd of his flock; or, as a king

Is styled, when most affectionately praised,

The father of his people. Such is he;

And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice

Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed

To me some portion of a kind regard;

And something also of his inner mind

Hath he imparted—but I speak of him

As he is known to all.

The calm delights

Of unambitious piety he chose,

And learning's solid dignity; though born

Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends.

Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew

From academic bowers. He loved the spot—

Who does not love his native soil?—he prized

The ancient rural character, composed

Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest

And undisguised, and strong and serious thought

A character reflected in himself,

With such embellishment as well beseems

His rank and sacred function. This deep vale

Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight,

And one a turreted manorial hall

Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors

Have dwelt through ages, Patrons of this Cure.

To them, and to his own judicious pains,

The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain,

Owes that presiding aspect which might well

Attract your notice; statelier than could else

Have been bestowed, through course of common chance,

On an unwealthy mountain Benefice.”

This said, oft pausing, we pursued our way;

Nor reached the village-churchyard till the sun

Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen

Above the summits of the highest hills,

And round our path darted oppressive beams.

As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile

Stood open; and we entered. On my frame,

At such transition from the fervid air,

A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike

The heart, in concert with that temperate awe

And natural reverence which the place inspired.

Not raised in nice proportions was the pile,

But large and massy; for duration built;

With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld

By naked rafters intricately crossed,

Like leafless underboughs, in some thick wood,

All withered by the depth of shade above.

Admonitory texts inscribed the walls,

Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed;

Each also crowned with winged heads—a pair

Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor

Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,

Was occupied by oaken benches ranged

In seemly rows; the chancel only showed

Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state

By immemorial privilege allowed;

Though with the Encincture's special sanctity

But ill according. An heraldic shield,

Varying its tincture with the changeful light,

Imbued the altar-window; fixed aloft

A faded hatchment hung, and one by time

Yet undiscoloured. A capacious pew

Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined;

And marble monuments were here displayed

Thronging the walls; and on the floor beneath

Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven

And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small

And shining effigies of brass inlaid.

The tribute by these various records claimed,

Duly we paid, each after each, and read

The ordinary chronicle of birth,

Office, alliance, and promotion—all

Ending in dust; of upright magistrates,

Grave doctors strenuous for the mother-church,

And uncorrupted senators, alike

To king and people true. A brazen plate,

Not easily deciphered, told of one

Whose course of earthly honour was begun

In quality of page among the train

Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas

His royal state to show, and prove his strength

In tournament, upon the fields of France.

Another tablet registered the death,

And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight

Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles.

Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed;

And, to the silent language giving voice,

I read,—how in his manhood's earlier day

He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine war

And rightful government subverted, found

One only solace—that he had espoused

A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved

For her benign perfections; and yet more

Endeared to him, for this, that, in her state

Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard,

She with a numerous issue filled his house,

Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm

That laid their country waste. No need to speak

Of less particular notices assigned

To Youth or Maiden gone before their time,

And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old;

Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed

In modest panegyric.

“These dim lines,

What would they tell?” said I,—but, from the task

Of puzzling out that faded narrative,

With whisper soft my venerable Friend

Called me; and, looking down the darksome aisle,

I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale

Standing apart; with curved arm reclined

On the baptismal font; his pallid face

Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost

In some abstraction;—gracefully he stood,

The semblance bearing of a sculptured form

That leans upon a monumental urn

In peace, from morn to night, from year to year.

Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse;

Who entered, humming carelessly a tune,

Continuation haply of the notes

That had beguiled the work from which he came,

With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung;

To be deposited, for future need,

In their appointed place. The pale Recluse

Withdrew; and straight we followed,—to a spot

Where sun and shade were intermixed; for there

A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms

From an adjoining pasture, overhung

Small space of that green churchyard with a light

And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall

My ancient Friend and I together took

Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake,

Standing before us:—

“Did you note the mien

Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl,

Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbour's grave,

Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay,

All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf,

Or plant a tree. And did you hear his voice?

I was abruptly summoned by the sound

From some affecting images and thoughts,

Which then were silent; but crave utterance now.

Much,” he continued, with dejected look,

“Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase,

Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes

For future states of being; and the wings

Of speculation, joyfully outspread,

Hovered above our destiny on earth:

But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul

In sober contrast with reality,

And man's substantial life. If this mute earth

Of what it holds could speak, and every grave

Were as a volume, shut, yet capable

Of yielding its contents to eye and ear,

We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame,

To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill

That which is done accords with what is known

To reason, and by conscience is enjoined;

How idly, how perversely, life's whole course,

To this conclusion, deviates from the line,

Or of the end stops short, proposed to all

At her aspiring outset.

Mark the babe

Not long accustomed to this breathing world;

One that hath barely learned to shape a smile,

Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp

With tiny finger—to let fall a tear;

And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves,

To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem,

The outward functions of intelligent man;

A grave proficient in amusive feats

Of puppetry, that from the lap declare

His expectations, and announce his claims

To that inheritance which millions rue

That they were ever born to! In due time

A day of solemn ceremonial comes;

When they, who for this Minor hold in trust

Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage

Of mere humanity, present their Charge,

For this occasion daintily adorned,

At the baptismal font. And when the pure

And consecrating element hath cleansed

The original stain, the child is there received

Into the second ark, Christ's church, with trust

That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float

Over the billows of this troublesome world

To the fair land of everlasting life.

Corrupt affections, covetous desires,

Are all renounced; high as the thought of man

Can carry virtue, virtue is professed;

A dedication made, a promise given

For due provision to control and guide,

And unremitting progress to ensure

In holiness and truth.”

“You cannot blame,”

Here interposing fervently I said,

“Rites which attest that Man by nature lies

Bedded for good and evil in a gulf

Fearfully low; nor will your judgment scorn

Those services, whereby attempt is made

To lift the creature toward that eminence

On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty

He stood; or if not so, whose top serene

At least he feels 'tis given him to descry;

Not without aspirations, evermore

Returning, and injunctions from within

Doubt to cast off and weariness; in trust

That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost,

May be, through pains and persevering hope,

Recovered; or, if hitherto unknown,

Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained.”

“I blame them not,” he calmly answered—“no;

The outward ritual and established forms

With which communities of men invest

These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows

To which the lips give public utterance

Are both a natural process; and by me

Shall pass uncensured; though the issue prove,

Bringing from age to age its own reproach,

Incongruous, impotent, and blank.—But, oh!

If to be weak is to be wretched—miserable,

As the lost Angel by a human voice

Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind,

Far better not to move at all than move

By impulse sent from such illusive power,—

That finds and cannot fasten down; that grasps

And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps;

That tempts, emboldens—for a time sustains,

And then betrays; accuses and inflicts

Remorseless punishment; and so retreads

The inevitable circle: better far

Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace,

By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed!

Philosophy! and thou more vaunted name

Religion! with thy statelier retinue,

Faith, Hope, and Charity—from the visible world

Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find

Of safest guidance or of firmest trust—

The torch, the star, the anchor; nor except

The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet

The generations of mankind have knelt

Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears,

And through that conflict seeking rest—of you,

High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask,

Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky

In faint reflection of infinitude

Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet

A subterraneous magazine of bones,

In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid,

Where are your triumphs? your dominion where?

And in what age admitted and confirmed?

—Not for a happy land do I enquire,

Island or grove, that hides a blessed few

Who, with obedience willing and sincere,

To your serene authorities conform;

But whom, I ask, of individual Souls,

Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked ways,

Inspired, and thoroughly fortified?—If the heart

Could be inspected to its inmost folds

By sight undazzled with the glare of praise,

Who shall be named—in the resplendent line

Of sages, martyrs, confessors—the man

Whom the best might of faith, wherever fixed,

For one day's little compass, has preserved

From painful and discreditable shocks

Of contradiction, from some vague desire

Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse

To some unsanctioned fear?”

“If this be so,

And Man,” said I, “be in his noblest shape

Thus pitiably infirm; then, he who made,

And who shall judge the creature, will forgive.

—Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint

Is all too true; and surely not misplaced:

For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thoughts

Rise to the notice of a serious mind

By natural exhalation. With the dead

In their repose, the living in their mirth,

Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round

Of smooth and solemnized complacencies,

By which, on Christian lands, from age to age

Profession mocks performance. Earth is sick,

And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words

Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk

Of truth and justice. Turn to private life

And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves;

A light of duty shines on every day

For all; and yet how few are warmed or cheered!

How few who mingle with their fellow-men

And still remain self-governed, and apart,

Like this our honoured Friend; and thence acquire

Right to expect his vigorous decline,

That promises to the end a blest old age!”

“Yet,” with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed

The Solitary, “in the life of man,

If to the poetry of common speech

Faith may be given, we see as in a glass

A true reflection of the circling year,

With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there,

In spite of many a rough untoward blast,

Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers;

Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day,

That 'ought' to follow faithfully expressed?

And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit,

Where is she imaged? in what favoured clime

Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence?

—Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse

In man's autumnal season is set forth

With a resemblance not to be denied,

And that contents him; bowers that hear no more

The voice of gladness, less and less supply

Of outward sunshine and internal warmth;

And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves,

Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway.

How gay the habitations that bedeck

This fertile valley! Not a house but seems

To give assurance of content within;

Embosomed happiness, and placid love;

As if the sunshine of the day were met

With answering brightness in the hearts of all

Who walk this favoured ground. But chance-regards,

And notice forced upon incurious ears;

These, if these only, acting in despite

Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced

On humble life, forbid the judging mind

To trust the smiling aspect of this fair

And noiseless commonwealth. The simple race

Of mountaineers (by nature's self removed

From foul temptations, and by constant care

Of a good shepherd tended as themselves

Do tend their flocks) partake man's general lot

With little mitigation. They escape,

Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; feel not

The tedium of fantastic idleness:

Yet life, as with the multitude, with them

Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale;

That on the outset wastes its gay desires,

Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes,

And pleasant interests—for the sequel leaving

Old things repeated with diminished grace;

And all the laboured novelties at best

Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power

Evince the want and weakness whence they spring.”

While in this serious mood we held discourse,

The reverend Pastor toward the churchyard gate

Approached; and, with a mild respectful air

Of native cordiality, our Friend

Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien

Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed.

Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess

That he, who now upon the mossy wall

Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish

Could have transferred him to the flying clouds,

Or the least penetrable hiding-place

In his own valley's rocky guardianship.

—For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased:

Nature had framed them both, and both were marked

By circumstance, with intermixture fine

Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak

Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak,

Fresh in the strength and majesty of age,

One might be likened: flourishing appeared,

Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime,

The other—like a stately sycamore,

That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honied shade.

A general greeting was exchanged; and soon

The Pastor learned that his approach had given

A welcome interruption to discourse

Grave, and in truth too often sad.—“Is Man

A child of hope? Do generations press

On generations, without progress made?

Halts the individual, ere his hairs be grey,

Perforce? Are we a creature in whom good

Preponderates, or evil? Doth the will

Acknowledge reason's law? A living power

Is virtue, or no better than a name,

Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound?

So that the only substance which remains,

(For thus the tenor of complaint hath run)

Among so many shadows, are the pains

And penalties of miserable life,

Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust!

—Our cogitations, this way have been drawn,

These are the points,” the Wanderer said, “on which

Our inquest turns.—Accord, good Sir! the light

Of your experience to dispel this gloom:

By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart

That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered.”

“Our nature,” said the Priest, in mild reply,

“Angels nay weigh and fathom: they perceive,

With undistempered and unclouded spirit,

The object as it is; but, for ourselves,

That speculative height 'we' may not reach.

The good and evil are our own; and we

Are that which we would contemplate from far.

Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain—

Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep—

As virtue's self; like virtue is beset

With snares; tried, tempted, subject to decay.

Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate,

Blind were we without these: through these alone

Are capable to notice or discern

Or to record; we judge, but cannot be

Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast,

Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man

An effort only, and a noble aim;

A crown, an attribute of sovereign power,

Still to be courted—never to be won.

—Look forth, or each man dive into himself;

What sees he but a creature too perturbed;

That is transported to excess; that yearns,

Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much;

Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils;

Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair;

Thus comprehension fails, and truth is missed;

Thus darkness and delusion round our path

Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks

Within the very faculty of sight.

Yet for the general purposes of faith

In Providence, for solace and support,

We may not doubt that who can best subject

The will to reason's law, can strictliest live

And act in that obedience, he shall gain

The clearest apprehension of those truths,

Which unassisted reason's utmost power

Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this,

And our regards confining within bounds

Of less exalted consciousness, through which

The very multitude are free to range,

We safely may affirm that human life

Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene

Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul,

Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view;

Even as the same is looked at, or approached.

Thus, when in changeful April fields are white

With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen north

Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun

Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, filled

With mounds transversely lying side by side

From east to west, before you will appear

An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain,

With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom

Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back;

Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light,

Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense

His beams; which, unexcluded in their fall,

Upon the southern side of every grave

Have gently exercised a melting power;

'Then' will a vernal prospect greet your eye,

All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright,

Hopeful and cheerful:—vanished is the pall

That overspread and chilled the sacred turf,

Vanished or hidden; and the whole domain,

To some, too lightly minded, might appear

A meadow carpet for the dancing hours.

—This contrast, not unsuitable to life,

Is to that other state more apposite,

Death and its two-fold aspect! wintry—one,

Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out;

The other, which the ray divine hath touched,

Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.”

“We see, then, as we feel,” the Wanderer thus

With a complacent animation spake,

“And in your judgment, Sir! the mind's repose

On evidence is not to be ensured

By act of naked reason. Moral truth

Is no mechanic structure, built by rule;

And which, once built, retains a stedfast shape

And undisturbed proportions; but a thing

Subject, you deem, to vital accidents;

And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives,

Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head

Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere

I re-salute these sentiments confirmed

By your authority. But how acquire

The inward principle that gives effect

To outward argument; the passive will

Meek to admit; the active energy,

Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm

To keep and cherish? how shall man unite

With self-forgetting tenderness of heart

An earth-despising dignity of soul?

Wise in that union, and without it blind!”

“The way,” said I, “to court, if not obtain

The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright;

This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you

Declared at large; and by what exercise

From visible nature, or the inner self

Power may be trained, and renovation brought

To those who need the gift. But, after all,

Is aught so certain as that man is doomed

To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance?

The natural roof of that dark house in which

His soul is pent! How little can be known—

This is the wise man's sigh; how far we err—

This is the good man's not unfrequent pang!

And they perhaps err least, the lowly class

Whom a benign necessity compels

To follow reason's least ambitious course;

Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt,

And unincited by a wish to look

Into high objects farther than they may,

Pace to and fro, from morn till eventide,

The narrow avenue of daily toil

For daily bread.”

“Yes,” buoyantly exclaimed

The pale Recluse—“praise to the sturdy plough,

And patient spade; praise to the simple crook,

And ponderous loom—resounding while it holds

Body and mind in one captivity;

And let the light mechanic tool be hailed

With honour; which, encasing by the power

Of long companionship, the artist's hand,

Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves,

From a too busy commerce with the heart!

—Inglorious implements of craft and toil,

Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force,

By slow solicitation, earth to yield

Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth

With wise reluctance; you would I extol,

Not for gross good alone which ye produce,

But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife

Of proofs and reasons ye preclude—in those

Who to your dull society are born,

And with their humble birthright rest content.

—Would I had ne'er renounced it!”

A slight flush

Of moral anger previously had tinged

The old Man's cheek; but, at this closing turn

Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he,

“That which we feel we utter; as we think

So have we argued; reaping for our pains

No visible recompense. For our relief

You,” to the Pastor turning thus he spake,

“Have kindly interposed. May I entreat

Your further help? The mine of real life

Dig for us; and present us, in the shape

Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains

Fruitless as those of aery alchemists,

Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies

Around us a domain where you have long

Watched both the outward course and inner heart:

Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts;

For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man

He is who cultivates yon hanging field;

What qualities of mind she bears, who comes,

For morn and evening service, with her pail,

To that green pasture; place before our sight

The family who dwell within yon house

Fenced round with glittering laurel; or in that

Below, from which the curling smoke ascends.

Or rather, as we stand on holy earth,

And have the dead around us, take from them

Your instances; for they are both best known,

And by frail man most equitably judged.

Epitomise the life; pronounce, you can,

Authentic epitaphs on some of these

Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought,

Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet:

So, by your records, may our doubts be solved;

And so, not searching higher we may learn

'To prize the breath we share with human kind;

And look upon the dust of man with awe'.”

The Priest replied—“An office you impose

For which peculiar requisites are mine;

Yet much, I feel, is wanting—else the task

Would be most grateful. True indeed it is

That they whom death has hidden from our sight

Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with these

The future cannot contradict the past:

Mortality's last exercise and proof

Is undergone; the transit made that shows

The very Soul, revealed as she departs.

Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give,

Ere we descend into these silent vaults,

One picture from the living.

You behold,

High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark

With stony barrenness, a shining speck

Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower

Brush it away, or cloud pass over it;

And such it might be deemed—a sleeping sunbeam;

But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground,

Cut off, an island in the dusky waste;

And that attractive brightness is its own.

The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt

Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones

The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen,

For opportunity presented, thence

Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land

And ocean, and look down upon the works,

The habitations, and the ways of men,

Himself unseen! But no tradition tells

That ever hermit dipped his maple dish

In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields;

And no such visionary views belong

To those who occupy and till the ground,

High on that mountain where they long have dwelt

A wedded pair in childless solitude.

A house of stones collected on the spot,

By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front.

Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest

Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top;

A rough abode—in colour, shape, and size,

Such as in unsafe times of border-war

Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude

The eye of roving plunderer—for their need

Suffices; and unshaken bears the assault

Of their most dreaded foe, the strong Southwest

In anger blowing from the distant sea.

—Alone within her solitary hut;

There, or within the compass of her fields,

At any moment may the Dame be found,

True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest

And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles

By intermingled work of house and field

The summer's day, and winter's; with success

Not equal, but sufficient to maintain,

Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content,

Until the expected hour at which her Mate

From the far-distant quarry's vault returns;

And by his converse crowns a silent day

With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind,

In scale of culture, few among my flock

Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair:

But true humility descends from heaven;

And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on them;

Abundant recompense for every want.

—Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these!

Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear

The voice of wisdom whispering scripture texts

For the mind's government, or temper's peace;

And recommending for their mutual need,

Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity!”

“Much was I pleased,” the grey-haired Wanderer said,

“When to those shining fields our notice first

You turned; and yet more pleased have from your lips

Gathered this fair report of them who dwell

In that retirement; whither, by such course

Of evil hap and good as oft awaits

A tired way-faring man, once 'I' was brought

While traversing alone yon mountain pass.

Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell,

And night succeeded with unusual gloom,

So hazardous that feet and hands became

Guides better than mine eyes—until a light

High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought,

For human habitation; but I longed

To reach it, destitute of other hope.

I looked with steadiness as sailors look

On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp,

And saw the light—now fixed—and shifting now—

Not like a dancing meteor, but in line

Of never-varying motion, to and fro.

It is no night-fire of the naked hills,

Thought I—some friendly covert must be near.

With this persuasion thitherward my steps

I turn, and reach at last the guiding light;

Joy to myself! but to the heart of her

Who there was standing on the open hill,

(The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised)

Alarm and disappointment! The alarm

Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I came,

And by what help had gained those distant fields.

Drawn from her cottage, on that aery height,

Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood,

Or paced the ground—to guide her Husband home,

By that unwearied signal, kenned afar;

An anxious duty! which the lofty site,

Traversed but by a few irregular paths,

Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance

Detains him after his accustomed hour

Till night lies black upon the ground. 'But come,

Come,' said the Matron, 'to our poor abode;

Those dark rocks hide it!' Entering, I beheld

A blazing fire—beside a cleanly hearth

Sate down; and to her office, with leave asked,

The Dame returned.

Or ere that glowing pile

Of mountain turf required the builder's hand

Its wasted splendour to repair, the door

Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks,

Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare,

Frank conversation, made the evening's treat:

Need a bewildered traveller wish for more?

But more was given; I studied as we sate

By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face

Not less than beautiful; an open brow

Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek

Suffused with something of a feminine hue;

Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard;

But, in the quicker turns of the discourse,

Expression slowly varying, that evinced

A tardy apprehension. From a fount

Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time,

But honoured once, those features and that mien

May have descended, though I see them here.

In such a man, so gentle and subdued,

Withal so graceful in his gentleness,

A race illustrious for heroic deeds,

Humbled, but not degraded, may expire.

This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld

By sundry recollections of such fall

From high to low, ascent from low to high,

As books record, and even the careless mind

Cannot but notice among men and things)

Went with me to the place of my repose.

Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day,

I yet had risen too late to interchange

A morning salutation with my Host,

Gone forth already to the far-off seat

Of his day's work. 'Three dark mid-winter months

'Pass,' said the Matron 'and I never see,

'Save when the sabbath brings its kind release,

'My Helpmate's face by light of day. He quits

'His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns.

'And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the bread

'For which we pray; and for the wants provide

'Of sickness, accident, and helpless age.

'Companions have I many; many friends,

'Dependants, comforters—my wheel, my fire,

'All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear,

'The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood,

'And the wild birds that gather round my porch.

'This honest sheep-dog's countenance I read;

'With him can talk; nor blush to waste a word

'On creatures less intelligent and shrewd.

'And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds

'Care not for me, he lingers round my door,

'And makes me pastime when our tempers suit;—

'But, above all, my thoughts are my support,

'My comfort:—would that they were oftener fixed

'On what, for guidance in the way that leads

'To heaven, I know, by my Redeemer taught.'

The Matron ended—nor could I forbear

To exclaim—'O happy! yielding to the law

Of these privations, richer in the main!—

While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged

By ease and leisure; by the very wealth

And pride of opportunity made poor;

While tens of thousands falter in their path,

And sink, through utter want of cheering light;

For you the hours of labour do not flag;

For you each evening hath its shining star,

And every sabbath-day its golden sun.'”

“Yes!” said the Solitary with a smile

That seemed to break from an expanding heart,

“The untutored bird may found, and so construct,

And with such soft materials line, her nest

Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake,

That the thorns wound her not; they only guard,

Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts

Of happy instinct which the woodland bird

Shares with her species, nature's grace sometimes

Upon the individual doth confer,

Among her higher creatures born and trained

To use of reason. And, I own that, tired

Of the ostentatious world—a swelling stage

With empty actions and vain passions stuffed,

And from the private struggles of mankind

Hoping far less than I could wish to hope,

Far less than once I trusted and believed—

I love to hear of those, who, not contending

Nor summoned to contend for virtue's prize,

Miss not the humbler good at which they aim,

Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt

The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn

Into their contraries the petty plagues

And hindrances with which they stand beset.

In early youth, among my native hills,

I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed

A few small crofts of stone-encumbered ground;

Masses of every shape and size, that lay

Scattered about under the mouldering walls

Of a rough precipice; and some, apart,

In quarters unobnoxious to such chance,

As if the moon had showered them down in spite.

But he repined not. Though the plough was scared

By these obstructions, 'round the shady stones

'A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain,

'Gathers, and is preserved; and feeding dews

'And damps, through all the droughty summer day

'From out their substance issuing, maintain

'Herbage that never fails; no grass springs up

'So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine!'

But thinly sown these natures; rare, at least,

The mutual aptitude of seed and soil

That yields such kindly product. He, whose bed

Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner

Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell

Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he,

If living now, could otherwise report

Of rustic loneliness: that grey-haired Orphan—

So call him, for humanity to him

No parent was—feelingly could have told,

In life, in death, what solitude can breed

Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice;

Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure.

—But your compliance, Sir! with our request

My words too long have hindered.”

Undeterred,

Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks,

In no ungracious opposition, given

To the confiding spirit of his own

Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said,

Around him looking; “Where shall I begin?

Who shall be first selected from my flock

Gathered together in their peaceful fold?”

He paused—and having lifted up his eyes

To the pure heaven, he cast them down again

Upon the earth beneath his feet; and spake:—

“To a mysteriously-united pair

This place is consecrate; to Death and Life,

And to the best affections that proceed

From their conjunction; consecrate to faith

In him who bled for man upon the cross;

Hallowed to revelation; and no less

To reason's mandates: and the hopes divine

Of pure imagination;—above all,

To charity, and love, that have provided,

Within these precincts, a capacious bed

And receptacle, open to the good

And evil, to the just and the unjust;

In which they find an equal resting-place:

Even as the multitude of kindred brooks

And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale,

Whether their course be turbulent or smooth,

Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost

Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake,

And end their journey in the same repose!

And blest are they who sleep; and we that know,

While in a spot like this we breathe and walk,

That all beneath us by the wings are covered

Of motherly humanity, outspread

And gathering all within their tender shade,

Though loth and slow to come! A battlefield,

In stillness left when slaughter is no more,

With this compared, makes a strange spectacle!

A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn

With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old

Wandering about in miserable search

Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea

Restores not to their prayer! Ah! who would think

That all the scattered subjects which compose

Earth's melancholy vision through the space

Of all her climes—these wretched, these depraved,

To virtue lost, insensible of peace,

From the delights of charity cut off,

To pity dead, the oppressor and the opprest;

Tyrants who utter the destroying word,

And slaves who will consent to be destroyed—

Were of one species with the sheltered few,

Who, with a dutiful and tender hand,

Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot,

This file of infants; some that never breathed

The vital air; others, which, though allowed

That privilege, did yet expire too soon,

Or with too brief a warning, to admit

Administration of the holy rite

That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms

Of Jesus, and his everlasting care.

These that in trembling hope are laid apart;

And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired

Till he begins to smile upon the breast

That feeds him; and the tottering little-one

Taken from air and sunshine when the rose

Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek;

The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy; the bold youth

Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid

Smitten while all the promises of life

Are opening round her; those of middle age,

Cast down while confident in strength they stand,

Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem,

And more secure, by very weight of all

That, for support, rests on them; the decayed

And burthensome; and lastly, that poor few

Whose light of reason is with age extinct;

The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last,

The earliest summoned and the longest spared—

Are here deposited, with tribute paid

Various, but unto each some tribute paid;

As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves,

Society were touched with kind concern,

And gentle 'Nature grieved, that one should die;'

Or, if the change demanded no regret,

Observed the liberating stroke—and blessed.

And whence that tribute? wherefore these regards?

Not from the naked 'Heart' alone of Man

(Though claiming high distinction upon earth

As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears,

His own peculiar utterance for distress

Or gladness)—No,” the philosophic Priest

Continued, “'tis not in the vital seat

Of feeling to produce them, without aid

From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure;

With her two faculties of eye and ear,

The one by which a creature, whom his sins

Have rendered prone, can upward look to heaven;

The other that empowers him to perceive

The voice of Deity, on height and plain,

Whispering those truths in stillness, which the WORD,

To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims.

Not without such assistance could the use

Of these benign observances prevail:

Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus maintained;

And by the care prospective of our wise

Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks

The fluctuation and decay of things,

Embodied and established these high truths

In solemn institutions:—men convinced

That life is love and immortality,

The being one, and one the element.

There lies the channel, and original bed,

From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped

For Man's affections—else betrayed and lost

And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite!

This is the genuine course, the aim, and end

Of prescient reason; all conclusions else

Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse.

The faith partaking of those holy times,

Life, I repeat, is energy of love

Divine or human; exercised in pain,

In strife, and tribulation; and ordained,

If so approved and sanctified, to pass,

Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.” NOTES 646 'Or rather, as we stand on holy earth, And have the dead around us.' Leo. You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves? Priest. For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard Perhaps I might; . . . . . By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world.

'See the Brothers'. 975 'And suffering Nature grieved that one should die.'

“Southey's Retrospect.” 978 'And whence that tribute? wherefore these regards?' The sentiments and opinions here uttered are in unison with those expressed in the following Essay upon Epitaphs, which was furnished by me for Mr. Coleridge's periodical work, “The Friend”; and as they are dictated by a spirit congenial to that which pervades this and the two succeeding books, the sympathising reader will not be displeased to see the Essay here annexed.

_____________ ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS IT needs scarcely be said, that an Epitaph presupposes a Monument, upon which it is to be engraven. Almost all Nations have wished that certain external signs should point out the places where their dead are interred. Among savage tribes unacquainted with letters this has mostly been done either by rude stones placed near the graves, or by mounds of earth raised over them. This custom proceeded obviously from a twofold desire: first to guard the remains of the deceased from irreverent approach or from savage violation: and secondly to preserve their memory. “Never any,” says Camden, “neglected burial but some savage nations; as the Bactrians, which cast their dead to the dogs; some varlet philosophers, as Diogenes, who desired to be devoured of fishes; some dissolute courtiers, as Maecenas, who was wont to say, Non tumulum curo; sepelit natura relictos. 'I'm careless of a grave:—Nature her dead will save.'” As soon as nations had learned the use of letters, epitaphs were inscribed upon these monuments; in order that their intention might be more surely and adequately fulfilled. I have derived monuments and epitaphs from two sources of feeling, but these do in fact resolve themselves into one. The invention of epitaphs, Weever, in his Discourse of Funeral Monuments, says rightly, “proceeded from the presage or fore-feeling of immortality, implanted in all men naturally, and is referred to the scholars of Linus the Theban poet, who flourished about the year of the world two thousand seven hundred; who first bewailed this Linus their Master, when he was slain, in doleful verses, then called of him Oelina, afterwards Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at burials, after engraved upon the sepulchres.” And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of immortality in the human soul, Man could never have had awakened in him the desire to live in the remembrance of his fellows: mere love, or the yearning of kind towards kind, could not have produced it. The dog or horse perishes in the field, or in the stall, by the side of his companions, and is incapable of anticipating the sorrow with which his surrounding associates shall bemoan his death, or pine for his loss; he cannot pre- conceive this regret, he can form no thought of it; and therefore cannot possibly have a desire to leave such regret or remembrance behind him. Add to the principle of love which exists in the inferior animals, the faculty of reason which exists in Man alone; will the conjunction of these account for the desire? Doubtless it is a necessary consequence of this conjunction; yet not, I think, as a direct result, but only to be come at through an intermediate thought, viz. that of an intimation or assurance within us, that some part of our nature is imperishable. At least the precedence, in order of birth, of one feeling to the other, is unquestionable. If we look back upon the days of childhood, we shall find that the time is not in remembrance when, with respect to our own individual Being, the mind was without this assurance; whereas, the wish to be remembered by our friends or kindred after death, or even in absence, is, as we shall discover, a sensation that does not form itself till the 'social' feelings have been developed, and the Reason has connected itself with a wide range of objects. Forlorn, and cut off from communication with the best part of his nature, must that man be, who should derive the sense of immortality, as it exists in the mind of a child, from the same unthinking gaiety or liveliness of animal spirits with which the lamb in the meadow or any other irrational creature is endowed; who should ascribe it, in short, to blank ignorance in the child; to an inability arising from the imperfect state of his faculties to come, in any point of his being, into contact with a notion of death; or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what has been instilled into him! Has such an unfolder of the mysteries of nature, though he may have forgotten his former self, ever noticed the early, obstinate, and unappeasable inquisitiveness of children upon the subject of origination? This single fact proves outwardly the monstrousness of those suppositions: for, if we had no direct external testimony that the minds of very young children meditate feelingly upon death and immortality, these inquiries, which we all know they are perpetually making concerning the 'whence', do necessarily include correspondent habits of interrogation concerning the 'whither'. Origin and tendency are notions inseparably co-relative. Never did a child stand by the side of a running stream, pondering within himself what power was the feeder of the perpetual current, from what never-wearied sources the body of water was supplied, but he must have been inevitably propelled to follow this question by another: “Towards what abyss is it in progress? what receptacle can contain the mighty influx?” And the spirit of the answer must have been, though the word might be sea or ocean, accompanied perhaps with an image gathered from a map, or from the real object in nature—these might have been the 'letter', but the 'spirit' of the answer must have been 'as' inevitably,—a receptacle without bounds or dimensions;—nothing less than infinity. We may, then, be justified in asserting, that the sense of immortality, if not a co-existent and twin birth with Reason, is among the earliest of her offspring: and we may further assert, that from these conjoined, and under their countenance, the human affections are gradually formed and opened out. This is not the place to enter into the recesses of these investigations; but the subject requires me here to make a plain avowal, that, for my own part, it is to me inconceivable, that the sympathies of love towards each other, which grow with our growth, could ever attain any new strength, or even preserve the old, after we had received from the outward senses the impression of death, and were in the habit of having that impression daily renewed and its accompanying feeling brought home to ourselves, and to those we love; if the same were not counteracted by those communications with our internal Being, which are anterior to all these experiences, and with which revelation coincides, and has through that coincidence alone (for otherwise it could not possess it) a power to affect us. I confess, with me the conviction is absolute that, if the impression and sense of death were not thus counterbalanced, such a hollowness would pervade the whole system of things, such a want of correspondence and consistency, a disproportion so astounding betwixt means and ends, that there could be no repose, no joy. Were we to grow up unfostered by this genial warmth, a frost would chill the spirit, so penetrating and powerful that there could be no motions of the life of love; and infinitely less could we have any wish to be remembered after we had passed away from a world in which each man had moved about like a shadow.—If, then, in a creature endowed with the faculties of foresight and reason, the social affections could not have unfolded themselves uncountenanced by the faith that Man is an immortal being, and if, consequently, neither could the individual dying have had a desire to survive in the remembrance of his fellows, nor on their side could they have felt a wish to preserve for future times vestiges of the departed; it follows, as a final inference, that without the belief in immortality, wherein these several desires originate, neither monuments nor epitaphs, in affectionate or laudatory commemoration of the deceased, could have existed in the world. Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a strange country, found the corse of an unknown person lying by the seaside; he buried it, and was honoured throughout Greece for the piety of that act. Another ancient Philosopher, chancing to fix his eyes upon a dead body, regarded the same with slight, if not with contempt, saying, “See the shell of the flown bird!” But it is not to be supposed that the moral and tender-hearted Simonides was incapable of the lofty movements of thought to which that other Sage gave way at the moment while his soul was intent only upon the indestructible being; nor, on the other hand, that he, in whose sight a lifeless human body was of no more value than the worthless shell from which the living fowl had departed, would not, in a different mood of mind, have been affected by those earthly considerations which had incited the philosophic Poet to the performance of that pious duty. And with regard to this latter we may be assured that, if he had been destitute of the capability of communing with the more exalted thoughts that appertain to human nature, he would have cared no more for the corse of the stranger than for the dead body of a seal or porpoise which might have been cast up by the waves. We respect the corporeal frame of Man, not merely because it is the habitation of a rational, but of an immortal Soul. Each of these Sages was in sympathy with the best feelings of our nature; feelings which, though they seem opposite to each other, have another and a finer connection than that of contrast.—It is a connection formed through the subtle progress by which, both in the natural and the moral world, qualities pass insensibly into their contraries, and things revolve upon each other. As, in sailing upon the orb of this planet, a voyage towards the regions where the sun sets conducts gradually to the quarter where we have been accustomed to behold it come forth at its rising; and, in like manner, a voyage towards the east, the birth-place in our imagination of the morning, leads finally to the quarter where the sun is last seen when he departs from our eyes; so the contemplative Soul, travelling in the direction of mortality, advances to the country of everlasting life; and, in like manner, may she continue to explore those cheerful tracts till she is brought back, for her advantage and benefit, to the land of transitory things—of sorrow and of tears. On a midway point, therefore, which commands the thoughts and feelings of the two Sages whom we have represented in contrast, does the Author of that species of composition, the laws of which it is our present purpose to explain, take his stand. Accordingly, recurring to the twofold desire of guarding the remains of the deceased and preserving their memory, it may be said that a sepulchral monument is a tribute to a man as a human being; and that an epitaph (in the ordinary meaning attached to the word) includes this general feeling and something more; and is a record to preserve the memory of the dead, as a tribute due to his individual worth, for a satisfaction to the sorrowing hearts of the survivors, and for the common benefit of the living: which record is to be accomplished, not in a general manner, but, where it can, in 'close connection with the bodily remains of the deceased': and these, it may be added, among the modern nations of Europe, are deposited within, or contiguous to, their places of worship. In ancient times, as is well known, it was the custom to bury the dead beyond the walls of towns and cities; and among the Greeks and Romans they were frequently interred by the waysides. I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the Reader to indulge with me in contemplation of the advantages which must have attended such a practice. We might ruminate upon the beauty which the monuments, thus placed, must have borrowed from the surrounding images of nature—from the trees, the wild flowers, from a stream running perhaps within sight or hearing, from the beaten road stretching its weary length hard by. Many tender similitudes must these objects have presented to the mind of the traveller leaning upon one of the tombs, or reposing in the coolness of its shade, whether he had halted from weariness or in compliance with the invitation, “Pause, Traveller!” so often found upon the monuments. And to its epitaph also must have been supplied strong appeals to visible appearances or immediate impressions, lively and affecting analogies of life as a journey— death as a sleep overcoming the tired wayfarer—of misfortune as a storm that falls suddenly upon him—of beauty as a flower that passeth away, or of innocent pleasure as one that may be gathered- -of virtue that standeth firm as a rock against the beating waves- -of hope “undermined insensibly like the poplar by the side of the river that has fed it,” or blasted in a moment like a pine-tree by the stroke of lightning upon the mountain-top—of admonitions and heart-stirring remembrances, like a refreshing breeze that comes without warning, or the taste of the waters of an unexpected fountain. These and similar suggestions must have given, formerly, to the language of the senseless stone a voice enforced and endeared by the benignity of that nature with which it was in unison.—We, in modern times, have lost much of these advantages; and they are but in a small degree counterbalanced to the inhabitants of large towns and cities by the custom of depositing the dead within, or contiguous to, their places of worship; however splendid or imposing may be the appearance of those edifices, or however interesting or salutary the recollections associated with them. Even were it not true that tombs lose their monitory virtue when thus obtruded upon the notice of men occupied with the cares of the world, and too often sullied and defiled by those cares, yet still, when death is in our thoughts, nothing can make amends for the want of the soothing influences of nature, and for the absence of those types of renovation and decay which the fields and woods offer to the notice of the serious and contemplative mind. To feel the force of this sentiment, let a man only compare in imagination the unsightly manner in which our monuments are crowded together in the busy, noisy, unclean, and almost grassless churchyard of a large town, with the still seclusion of a Turkish cemetery, in some remote place, and yet further sanctified by the grove of cypress in which it is embosomed. Thoughts in the same temper as these have already been expressed with true sensibility by an ingenuous Poet of the present day. The subject of his poem is “All Saints Church, Derby:” he has been deploring the forbidding and unseemly appearance of its burial-ground, and uttering a wish that in past times the practice had been adopted of interring the inhabitants of large towns in the country;—

Then in some rural, calm, sequestered spot

Where healing Nature her benignant look

Ne'er changes, save at that lorn season, when,

With tresses drooping o'er her sable stole,

She yearly mourns the mortal doom of man,

Her noblest work, (so Israel's virgins erst,

With annual moan upon the mountains wept

Their fairest gone,) there in that rural scene,

So placid, so congenial to the wish

The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within

The silent grave, I would have stayed:

* * * * *

—wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven

Lay on the humbler graves around, what time

The pale moon gazed upon the turfy mounds,

Pensive, as though like me, in lonely muse,

'Twere brooding on the dead inhumed beneath.

There while with him, the holy man of Uz,

O'er human destiny I sympathised,

Counting the long, long periods prophecy

Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives

Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring

Had met me with her blossoms, as the Dove,

Of old, returned with olive leaf, to cheer

The Patriarch mourning o'er a world destroyed:

And I would bless her visit; for to me

'Tis sweet to trace the consonance that links

As one, the works of Nature and the word

Of God.— JOHN EDWARDS. A village churchyard, lying as it does in the lap of nature, may indeed be most favourably contrasted with that of a town of crowded population; and sepulture therein combines many of the best tendencies which belong to the mode practised by the Ancients with others peculiar to itself. The sensations of pious cheerfulness, which attend the celebration of the sabbath-day in rural places, are profitably chastised by the sight of the graves of kindred and friends, gathered together in that general home towards which the thoughtful yet happy spectators themselves are journeying. Hence a parish church, in the stillness of the country, is a visible centre of a community of the living and the dead; a point to which are habitually referred the nearest concerns of both. As, then, both in cities and in villages, the dead are deposited in close connection with our places of worship, with us the composition of an epitaph naturally turns, still more than among the nations of antiquity, upon the most serious and solemn affections of the human mind; upon departed worth—upon personal or social sorrow and admiration—upon religion, individual and social—upon time, and upon eternity. Accordingly, it suffices, in ordinary cases, to secure a composition of this kind from censure, that it contain nothing that shall shock or be inconsistent with this spirit. But, to entitle an epitaph to praise, more than this is necessary. It ought to contain some thought or feeling belonging to the mortal or immortal part of our nature touchingly expressed; and if that be done, however general or even trite the sentiment may be, every man of pure mind will read the words with pleasure and gratitude. A husband bewails a wife; a parent breathes a sigh of disappointed hope over a lost child; a son utters a sentiment of filial reverence for a departed father or mother; a friend perhaps inscribes an encomium recording the companionable qualities, or the solid virtues, of the tenant of the grave, whose departure has left a sadness upon his memory. This and a pious admonition to the living, and a humble expression of Christian confidence in immortality, is the language of a thousand churchyards; and it does not often happen that anything, in a greater degree discriminate or appropriate to the dead or to the living, is to be found in them. This want of discrimination has been ascribed by Dr. Johnson, in his Essay upon the epitaphs of Pope, to two causes: first, the scantiness of the objects of human praise; and, secondly, the want of variety in the characters of men; or, to use his own words, “to the fact, that the greater part of mankind have no character at all.” Such language may be holden without blame among the generalities of common conversation; but does not become a critic and a moralist speaking seriously upon a serious subject. The objects of admiration in human nature are not scanty, but abundant: and every man has a character of his own to the eye that has skill to perceive it. The real cause of the acknowledged want of discrimination in sepulchral memorials is this: That to analyse the characters of others, especially of those whom we love, is not a common or natural employment of men at any time. We are not anxious unerringly to understand the constitution of the minds of those who have soothed, who have cheered, who have supported us; with whom we have been long and daily pleased or delighted. The affections are their own justification. The light of love in our hearts is a satisfactory evidence that there is a body of worth in the minds of our friends or kindred, whence that light has proceeded. We shrink from the thought of placing their merits and defects to be weighed against each other in the nice balance of pure intellect; nor do we find much temptation to detect the shades by which a good quality or virtue is discriminated in them from an excellence known by the same general name as it exists in the mind of another; and least of all do we incline to these refinements when under the pressure of sorrow, admiration, or regret, or when actuated by any of those feelings which incite men to prolong the memory of their friends and kindred by records placed in the bosom of the all-uniting and equalising receptacle of the dead. The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph is, that it should speak, in a tone which shall sink into the heart, the general language of humanity as connected with the subject of death—the source from which an epitaph proceeds—of death, and of life. To be born and to die are the two points in which all men feel themselves to be in absolute coincidence. This general language may be uttered so strikingly as to entitle an epitaph to high praise; yet it cannot lay claim to the highest unless other excellences be superadded. Passing through all intermediate steps, we will attempt to determine at once what these excellences are, and wherein consists the perfection of this species of composition.—It will be found to lie in a due proportion of the common or universal feeling of humanity to sensations excited by a distinct and clear conception, conveyed to the reader's mind, of the individual whose death is deplored and whose memory is to be preserved; at least of his character as, after death, it appeared to those who loved him and lament his loss. The general sympathy ought to be quickened, provoked, and diversified, by particular thoughts, actions, images,—circumstances of age, occupation, manner of life, prosperity which the deceased had known, or adversity to which he had been subject; and these ought to be bound together and solemnised into one harmony by the general sympathy. The two powers should temper, restrain, and exalt each other. The reader ought to know who and what the man was whom he is called upon to think of with interest. A distinct conception should be given (implicitly where it can, rather than explicitly) of the individual lamented.—But the writer of an epitaph is not an anatomist, who dissects the internal frame of the mind; he is not even a painter, who executes a portrait at leisure and in entire tranquillity: his delineation, we must remember, is performed by the side of the grave; and, what is more, the grave of one whom he loves and admires. What purity and brightness is that virtue clothed in, the image of which must no longer bless our living eyes! The character of a deceased friend or beloved kinsman is not seen—no, nor ought to be seen—otherwise than as a tree through a tender haze or a luminous mist, that spiritualises and beautifies it; that takes away, indeed, but only to the end that the parts which are not abstracted may appear more dignified and lovely; may impress and affect the more. Shall we say, then, that this is not truth, not a faithful image; and that, accordingly, the purposes of commemoration cannot be answered?—It 'is' truth, and of the highest order; for, though doubtless things are not apparent which did exist; yet, the object being looked at through this medium, parts and proportions are brought into distinct view which before had been only imperfectly or unconsciously seen: it is truth hallowed by love—the joint offspring of the worth of the dead and the affections of the living! This may easily be brought to the test. Let one, whose eyes have been sharpened by personal hostility to discover what was amiss in the character of a good man, hear the tidings of his death, and what a change is wrought in a moment! Enmity melts away; and, as it disappears, unsightliness, disproportion, and deformity, vanish; and, through the influence of commiseration, a harmony of love and beauty succeeds. Bring such a man to the tombstone on which shall be inscribed an epitaph on his adversary, composed in the spirit which we have recommended. Would he turn from it as from an idle tale? No;—the thoughtful look, the sigh, and perhaps the involuntary tear, would testify that it had a sane, a generous, and good meaning; and that on the writer's mind had remained an impression which was a true abstract of the character of the deceased; that his gifts and graces were remembered in the simplicity in which they ought to be remembered. The composition and quality of the mind of a virtuous man, contemplated by the side of the grave where his body is mouldering, ought to appear, and be felt as something midway between what he was on earth walking about with his living frailties, and what he may be presumed to be as a Spirit in heaven. It suffices, therefore, that the trunk and the main branches of the worth of the deceased be boldly and unaffectedly represented. Any further detail, minutely and scrupulously pursued, especially if this be done with laborious and antithetic discriminations, must inevitably frustrate its own purpose; forcing the passing Spectator to this conclusion,—either that the dead did not possess the merits ascribed to him, or that they who have raised a monument to his memory, and must therefore be supposed to have been closely connected with him, were incapable of perceiving those merits; or at least during the act of composition had lost sight of them; for, the understanding having been so busy in its petty occupation, how could the heart of the mourner be other than cold? and in either of these cases, whether the fault be on the part of the buried person or the survivors, the memorial is unaffecting and profitless. Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than to pursue it too far, or to labour it unfeelingly. For in no place are we so much disposed to dwell upon those points of nature and condition wherein all men resemble each other, as in the temple where the universal Father is worshipped, or by the side of the grave which gathers all human Beings to itself, and “equalises the lofty and the low.” We suffer and we weep with the same heart; we love and are anxious for one another in one spirit; our hopes look to the same quarter; and the virtues by which we are all to be furthered and supported, as patience, meekness, good-will, justice, temperance, and temperate desires, are in an equal degree the concern of us all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least these acknowledgments to our common nature; nor let the sense of their importance be sacrificed to a balance of opposite qualities or minute distinctions in individual character; which if they do not (as will for the most part be the case), when examined, resolve themselves into a trick of words, will, even when they are true and just, for the most part be grievously out of place; for, as it is probable that few only have explored these intricacies of human nature, so can the tracing of them be interesting only to a few. But an epitaph is not a proud writing shut up for the studious: it is exposed to all—to the wise and the most ignorant; it is condescending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regard; its story and admonitions are brief, that the thoughtless, the busy, and indolent, may not be deterred, nor the impatient tired: the stooping old man cons the engraven record like a second horn- book;—the child is proud that he can read it;—and the stranger is introduced through its mediation to the company of a friend: it is concerning all, and for all:—in the churchyard it is open to the day; the sun looks down upon the stone, and the rains of heaven beat against it. Yet, though the writer who would excite sympathy is bound in this case, more than in any other, to give proof that he himself has been moved, it is to be remembered that to raise a monument is a sober and a reflective act; that the inscription which it bears is intended to be permanent, and for universal perusal; and that, for this reason, the thoughts and feelings expressed should be permanent also—liberated from that weakness and anguish of sorrow which is in nature transitory, and which with instinctive decency retires from notice. The passions should be subdued, the emotions controlled; strong, indeed, but nothing ungovernable or wholly involuntary. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires it also: for how can the narrator otherwise be trusted? Moreover, a grave is a tranquillising object: resignation in course of time springs up from it as naturally as the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf with which it may be covered, or gathering round the monument by which it is defended. The very form and substance of the monument which has received the inscription, and the appearance of the letters, testifying with what a slow and laborious hand they must have been engraven, might seem to reproach the author who had given way upon this occasion to transports of mind, or to quick turns of conflicting passion; though the same might constitute the life and beauty of a funeral oration or elegiac poem. These sensations and judgments, acted upon perhaps unconsciously, have been one of the main causes why epitaphs so often personate the deceased, and represent him as speaking from his own tomb-stone. The departed Mortal is introduced telling you himself that his pains are gone; that a state of rest is come; and he conjures you to weep for him no longer. He admonishes with the voice of one experienced in the vanity of those affections which are confined to earthly objects, and gives a verdict like a superior Being, performing the office of a judge, who has no temptations to mislead him, and whose decision cannot but be dispassionate. Thus is death disarmed of its sting, and affliction unsubstantialised. By this tender fiction, the survivors bind themselves to a sedater sorrow, and employ the intervention of the imagination in order that the reason may speak her own language earlier than she would otherwise have been enabled to do. This shadowy interposition also harmoniously unites the two worlds of the living and the dead by their appropriate affections. And it may be observed that here we have an additional proof of the propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions were referred to the consciousness of immortality as their primal source. I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an epitaph should be cast in this mould preferably to the still more common one, in which what is said comes from the survivors directly; but rather to point out how natural those feelings are which have induced men, in all states and ranks of society, so frequently to adopt this mode. And this I have done chiefly in order that the laws which ought to govern the composition of the other may be better understood. This latter mode, namely, that in which the survivors speak in their own persons, seems to me upon the whole greatly preferable, as it admits a wider range of notices; and, above all, because, excluding the fiction which is the groundwork of the other, it rests upon a more solid basis. Enough has been said to convey our notion of a perfect epitaph; but it must be borne in mind that one is meant which will best answer the 'general' ends of that species of composition. According to the course pointed out, the worth of private life, through all varieties of situation and character, will be most honourably and profitably preserved in memory. Nor would the model recommended less suit public men in all instances, save of those persons who by the greatness of their services in the employments of peace or war, or by the surpassing excellence of their works in art, literature, or science, have made themselves not only universally known, but have filled the heart of their country with everlasting gratitude. Yet I must here pause to correct myself. In describing the general tenor of thought which epitaphs ought to hold, I have omitted to say, that if it be the 'actions' of a man, or even some 'one' conspicuous or beneficial act of local or general utility, which have distinguished him, and excited a desire that he should be remembered, then, of course, ought the attention to be directed chiefly to those actions or that act: and such sentiments dwelt upon as naturally arise out of them or it. Having made this necessary distinction, I proceed.—The mighty benefactors of mankind, as they are not only known by the immediate survivors, but will continue to be known familiarly to latest posterity, do not stand in need of biographic sketches in such a place; nor of delineations of character to individualise them. This is already done by their Works, in the memories of men. Their naked names, and a grand comprehensive sentiment of civic gratitude, patriotic love, or human admiration—or the utterance of some elementary principle most essential in the constitution of true virtue—or a declaration touching that pious humility and self-abasement, which are ever most profound as minds are most susceptible of genuine exaltation—or an intuition, communicated in adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power;—these are the only tribute which can here be paid—the only offering that upon such an altar would not be unworthy.

“What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones

The labour of an age in piled stones,

Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid

Under a star-ypointing pyramid?

Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a livelong monument,

And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.”

BOOK SIXTH
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS
ARGUMENT

Poet's Address to the State and Church of England—The Pastor not inferior to the ancient Worthies of the Church—He begins his Narratives with an instance of unrequited Love—Anguish of mind subdued, and how—The lonely Miner—An instance of perseverance— Which leads by contrast to an example of abused talents, irresolution, and weakness—Solitary, applying this covertly to his own case, asks for an instance of some Stranger, whose dispositions may have led him to end his days here—Pastor, in answer, gives an account of the harmonising influence of Solitude upon two men of opposite principles, who had encountered agitations in public life—The rule by which Peace may be obtained expressed, and where—Solitary hints at an overpowering Fatality— Answer of the Pastor—What subjects he will exclude from his Narratives—Conversation upon this—Instance of an unamiable character, a Female, and why given—Contrasted with this, a meek sufferer, from unguarded and betrayed love—Instance of heavier guilt, and its consequences to the Offender—With this instance of a Marriage Contract broken is contrasted one of a Widower, evidencing his faithful affection towards his deceased wife by his care of their female Children.

HAIL to the crown by Freedom shaped—to gird

An English Sovereign's brow! and to the throne

Whereon he sits! Whose deep foundations lie

In veneration and the people's love;

Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law.

—Hail to the State of England! And conjoin

With this a salutation as devout,

Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church;

Founded in truth; by blood of Martyrdom

Cemented; by the hands of Wisdom reared

In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp,

Decent and unreproved. The voice, that greets

The majesty of both, shall pray for both;

That, mutually protected and sustained,

They may endure long as the sea surrounds

This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil.

And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains

Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers,

And spires whose 'silent finger points to heaven;'

Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk

Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud

Of the dense air, which town or city breeds

To intercept the sun's glad beams—may ne'er

That true succession fail of English hearts,

Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive

What in those holy structures ye possess

Of ornamental interest, and the charm

Of pious sentiment diffused afar,

And human charity, and social love.

—Thus never shall the indignities of time

Approach their reverend graces, unopposed;

Nor shall the elements be free to hurt

Their fair proportions; nor the blinder rage

Of bigot zeal madly to overturn;

And, if the desolating hand of war

Spare them, they shall continue to bestow

Upon the thronged abodes of busy men

(Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind

Exclusively with transitory things)

An air and mien of dignified pursuit;

Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds.

The Poet, fostering for his native land

Such hope, entreats that servants may abound

Of those pure altars worthy; ministers

Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain

Superior, insusceptible of pride,

And by ambitious longings undisturbed;

Men, whose delight is where their duty leads

Or fixes them; whose least distinguished day

Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre

Which makes the sabbath lovely in the sight

Of blessed angels, pitying human cares.

—And, as on earth it is the doom of truth

To be perpetually attacked by foes

Open or covert, be that priesthood still,

For her defence, replenished with a band

Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts

Thoroughly disciplined; nor (if in course

Of the revolving world's disturbances

Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert!

To meet such trial) from their spiritual sires

Degenerate; who, constrained to wield the sword

Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed

With hostile din, and combating in sight

Of angry umpires, partial and unjust;

And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire,

So to declare the conscience satisfied:

Nor for their bodies would accept release;

But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed

With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame,

The faith which they by diligence had earned,

Or, through illuminating grace, received,

For their dear countrymen, and all mankind.

O high example, constancy divine!

Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal

And from the sanctity of elder times

Not deviating,—a priest, the like of whom

If multiplied, and in their stations set,

Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land

Spread true religion and her genuine fruits)

Before me stood that day; on holy ground

Fraught with the relics of mortality,

Exalting tender themes, by just degrees

To lofty raised; and to the highest, last;

The head and mighty paramount of truths,—

Immortal life, in never-fading worlds,

For mortal creatures, conquered and secured.

That basis laid, those principles of faith

Announced, as a preparatory act

Of reverence done to the spirit of the place,

The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground;

Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe

But with a mild and social cheerfulness;

Then to the Solitary turned, and spake.

“At morn or eve, in your retired domain,

Perchance you not unfrequently have marked

A Visitor—in quest of herbs and flowers;

Too delicate employ, as would appear,

For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet

From nature's kindliness received a frame

Robust as ever rural labour bred.”

The Solitary answered: “Such a Form

Full well I recollect. We often crossed

Each other's path; but, as the Intruder seemed

Fondly to prize the silence which he kept,

And I as willingly did cherish mine,

We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard,

From my good Host, that being crazed in brain

By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks,

Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods,

In hope to find some virtuous herb of power

To cure his malady!”

The Vicar smiled,—

“Alas! before to-morrow's sun goes down

His habitation will be here: for him

That open grave is destined.”

“Died he then

Of pain and grief?” the Solitary asked,

“Do not believe it; never could that be!”

“He loved,” the Vicar answered, “deeply loved,

Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and dared

At length to tell his love, but sued in vain;

Rejected, yea repelled; and, if with scorn

Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but

A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears

In wantonness of conquest, or puts on

To cheat the world, or from herself to hide

Humiliation, when no longer free.

'That' he could brook, and glory in;—but when

The tidings came that she whom he had wooed

Was wedded to another, and his heart

Was forced to rend away its only hope;

Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth

An object worthier of regard than he,

In the transition of that bitter hour!

Lost was she, lost; nor could the Sufferer say

That in the act of preference he had been

Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone!

Had vanished from his prospects and desires;

Not by translation to the heavenly choir

Who have put off their mortal spoils—ah no!

She lives another's wishes to complete,—

'Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried,

'His lot and hers, as misery must be mine!'

Such was that strong concussion; but the Man,

Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak

By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed

The stedfast quiet natural to a mind

Of composition gentle and sedate,

And, in its movements, circumspect and slow.

To books, and to the long-forsaken desk,

O'er which enchained by science he had loved

To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself,

Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth

With keener appetite (if that might be)

And closer industry. Of what ensued

Within the heart no outward sign appeared

Till a betraying sickliness was seen

To tinge his cheek; and through his frame it crept

With slow mutation unconcealable;

Such universal change as autumn makes

In the fair body of a leafy grove,

Discoloured, then divested.

'Tis affirmed

By poets skilled in nature's secret ways

That Love will not submit to be controlled

By mastery:—and the good Man lacked not friends

Who strove to instil this truth into his mind,

A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed.

'Go to the hills,' said one, 'remit a while

'This baneful diligence:—at early morn

'Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods;

'And, leaving it to others to foretell,

'By calculations sage, the ebb and flow

'Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed,

'Do you, for your own benefit, construct

'A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow

'Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.'

The attempt was made;—'tis needless to report

How hopelessly; but innocence is strong,

And an entire simplicity of mind

A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven;

That opens, for such sufferers, relief

Within the soul, fountains of grace divine;

And doth commend their weakness and disease

To Nature's care, assisted in her office

By all the elements that round her wait

To generate, to preserve, and to restore;

And by her beautiful array of forms

Shedding sweet influence from above; or pure

Delight exhaling from the ground they tread.”

“Impute it not to impatience, if,” exclaimed

The Wanderer, “I infer that he was healed

By perseverance in the course prescribed.”

“You do not err: the powers, that had been lost

By slow degrees, were gradually regained;

The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart

In rest established; and the jarring thoughts

To harmony restored.—But yon dark mould

Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength,

Hastily smitten by a fever's force;

Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused

Time to look back with tenderness on her

Whom he had loved in passion; and to send

Some farewell words—with one, but one, request;

That, from his dying hand, she would accept

Of his possessions that which most he prized;

A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants,

By his own hand disposed with nicest care,

In undecaying beauty were preserved;

Mute register, to him, of time and place,

And various fluctuations in the breast;

To her, a monument of faithful love

Conquered, and in tranquillity retained!

Close to his destined habitation, lies

One who achieved a humbler victory,

Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is

High in these mountains, that allured a band

Of keen adventurers to unite their pains

In search of precious ore: they tried, were foiled—

And all desisted, all, save him alone.

He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts,

And trusting only to his own weak hands,

Urged unremittingly the stubborn work,

Unseconded, uncountenanced; then, as time

Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found

No recompense, derided; and at length,

By many pitied, as insane of mind;

By others dreaded as the luckless thrall

Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope

By various mockery of sight and sound;

Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed.

—But when the lord of seasons had matured

The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years,

The mountain's entrails offered to his view

And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward.

Not with more transport did Columbus greet

A world, his rich discovery! But our Swain,

A very hero till his point was gained,

Proved all unable to support the weight

Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked

With an unsettled liberty of thought,

Wishes and endless schemes; by daylight walked

Giddy and restless; ever and anon

Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups;

And truly might be said to die of joy!

He vanished; but conspicuous to this day

The path remains that linked his cottage-door

To the mine's mouth; a long and slanting track,

Upon the rugged mountain's stony side,

Worn by his daily visits to and from

The darksome centre of a constant hope.

This vestige, neither force of beating rain,

Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw

Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away;

And it is named, in memory of the event,

The PATH OF PERSEVERANCE.”

“Thou from whom

Man has his strength,” exclaimed the Wanderer, “oh!

Do thou direct it! To the virtuous grant

The penetrative eye which can perceive

In this blind world the guiding vein of hope;

That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way,

'Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified;'

Grant to the wise 'his' firmness of resolve!”

“That prayer were not superfluous,” said the Priest,

“Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust,

That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds

Within the bosom of her awful pile,

Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh,

Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due to all,

Wherever laid, who living fell below

Their virtue's humbler mark; a sigh of 'pain'

If to the opposite extreme they sank.

How would you pity her who yonder rests;

Him, farther off; the pair, who here are laid;

But, above all, that mixture of earth's mould

Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind

Recalls!

'He' lived not till his locks were nipped

By seasonable frost of age; nor died

Before his temples, prematurely forced

To mix the manly brown with silver grey,

Gave obvious instance of the sad effect

Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped

The natural crown that sage Experience wears.

Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn,

And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed

Or could perform; a zealous actor, hired

Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn

Into the lists of giddy enterprise—

Such was he; yet, as if within his frame

Two several souls alternately had lodged,

Two sets of manners could the Youth put on;

And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird

That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage,

Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still

As the mute swan that floats adown the stream,

Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake,

Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf,

That flutters on the bough, lighter than he;

And not a flower, that droops in the green shade,

More winningly reserved! If ye enquire

How such consummate elegance was bred

Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice;

'Twas Nature's will; who sometimes undertakes,

For the reproof of human vanity,

Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk.

Hence, for this Favourite—lavishly endowed

With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit,

While both, embellishing each other, stood

Yet farther recommended by the charm

Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song,

And skill in letters—every fancy shaped

Fair expectations; nor, when to the world's

Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there

Were he and his attainments overlooked,

Or scantily rewarded; but all hopes,

Cherished for him, he suffered to depart,

Like blighted buds; or clouds that mimicked land

Before the sailor's eye; or diamond drops

That sparkling decked the morning grass; or aught

That 'was' attractive, and hath ceased to be!

Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites

Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed,

Who, by humiliation undeterred,

Sought for his weariness a place of rest

Within his Father's gates.—Whence came he?—clothed

In tattered garb, from hovels where abides

Necessity, the stationary host

Of vagrant poverty; from rifted barns

Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl

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

He had descended from the proud saloon,

He came, the ghost of beauty and of health,

The wreck of gaiety! But soon revived

In strength, in power refitted, he renewed

His suit to Fortune; and she smiled again

Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose,

Thrice sank as willingly. For he—whose nerves

Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice

Softly accompanied the tuneful harp,

By the nice finger of fair ladies touched

In glittering halls—was able to derive

No less enjoyment from an abject choice.

Who happier for the moment—who more blithe

Than this fallen Spirit? in those dreary holds

His talents lending to exalt the freaks

Of merry-making beggars,—nor provoked

To laughter multiplied in louder peals

By his malicious wit; then, all enchained

With mute astonishment, themselves to see

In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed,

As by the very presence of the Fiend

Who dictates and inspires illusive feats,

For knavish purposes! The city, too,

(With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers

Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect

As there to linger, there to eat his bread,

Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment;

Charming the air with skill of hand or voice,

Listen who would, be wrought upon who might,

Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay.

—Such the too frequent tenor of his boast

In ears that relished the report;—but all

Was from his Parents happily concealed;

Who saw enough for blame and pitying love.

They also were permitted to receive

His last, repentant breath; and closed his eyes,

No more to open on that irksome world

Where he had long existed in the state

Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatched,

Though from another sprung, different in kind:

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

Distracted in propensity; content

With neither element of good or ill;

And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest;

Of contradictions infinite the slave,

Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him

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

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

It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful,

That in a land where charity provides

For all that can no longer feed themselves,

A man like this should choose to bring his shame

To the parental door; and with his sighs

Infect the air which he had freely breathed

In happy infancy. He could not pine,

Through lack of converse; no—he must have found

Abundant exercise for thought and speech,

In his dividual being, self-reviewed,

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

Who, drawing near their final home, and much

And daily longing that the same were reached,

Would rather shun than seek the fellowship

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

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

Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast

Round his domain, desirous not alone

To keep his own, but also to exclude

All other progeny—doth sometimes lure,

Even by his studied depth of privacy,

The unhappy alien hoping to obtain

Concealment, or seduced by wish to find,

In place from outward molestation free,

Helps to internal ease. Of many such

Could I discourse; but as their stay was brief,

So their departure only left behind

Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace

Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair

Who, from the pressure of their several fates,

Meeting as strangers, in a petty town

Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach

Of this far-winding vale, remained as friends

True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust

To this loved cemetery, here to lodge

With unescutcheoned privacy interred

Far from the family vault.—A Chieftain one

By right of birth; within whose spotless breast

The fire of ancient Caledonia burned:

He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed

The Stuart, landing to resume, by force

Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost,

Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their head,

With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent

Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped

From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores

He fled; and when the lenient hand of time

Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained,

For his obscured condition, an obscure

Retreat, within this nook of English ground.

The other, born in Britain's southern tract,

Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed

His gentler sentiments of love and hate,

There, where 'they' placed them who in conscience prized

The new succession, as a line of kings

Whose oath had virtue to protect the land

Against the dire assaults of papacy

And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark

On the distempered flood of public life,

And cause for most rare triumph will be thine

If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand,

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

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

Beneath the battlements and stately trees

That round his mansion cast a sober gloom,

Had moralised on this, and other truths

Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied—

Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh

Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness,

When he had crushed a plentiful estate

By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat

In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the attempt;

And while the uproar of that desperate strife

Continued yet to vibrate on his ear,

The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed name,

(For the mere sound and echo of his own

Haunted him with sensations of disgust

That he was glad to lose) slunk from the world

To the deep shade of those untravelled Wilds;

In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed

An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met,

Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite

And sullen Hanoverian! You might think

That losses and vexations, less severe

Than those which they had severally sustained,

Would have inclined each to abate his zeal

For his ungrateful cause; no,—I have heard

My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm

Of that small town encountering thus, they filled,

Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife;

Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church;

And vexed the market-place. But in the breasts

Of these opponents gradually was wrought,

With little change of general sentiment,

Such leaning towards each other, that their days

By choice were spent in constant fellowship;

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

Those very bickerings made them love it more.

A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks

This Churchyard was. And, whether they had come

Treading their path in sympathy and linked

In social converse, or by some short space

Discreetly parted to preserve the peace,

One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway

Over both minds, when they awhile had marked

The visible quiet of this holy ground,

And breathed its soothing air:—the spirit of hope

And saintly magnanimity; that—spurning

The field of selfish difference and dispute,

And every care which transitory things,

Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, create—

Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness,

Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred,

Which else the Christian virtue might have claimed.

There live who yet remember here to have seen

Their courtly figures, seated on the stump

Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place.

But as the remnant of the long-lived tree

Was disappearing by a swift decay,

They, with joint care, determined to erect,

Upon its site, a dial, that might stand

For public use preserved, and thus survive

As their own private monument: for this

Was the particular spot, in which they wished

(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire)

That, undivided, their remains should lie.

So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was raised

Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps

That to the decorated pillar lead,

A work of art more sumptuous than might seem

To suit this place; yet built in no proud scorn

Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed

To ensure for it respectful guardianship.

Around the margin of the plate, whereon

The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours,

Winds an inscriptive legend.”—At these words

Thither we turned; and gathered, as we read,

The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched:

'Time flies; it is his melancholy task,

To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes,

And re-produce the troubles he destroys.

But, while his blindness thus is occupied,

Discerning Mortal! do thou serve the will

Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace,

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

“Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse,”

Exclaimed the Sceptic, “and the strain of thought

Accords with nature's language;—the soft voice

Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks

Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect.

If, then, their blended influence be not lost

Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant,

Even upon mine, the more are we required

To feel for those among our fellow-men,

Who, offering no obeisance to the world,

Are yet made desperate by 'too quick a sense

Of constant infelicity,' cut off

From peace like exiles on some barren rock,

Their life's appointed prison; not more free

Than sentinels, between two armies, set,

With nothing better, in the chill night air,

Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say why

That ancient story of Prometheus chained

To the bare rock on frozen Caucasus;

The vulture, the inexhaustible repast

Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes

By Tantalus entailed upon his race,

And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes?

Fictions in form, but in their substance truths,

Tremendous truths! familiar to the men

Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours.

Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey

For robes with regal purple tinged; convert

The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp

Of circumstance; and here the tragic Muse

Shall find apt subjects for her highest art.

Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills,

The generations are prepared; the pangs,

The internal pangs, are ready; the dread strife

Of poor humanity's afflicted will

Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.”

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

Which a divine philosophy rejects,

We, whose established and unfailing trust

Is in controlling Providence, admit

That, through all stations, human life abounds

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

How could the might, that lurks within her, then

Be shown? her glorious excellence—that ranks

Among the first of Powers and Virtues—proved?

Our system is not fashioned to preclude

That sympathy which you for others ask;

And I could tell, not travelling for my theme

Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes

And strange disasters; but I pass them by,

Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace.

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

Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight

By the deformities of brutish vice:

For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face

And a coarse outside of repulsive life

And unaffecting manners might at once

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

The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed,

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

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

Should breathe a word tending to violate

Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for

In slight of that forbearance and reserve

Which common human-heartedness inspires,

And mortal ignorance and frailty claim,

Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else.”

“True,” said the Solitary, “be it far

From us to infringe the laws of charity.

Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced;

This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this

Wisdom enjoins; but if the thing we seek

Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind

How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling

Colours as bright on exhalations bred

By weedy pool or pestilential swamp,

As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs,

Or the pellucid lake.”

“Small risk,” said I,

“Of such illusion do we here incur;

Temptation here is none to exceed the truth;

No evidence appears that they who rest

Within this ground, were covetous of praise,

Or of remembrance even, deserved or not.

Green is the Churchyard, beautiful and green,

Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge,

A heaving surface, almost wholly free

From interruption of sepulchral stones,

And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf

And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust

The lingering gleam of their departed lives

To oral record, and the silent heart;

Depositories faithful and more kind

Than fondest epitaph: for, if those fail,

What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can blame,

Who rather would not envy, men that feel

This mutual confidence; if, from such source,

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

And general humility in death?

Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring

From disregard of time's destructive power,

As only capable to prey on things

Of earth, and human nature's mortal part.

Yet—in less simple districts, where we see

Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone

In courting notice; and the ground all paved

With commendations of departed worth;

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

Of each domestic charity fulfilled,

And sufferings meekly borne—I, for my part,

Though with the silence pleased that here prevails,

Among those fair recitals also range,

Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe.

And, in the centre of a world whose soil

Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round

With such memorials, I have sometimes felt,

It was no momentary happiness

To have 'one' Enclosure where the voice that speaks

In envy or detraction is not heard;

Which malice may not enter; where the traces

Of evil inclinations are unknown;

Where love and pity tenderly unite

With resignation; and no jarring tone

Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb

Of amity and gratitude.”

“Thus sanctioned,”

The Pastor said, “I willingly confine

My narratives to subjects that excite

Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem,

And admiration; lifting up a veil,

A sunbeam introducing among hearts

Retired and covert; so that ye shall have

Clear images before your gladdened eyes

Of nature's unambitious underwood,

And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when

I speak of such among my flock as swerved

Or fell, those only shall be singled out

Upon whose lapse, or error, something more

Than brotherly forgiveness may attend;

To such will we restrict our notice, else

Better my tongue were mute.

And yet there are,

I feel, good reasons why we should not leave

Wholly untraced a more forbidding way.

For, strength to persevere and to support,

And energy to conquer and repel—

These elements of virtue, that declare

The native grandeur of the human soul—

Are oft-times not unprofitably shown

In the perverseness of a selfish course:

Truth every day exemplified, no less

In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream

Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp,

Or 'mid the factious senate, unappalled

Whoe'er may sink, or rise—to sink again,

As merciless proscription ebbs and flows.

There,” said the Vicar, pointing as he spake,

“A woman rests in peace; surpassed by few

In power of mind, and eloquent discourse.

Tall was her stature; her complexion dark

And saturnine; her head not raised to hold

Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards earth,

But in projection carried, as she walked

For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes;

Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought

Was her broad forehead; like the brow of one

Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare

Of overpowering light.—While yet a child,

She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale,

Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfurnished

With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking

To be admired, than coveted and loved.

Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen,

Over her comrades; else their simple sports,

Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind,

Had crossed her only to be shunned with scorn,

—Oh! pang of sorrowful regret for those

Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled,

That they have lived for harsher servitude,

Whether in soul, in body, or estate!

Such doom was hers; yet nothing could subdue

Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface

Those brighter images by books imprest

Upon her memory, faithfully as stars

That occupy their places, and, though oft

Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze,

Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired.

Two passions, both degenerate, for they both

Began in honour, gradually obtained

Rule over her, and vexed her daily life;

An unremitting, avaricious thrift;

And a strange thraldom of maternal love,

That held her spirit, in its own despite,

Bound—by vexation, and regret, and scorn,

Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows,

And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed—

To a poor dissolute Son, her only child.

—Her wedded days had opened with mishap,

Whence dire dependence. What could she perform

To shake the burthen off? Ah! there was felt,

Indignantly, the weakness of her sex.

She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve;

The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart

Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's blessing

Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust

In ceaseless pains—and strictest parsimony

Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared,

From each day's need, out of each day's least gain.

Thus all was re-established, and a pile

Constructed, that sufficed for every end,

Save the contentment of the builder's mind;

A mind by nature indisposed to aught

So placid, so inactive, as content;

A mind intolerant of lasting peace,

And cherishing the pang her heart deplored.

Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared

To the agitation of a brook that runs

Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost

In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained;

But never to be charmed to gentleness:

Its best attainment fits of such repose

As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming.

A sudden illness seized her in the strength

Of life's autumnal season.—Shall I tell

How on her bed of death the Matron lay,

To Providence submissive, so she thought;

But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, almost

To anger, by the malady that griped

Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power,

As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb?

She prayed, she moaned;—her husband's sister watched

Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs;

And yet the very sound of that kind foot

Was anguish to her ears! 'And must she rule,'

This was the death-doomed Woman heard to say

In bitterness, 'and must she rule and reign,

'Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone?

'Tend what I tended, calling it her own!'

Enough;—I fear, too much.—One vernal evening,

While she was yet in prime of health and strength,

I well remember, while I passed her door

Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye

Turned towards the planet Jupiter that hung

Above the centre of the Vale, a voice

Roused me, her voice; it said, 'That glorious star

'In its untroubled element will shine

'As now it shines, when we are laid in earth

'And safe from all our sorrows.' With a sigh

She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained

By faith in glory that shall far transcend

Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed

To sight or mind. Nor less than care divine

Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled,

Was into meekness softened and subdued;

Did, after trials not in vain prolonged,

With resignation sink into the grave;

And her uncharitable acts, I trust,

And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven,

Tho', in this Vale, remembered with deep awe.”

_____________

THE Vicar paused; and toward a seat advanced,

A long stone-seat, fixed in the Churchyard wall;

Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part

Offering a sunny resting-place to them

Who seek the House of worship, while the bells

Yet ring with all their voices, or before

The last hath ceased its solitary knoll.

Beneath the shade we all sate down; and there,

His office, uninvited, he resumed.

“As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb

Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March,

Screened by its parent, so that little mound

Lies guarded by its neighbour; the small heap

Speaks for itself; an Infant there doth rest;

The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave.

If mild discourse, and manners that conferred

A natural dignity on humblest rank;

If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks,

That for a face not beautiful did more

Than beauty for the fairest face can do;

And if religious tenderness of heart,

Grieving for sin, and penitential tears

Shed when the clouds had gathered and distained

The spotless ether of a maiden life;

If these may make a hallowed spot of earth

More holy in the sight of God or Man;

Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood

Till the stars sicken at the day of doom.

Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless man,

Could field or grove, could any spot of earth,

Show to his eye an image of the pangs

Which it hath witnessed; render back an echo

Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave,

And on the very turf that roofs her own,

The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel

In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene.

Now she is not; the swelling turf reports

Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears

Is silent; nor is any vestige left

Of the path worn by mournful tread of her

Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved

In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed

Caught from the pressure of elastic turf

Upon the mountains gemmed with morning dew,

In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs.

—Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet,

By reconcilement exquisite and rare,

The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl

Were such as might have quickened and inspired

A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth

Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade

What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard

Startling the golden hills.

A wide-spread elm

Stands in our valley, named THE JOYFUL TREE;

From dateless usage which our peasants hold

Of giving welcome to the first of May

By dances round its trunk.—And if the sky

Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid

To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars

Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports,

If not in beauty yet in sprightly air,

Was hapless Ellen.—No one touched the ground

So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks

Less gracefully were braided;—but this praise,

Methinks, would better suit another place.

She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved.

—The road is dim, the current unperceived,

The weakness painful and most pitiful,

By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth,

May be delivered to distress and shame.

Such fate was hers.—The last time Ellen danced,

Among her equals, round THE JOYFUL TREE,

She bore a secret burthen; and full soon

Was left to tremble for a breaking vow,—

Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow,

Alone, within her widowed Mother's house.

It was the season of unfolding leaves,

Of days advancing toward their utmost length,

And small birds singing happily to mates

Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power

Winds pipe through fading woods; but those blithe notes

Strike the deserted to the heart; I speak

Of what I know, and what we feel within.

—Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt

Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig

A thrush resorts, and annually chants,

At morn and evening from that naked perch,

While all the undergrove is thick with leaves,

A time-beguiling ditty, for delight

Of his fond partner, silent in the nest.

—'Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself,

'Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge;

'And nature that is kind in woman's breast,

'And reason that in man is wise and good,

'And fear of him who is a righteous judge;

'Why do not these prevail for human life,

'To keep two hearts together, that began

'Their spring-time with one love, and that have need

'Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet

'To grant, or be received; while that poor bird—

'O come and hear him! Thou who hast to me

'Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature,

'One of God's simple children that yet know not

'The universal Parent, how he sings

'As if he wished the firmament of heaven

'Should listen, and give back to him the voice

'Of his triumphant constancy and love;

'The proclamation that he makes, how far

'His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!'

Such was the tender passage, not by me

Repeated without loss of simple phrase,

Which I perused, even as the words had been

Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand

To the blank margin of a Valentine,

Bedropped with tears. 'Twill please you to be told

That, studiously withdrawing from the eye

Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet

In lonely reading found a meek resource:

How thankful for the warmth of summer days,

When she could slip into the cottage-barn,

And find a secret oratory there;

Or, in the garden, under friendly veil

Of their long twilight, pore upon her book

By the last lingering help of the open sky

Until dark night dismissed her to her bed!

Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

A kindlier passion opened on her soul

When that poor Child was born. Upon its face

She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift

Of unexpected promise, where a grief

Or dread was all that had been thought of,—joy

Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels,

Amid a perilous waste that all night long

Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm,

When he beholds the first pale speck serene

Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed,

And greets it with thanksgiving. 'Till this hour,'

Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake,

'There was a stony region in my heart;

'But He, at whose command the parched rock

'Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream,

'Hath softened that obduracy, and made

'Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place,

'To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I breathe

'The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake

'My infant! and for that good Mother dear,

'Who bore me; and hath prayed for me in vain;—

'Yet not in vain; it shall not be in vain.'

She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled;

And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return,

They stayed not long.—The blameless Infant grew

The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved

They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed;

A soothing comforter, although forlorn;

Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands;

Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by

With vacant mind, not seldom may observe

Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house,

Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns.

Through four months' space the Infant drew its food

From the maternal breast; then scruples rose;

Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and crossed

The fond affection. She no more could bear

By her offence to lay a twofold weight

On a kind parent willing to forget

Their slender means: so, to that parent's care

Trusting her child, she left their common home,

And undertook with dutiful content

A Foster-mother's office.

'Tis, perchance,

Unknown to you that in these simple vales

The natural feeling of equality

Is by domestic service unimpaired;

Yet, though such service be, with us, removed

From sense of degradation, not the less

The ungentle mind can easily find means

To impose severe restraints and laws unjust,

Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel:

For (blinded by an over-anxious dread

Of such excitement and divided thought

As with her office would but ill accord)

The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse,

Forbade her all communion with her own:

Week after week, the mandate they enforced.

—So near! yet not allowed, upon that sight

To fix her eyes—alas! 'twas hard to bear!

But worse affliction must be borne—far worse;

For 'tis Heaven's will—that, after a disease

Begun and ended within three days' space,

Her child should die; as Ellen now exclaimed,

Her own—deserted child!—Once, only once,

She saw it in that mortal malady;

And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain

Permission to attend its obsequies.

She reached the house, last of the funeral train;

And some one, as she entered, having chanced

To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure,

'Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit

Of anger never seen in her before,

'Nay, ye must wait my time!' and down she sate,

And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat

Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping,

Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child,

Until at length her soul was satisfied.

You see the Infant's Grave; and to this spot,

The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad,

On whatsoever errand, urged her steps:

Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt

In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene!

So call her; for not only she bewailed

A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness

Her own transgression; penitent sincere

As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye?

—At length the parents of the foster-child,

Noting that in despite of their commands

She still renewed and could not but renew

Those visitations, ceased to send her forth;

Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined.

I failed not to remind them that they erred;

For holy Nature might not thus be crossed,

Thus wronged in woman's breast: in vain I pleaded—

But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped,

And the flower drooped; as every eye could see,

It hung its head in mortal languishment.

—Aided by this appearance, I at length

Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, she went

Home to her mother's house.

The Youth was fled;

The rash betrayer could not face the shame

Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused;

And little would his presence, or proof given

Of a relenting soul, have now availed;

For, like a shadow, he was passed away

From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to her mind

For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love,

Save only those which to their common shame,

And to his moral being appertained:

Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought

A heavenly comfort; there she recognised

An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need;

There, and, as seemed, there only.

She had built,

Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest

In blindness all too near the river's edge;

That work a summer flood with hasty swell

Had swept away; and now her Spirit longed

For its last flight to heaven's security.

—The bodily frame wasted from day to day;

Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares,

Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace

And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought,

And much she read; and brooded feelingly

Upon her own unworthiness. To me,

As to a spiritual comforter and friend,

Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared

To mitigate, as gently as I could,

The sting of self-reproach, with healing words.

Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth!

In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate,

The ghastly face of cold decay put on

A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine!

May I not mention—that, within those walls,

In due observance of her pious wish,

The congregation joined with me in prayer

For her soul's good? Nor was that office vain.

—Much did she suffer: but, if any friend,

Beholding her condition, at the sight

Gave way to words of pity or complaint,

She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said,

'He who afflicts me knows what I can bear;

'And, when I fail, and can endure no more,

'Will mercifully take me to himself.'

So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed

Into that pure and unknown world of love

Where injury cannot come:—and here is laid

The mortal Body by her Infant's side.”

The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known

That each had listened with his inmost heart.

For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong

Or less benign than that which I had felt

When seated near my venerable Friend,

Under those shady elms, from him I heard

The story that retraced the slow decline

Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath

With the neglected house to which she clung.

—I noted that the Solitary's cheek

Confessed the power of nature.—Pleased though sad,

More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate;

Thanks to his pure imaginative soul

Capacious and serene; his blameless life,

His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love

Of human kind! He was it who first broke

The pensive silence, saying:—

“Blest are they

Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong

Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred.

This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals

With such, in their affliction.—Ellen's fate,

Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart,

Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard

Of one who died within this vale, by doom

Heavier, as his offence was heavier far.

Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones

Of Wilfrid Armathwaite?”

The Vicar answered,

“In that green nook, close by the Churchyard wall,

Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself

In memory and for warning, and in sign

Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known,

Of reconcilement after deep offence—

There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies

For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world;

Nor need the windings of his devious course

Be here retraced;—enough that, by mishap

And venial error, robbed of competence,

And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind,

He craved a substitute in troubled joy;

Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving

Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow.

That which he had been weak enough to do

Was misery in remembrance; he was stung,

Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles

Of wife and children stung to agony.

Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad;

Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth,

Asked comfort of the open air, and found

No quiet in the darkness of the night,

No pleasure in the beauty of the day.

His flock he slighted: his paternal fields

Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished

To fly—but whither! And this gracious Church,

That wears a look so full of peace and hope

And love, benignant mother of the vale,

How fair amid her brood of cottages!

She was to him a sickness and reproach.

Much to the last remained unknown: but this

Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died;

Though pitied among men, absolved by God,

He could not find forgiveness in himself;

Nor could endure the weight of his own shame.

Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn

And from her grave.—Behold—upon that ridge,

That, stretching boldly from the mountain side,

Carries into the centre of the vale

Its rocks and woods—the Cottage where she dwelt

And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left

(Full eight years past) the solitary prop

Of many helpless Children. I begin

With words that might be prelude to a tale

Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel

No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes

See daily in that happy family.

—Bright garland form they for the pensive brow

Of their undrooping Father's widowhood,

Those six fair Daughters, budding yet—not one,

Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower.

Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once

That Father was, and filled with anxious fear,

Now, by experience taught, he stands assured,

That God, who takes away, yet takes not half

Of what he seems to take; or gives it back,

Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer;

He gives it—the boon produce of a soil

Which our endeavours have refused to till,

And hope hath never watered. The Abode,

Whose grateful owner can attest these truths,

Even were the object nearer to our sight,

Would seem in no distinction to surpass

The rudest habitations. Ye might think

That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown

Out of the living rock, to be adorned

By nature only; but, if thither led,

Ye would discover, then, a studious work

Of many fancies, prompting many hands.

Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines

Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place,

A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose

There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon

Roof-high; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall,

And with the flowers are intermingled stones

Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills.

These ornaments, that fade not with the year,

A hardy Girl continues to provide;

Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights,

Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him

All that a boy could do, but with delight

More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she,

Within the garden, like the rest, a bed

For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space,

By sacred charter, holden for her use.

—These, and whatever else the garden bears

Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not,

I freely gather; and my leisure draws

A not unfrequent pastime from the hum

Of bees around their range of sheltered hives

Busy in that enclosure; while the rill,

That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice

To the pure course of human life which there

Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom

Of night is falling round my steps, then most

This Dwelling charms me; often I stop short,

(Who could refrain?) and feed by stealth my sight

With prospect of the company within,

Laid open through the blazing window:—there

I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel

Spinning amain, as if to overtake

The never-halting time; or, in her turn,

Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood

That skill in this or other household work,

Which, from her Father's honoured hand, herself,

While she was yet a little-one, had learned.

Mild Man! he is not gay, but they are gay;

And the whole house seems filled with gaiety.

—Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed,

The Wife, from whose consolatory grave

I turned, that ye in mind might witness where,

And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth!”

BOOK SEVENTH
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS—(continued)
ARGUMENT

Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind—Pastor invited to give account of certain Graves that lie apart— Clergyman and his Family—Fortunate influence of change of situation—Activity in extreme old age—Another Clergyman, a character of resolute Virtue—Lamentations over misdirected applause—Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man— Elevated character of a blind man—Reflection upon Blindness— Interrupted by a Peasant who passes—His animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity—He occasions a digression on the fall of beautiful and interesting Trees—A female Infant's Grave—Joy at her Birth—Sorrow at her Departure—A youthful Peasant—His patriotic enthusiasm and distinguished qualities—His untimely death—Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this Picture— Solitary how affected—Monument of a Knight—Traditions concerning him—Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things and the revolutions of society—Hints at his own past Calling— Thanks the Pastor.

WHILE thus from theme to theme the Historian passed,

The words he uttered, and the scene that lay

Before our eyes, awakened in my mind

Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours;

When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale,

(What time the splendour of the setting sun

Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow,

On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur)

A wandering Youth, I listened with delight

To pastoral melody or warlike air,

Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp

By some accomplished Master, while he sate

Amid the quiet of the green recess,

And there did inexhaustibly dispense

An interchange of soft or solemn tunes,

Tender or blithe; now, as the varying mood

Of his own spirit urged,—now, as a voice

From youth or maiden, or some honoured chief

Of his compatriot villagers (that hung

Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes

Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required

For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power

Were they, to seize and occupy the sense;

But to a higher mark than song can reach

Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream

Which overflowed the soul was passed away,

A consciousness remained that it had left,

Deposited upon the silent shore

Of memory, images and precious thoughts,

That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

“These grassy heaps lie amicably close,”

Said I, “like surges heaving in the wind

Along the surface of a mountain pool:

Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold

Five graves, and only five, that rise together

Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching

On the smooth playground of the village-school?”

The Vicar answered,—“No disdainful pride

In them who rest beneath, nor any course

Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped

To place those hillocks in that lonely guise.

—Once more look forth, and follow with your sight

The length of road that from yon mountain's base

Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line

Is lost within a little tuft of trees;

Then, reappearing in a moment, quits

The cultured fields; and up the heathy waste,

Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine,

Led towards an easy outlet of the vale.

That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft,

By which the road is hidden, also hides

A cottage from our view; though I discern

(Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees

The smokeless chimney-top.—

All unembowered

And naked stood that lowly Parsonage

(For such in truth it is, and appertains

To a small Chapel in the vale beyond)

When hither came its last Inhabitant.

Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads

By which our northern wilds could then be crossed;

And into most of these secluded vales

Was no access for wain, heavy or light.

So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived

With store of household goods, in panniers slung

On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells,

And on the back of more ignoble beast;

That, with like burthen of effects most prized

Or easiest carried, closed the motley train.

Young was I then, a schoolboy of eight years;

But still, methinks, I see them as they passed

In order, drawing toward their wished-for home.

—Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass

Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight,

Each in his basket nodding drowsily;

Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers,

Which told it was the pleasant month of June;

And, close behind, the comely Matron rode,

A woman of soft speech and gracious smile,

And with a lady's mien.—From far they came,

Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs had been

A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered

By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest;

And freak put on, and arch word dropped—to swell

The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise

That gathered round the slowly-moving train.

—'Whence do they come? and with what errand charged?

'Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe

'Who pitch their tents under the greenwood tree?

'Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact

'Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood,

'And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set forth

'The lucky venture of sage Whittington,

'When the next village hears the show announced

'By blast of trumpet?' Plenteous was the growth

Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen

On many a staring countenance portrayed

Of boor or burgher, as they marched along.

And more than once their steadiness of face

Was put to proof, and exercise supplied

To their inventive humour, by stern looks,

And questions in authoritative tone,

From some staid guardian of the public peace,

Checking the sober steed on which he rode,

In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still,

By notice indirect, or blunt demand

From traveller halting in his own despite,

A simple curiosity to ease:

Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered

Their grave migration, the good pair would tell,

With undiminished glee, in hoary age.

A Priest he was by function; but his course

From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon,

(The hour of life to which he then was brought)

Had been irregular, I might say, wild;

By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care

Too little checked. An active, ardent mind;

A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme

To cheat the sadness of a rainy day;

Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games;

A generous spirit, and a body strong

To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl—

Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights

Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall

Of country 'squire; or at the statelier board

Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp

Withdrawn,—to while away the summer hours

In condescension among rural guests.

With these high comrades he had revelled long,

Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk

By hopes of coming patronage beguiled

Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim

Abandoning and all his showy friends,

For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure)

He turned to this secluded chapelry;

That had been offered to his doubtful choice

By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare

They found the cottage, their allotted home;

Naked without, and rude within; a spot

With which the Cure not long had been endowed:

And far remote the chapel stood,—remote,

And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable,

Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening

Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers

Frequented, and beset with howling winds.

Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang

On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice

Or the necessity that fixed him here;

Apart from old temptations, and constrained

To punctual labour in his sacred charge.

See him a constant preacher to the poor!

And visiting, though not with saintly zeal,

Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will,

The sick in body, or distrest in mind;

And, by a salutary change, compelled

To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day

With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud

Or splendid than his garden could afford,

His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged

Or the wild brooks; from which he now returned

Contented to partake the quiet meal

Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate

And three fair Children, plentifully fed

Though simply, from their little household farm;

Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl

By nature yielded to his practised hand;—

To help the small but certain comings-in

Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less

Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs

A charitable door.

So days and years

Passed on;—the inside of that rugged house

Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's care,

And gradually enriched with things of price,

Which might be lacked for use or ornament.

What, though no soft and costly sofa there

Insidiously stretched out its lazy length,

And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls,

Yet were the windows of the low abode

By shutters weather-fended, which at once

Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar.

There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds;

Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants,

That creep along the ground with sinuous trail,

Were nicely braided; and composed a work

Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace

Lay at the threshold and the inner doors;

And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool

But tinctured daintily with florid hues,

For seemliness and warmth, on festal days,

Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone

With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise

Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid.

Those pleasing works the Housewife's skill produced:

Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand

Was busier with his task—to rid, to plant,

To rear for food, for shelter, and delight;

A thriving covert! And when wishes, formed

In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind,

Restored me to my native valley, here

To end my days; well pleased was I to see

The once-bare cottage, on the mountainside,

Screened from assault of every bitter blast;

While the dark shadows of the summer leaves

Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof.

Time, which had thus afforded willing help

To beautify with nature's fairest growths

This rustic tenement, had gently shed,

Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace;

The comeliness of unenfeebled age.

But how could I say, gently? for he still

Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm,

A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights

Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes.

Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost;

Generous and charitable, prompt to serve;

And still his harsher passions kept their hold—

Anger and indignation. Still he loved

The sound of titled names, and talked in glee

Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends:

Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight

Uproused by recollected injury, railed

At their false ways disdainfully,—and oft

In bitterness, and with a threatening eye

Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow.

—Those transports, with staid looks of pure good-will,

And with soft smile, his consort would reprove.

She, far behind him in the race of years,

Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced

Far nearer, in the habit of her soul,

To that still region whither all are bound,

Him might we liken to the setting sun

As seen not seldom on some gusty day,

Struggling and bold, and shining from the west

With an inconstant and unmellowed light;

She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung

As if with wish to veil the restless orb;

From which it did itself imbibe a ray

Of pleasing lustre.—But no more of this;

I better love to sprinkle on the sod

That now divides the pair, or rather say,

That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew,

Without reserve descending upon both.

Our very first in eminence of years

This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale!

And, to his unmolested mansion, death

Had never come, through space of forty years;

Sparing both old and young in that abode.

Suddenly then they disappeared: not twice

Had summer scorched the fields; not twice had fallen,

On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow,

Before the greedy visiting was closed,

And the long-privileged house left empty—swept

As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague

Had been among them; all was gentle death,

One after one, with intervals of peace.

A happy consummation! an accord

Sweet, perfect, to be wished for! save that here

Was something which to mortal sense might sound

Like harshness,—that the old grey-headed Sire,

The oldest, he was taken last; survived

When the meek Partner of his age, his Son,

His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gift,

His little smiling Grandchild, were no more.

'All gone all vanished! he deprived and bare,

'How will he face the remnant of his life?

'What will become of him?' we said, and mused

In sad conjectures—'Shall we meet him now

'Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks?

'Or shall we overhear him, as we pass,

'Striving to entertain the lonely hours

'With music?' (for he had not ceased to touch

The harp or viol which himself had framed,

For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.)

'What titles will he keep? will he remain

'Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist,

'A planter, and a rearer from the seed?

'A man of hope and forward-looking mind

'Even to the last!'—Such was he, unsubdued.

But Heaven was gracious; yet a little while,

And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng

Of open projects, and his inward hoard

Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen,

Was overcome by unexpected sleep,

In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown

Softly and lightly from a passing cloud,

Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay

For noontide solace on the summer grass,

The warm lap of his mother earth: and so,

Their lenient term of separation past,

That family (whose graves you there behold)

By yet a higher privilege once more

Were gathered to each other.”

Calm of mind

And silence waited on these closing words;

Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear

Lest in those passages of life were some

That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend

Too nearly, or intent to reinforce

His own firm spirit in degree deprest

By tender sorrow for our mortal state)

Thus silence broke:—“Behold a thoughtless Man

From vice and premature decay preserved

By useful habits, to a fitter soil

Transplanted ere too late.—The hermit, lodged

Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads,

With each repeating its allotted prayer,

And thus divides and thus relieves the time;

Smooth task, with 'his' compared, whose mind could string,

Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread

Of keen domestic anguish; and beguile

A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed;

Till gentlest death released him.

Far from us

Be the desire—too curiously to ask

How much of this is but the blind result

Of cordial spirits and vital temperament,

And what to higher powers is justly due.

But you, Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale

A Priest abides before whose life such doubts

Fall to the ground; whose gifts of nature lie

Retired from notice, lost in attributes

Of reason, honourably effaced by debts

Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe,

And conquest over her dominion gained,

To which her frowardness must needs submit.

In this one Man is shown a temperance—proof

Against all trials; industry severe

And constant as the motion of the day;

Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade

That might be deemed forbidding, did not there

All generous feelings flourish and rejoice;

Forbearance, charity in deed and thought,

And resolution competent to take

Out of the bosom of simplicity

All that her holy customs recommend,

And the best ages of the world prescribe.

—Preaching, administering, in every work

Of his sublime vocation, in the walks

Of worldly intercourse between man and man,

And in his humble dwelling, he appears

A labourer, with moral virtue girt,

With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned.”

“Doubt can be none,” the Pastor said, “for whom

This portraiture is sketched. The great, the good,

The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise,—

These titles emperors and chiefs have borne,

Honour assumed or given: and him, the WONDERFUL,

Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,

Deservedly have styled.—From his abode

In a dependent chapelry that lies

Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild,

Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,

And, having once espoused, would never quit;

Into its graveyard will ere long be borne

That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone

May cover him; and by its help, perchance,

A century shall hear his name pronounced,

With images attendant on the sound;

Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close

In utter night; and of his course remain

No cognizable vestiges, no more

Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words

To speak of him, and instantly dissolves.”

The Pastor, pressed by thoughts which round his theme

Still lingered, after a brief pause, resumed;

“Noise is there not enough in doleful war,

But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth,

And lend the echoes of his sacred shell,

To multiply and aggravate the din?

Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love—

And, in requited passion, all too much

Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear—

But that the minstrel of the rural shade

Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse

The perturbation in the suffering breast,

And propagate its kind, far as he may?

—Ah who (and with such rapture as befits

The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate

The good man's purposes and deeds; retrace

His struggles, his discomfitures deplore,

His triumphs hail, and glorify his end;

That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds

Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain,

And like the soft infections of the heart,

By charm of measured words may spread o'er field,

Hamlet, and town; and piety survive

Upon the lips of men in hall or bower;

Not for reproof, but high and warm delight,

And grave encouragement, by song inspired?

—Vain thought! but wherefore murmur or repine?

The memory of the just survives in heaven:

And, without sorrow, will the ground receive

That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best

Of what lies here confines us to degrees

In excellence less difficult to reach,

And milder worth: nor need we travel far

From those to whom our last regards were paid,

For such example.

Almost at the root

Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare

And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,

Oft stretches towards me, like a long straight path

Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath

A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies,

From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn

The precious gift of hearing. He grew up

From year to year in loneliness of soul;

And this deep mountain-valley was to him

Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn

Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep

With startling summons; not for his delight

The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him

Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds

Were working the broad bosom of the lake

Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,

Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud

Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,

The agitated scene before his eye

Was silent as a picture: evermore

Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved.

Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts

Upheld, he duteously pursued the round

Of rural labours; the steep mountain-side

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog;

The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed;

And the ripe corn before his sickle fell

Among the jocund reapers. For himself,

All watchful and industrious as he was,

He wrought not: neither field nor flock he owned:

No wish for wealth had place within his mind;

Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care.

Though born a younger brother, need was none

That from the floor of his paternal home

He should depart, to plant himself anew.

And when, mature in manhood, he beheld

His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued

Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased,

By the pure bond of independent love,

An inmate of a second family;

The fellow-labourer and friend of him

To whom the small inheritance had fallen.

—Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight

That pressed upon his brother's house; for books

Were ready comrades whom he could not tire;

Of whose society the blameless Man

Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,

Even to old age, with unabated charm

Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his thoughts;

Beyond its natural elevation raised

His introverted spirit; and bestowed

Upon his life an outward dignity

Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,

The stormy day, each had its own resource;

Song of the muses, sage historic tale,

Science severe, or word of holy Writ

Announcing immortality and joy

To the assembled spirits of just men

Made perfect, and from injury secure.

—Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field,

To no perverse suspicion he gave way,

No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint:

And they, who were about him, did not fail

In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized

His gentle manners: and his peaceful smiles,

The gleams of his slow-varying countenance,

Were met with answering sympathy and love.

At length, when sixty years and five were told,

A slow disease insensibly consumed

The powers of nature: and a few short steps

Of friends and kindred bore him from his home

(Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags)

To the profounder stillness of the grave.

—Nor was his funeral denied the grace

Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief;

Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude.

And now that monumental stone preserves

His name, and unambitiously relates

How long, and by what kindly outward aids,

And in what pure contentedness of mind,

The sad privation was by him endured.

—And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound

Was wasted on the good Man's living ear,

Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze,

Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.

Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of things!

Guide of our way, mysterious comforter!

Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and heaven,

We all too thanklessly participate,

Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him

Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch.

Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained;

Ask of the channelled rivers if they held

A safer, easier, more determined, course.

What terror doth it strike into the mind

To think of one, blind and alone, advancing

Straight toward some precipice's airy brink!

But, timely warned, 'He' would have stayed his steps,

Protected, say enlightened, by his ear;

And on the very edge of vacancy

Not more endangered than a man whose eye

Beholds the gulf beneath.—No floweret blooms

Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills,

Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal

Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live

Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth

Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind;

The ocean paid him tribute from the stores

Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led,

His genius mounted to the plains of heaven.

—Methinks I see him—how his eye-balls rolled,

Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired,—

But each instinct with spirit; and the frame

Of the whole countenance alive with thought,

Fancy, and understanding; while the voice

Discoursed of natural or moral truth

With eloquence, and such authentic power,

That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood

Abashed, and tender pity overawed.”

“A noble—and, to unreflecting minds,

A marvellous spectacle,” the Wanderer said,

“Beings like these present! But proof abounds

Upon the earth that faculties, which seem

Extinguished, do not, 'therefore', cease to be.

And to the mind among her powers of sense

This transfer is permitted,—not alone

That the bereft their recompense may win;

But for remoter purposes of love

And charity; nor last nor least for this,

That to the imagination may be given

A type and shadow of an awful truth;

How, likewise, under sufferance divine,

Darkness is banished from the realms of death,

By man's imperishable spirit, quelled.

Unto the men who see not as we see

Futurity was thought, in ancient times,

To be laid open, and they prophesied.

And know we not that from the blind have flowed

The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre;

And wisdom married to immortal verse?”

Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet

Lying insensible to human praise,

Love, or regret,—'whose' lineaments would next

Have been portrayed, I guess not; but it chanced

That, near the quiet churchyard where we sate,

A team of horses, with a ponderous freight

Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope,

Whose sharp descent confounded their array,

Came at that moment, ringing noisily.

“Here,” said the Pastor, “do we muse, and mourn

The waste of death; and lo! the giant oak

Stretched on his bier—that massy timber wain;

Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team.”

He was a peasant of the lowest class:

Grey locks profusely round his temples hung

In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite

Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged

Within his cheek, as light within a cloud;

And he returned our greeting with a smile.

When he had passed, the Solitary spake;

“A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays

And confident to-morrows; with a face

Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much

Of Nature's impress,—gaiety and health,

Freedom and hope; but keen, withal, and shrewd.

His gestures note,—and hark! his tones of voice

Are all vivacious as his mien and looks.”

The Pastor answered: “You have read him well.

Year after year is added to his store

With 'silent' increase: summers, winters—past,

Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say,

Ten summers and ten winters of a space

That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds,

Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix

The obligation of an anxious mind,

A pride in having, or a fear to lose;

Possessed like outskirts of some large domain,

By any one more thought of than by him

Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord!

Yet is the creature rational, endowed

With foresight; hears, too, every sabbath day,

The christian promise with attentive ear;

Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven

Reject the incense offered up by him,

Though of the kind which beasts and birds present

In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul,

From trepidation and repining free.

How many scrupulous worshippers fall down

Upon their knees, and daily homage pay

Less worthy, less religious even, than his!

This qualified respect, the old Man's due,

Is paid without reluctance; but in truth,”

(Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile)

“I feel at times a motion of despite

Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill,

As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part

In works of havoc; taking from these vales,

One after one, their proudest ornaments.

Full oft his doings leave me to deplore

Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed,

In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks;

Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge,

A veil of glory for the ascending moon;

And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped,

And on whose forehead inaccessible

The raven lodged in safety.—Many a ship

Launched into Morecamb-bay to 'him' hath owed

Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears

The loftiest of her pendants; He, from park

Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree

That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles:

And the vast engine labouring in the mine,

Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked

The trunk and body of its marvellous strength,

If his undaunted enterprise had failed

Among the mountain coves.

Yon household fir,

A guardian planted to fence off the blast,

But towering high the roof above, as if

Its humble destination were forgot—

That sycamore, which annually holds

Within its shade, as in a stately tent

On all sides open to the fanning breeze,

A grave assemblage, seated while they shear

The fleece-encumbered flock—the JOYFUL ELM,

Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May—

And the LORD'S OAK—would plead their several rights

In vain, if he were master of their fate;

His sentence to the axe would doom them all.

But, green in age and lusty as he is,

And promising to keep his hold on earth

Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men

Than with the forest's more enduring growth,

His own appointed hour will come at last;

And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world,

This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall.

Now from the living pass we once again:

From Age,” the Priest continued, “turn your thoughts;

From Age, that often unlamented drops,

And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long!

—Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board

Of Gold-rill side; and, when the hope had ceased

Of other progeny, a Daughter then

Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole;

And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy

Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm

With which by nature every mother's soul

Is stricken in the moment when her throes

Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry

Which tells her that a living child is born;

And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest,

That the dread storm is weathered by them both.

The Father—him at this unlooked-for gift

A bolder transport seizes. From the side

Of his bright hearth, and from his open door,

Day after day the gladness is diffused

To all that come, almost to all that pass;

Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer

Spread on the never-empty board, and drink

Health and good wishes to his new-born girl,

From cups replenished by his joyous hand.

—Those seven fair brothers variously were moved

Each by the thoughts best suited to his years:

But most of all and with most thankful mind

The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched;

A happiness that ebbed not, but remained

To fill the total measure of his soul!

—From the low tenement, his own abode,

Whither, as to a little private cell,

He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise,

To spend the sabbath of old age in peace,

Once every day he duteously repaired

To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe:

For in that female infant's name he heard

The silent name of his departed wife;

Heart-stirring music! hourly heard that name;

Full blest he was, 'Another Margaret Green,'

Oft did he say, 'was come to Gold-rill side.'

Oh! pang unthought of, as the precious boon

Itself had been unlooked-for; oh! dire stroke

Of desolating anguish for them all!

—Just as the Child could totter on the floor,

And, by some friendly finger's help up-stayed,

Range round the garden walk, while she perchance

Was catching at some novelty of spring,

Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell

Drawn by the sunshine—at that hopeful season

The winds of March, smiting insidiously,

Raised in the tender passage of the throat

Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarned,

The household lost their pride and soul's delight.

—But time hath power to soften all regrets,

And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress

Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears

Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye

Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own,

Yet this departed Little-one, too long

The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps

In what may now be called a peaceful bed.

On a bright day—so calm and bright, it seemed

To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair—

These mountains echoed to an unknown sound;

A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse

Let down into the hollow of that grave,

Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould.

Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth!

Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods,

That they may knit together, and therewith

Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness!

Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss.

Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved,

To me as precious as my own!—Green herbs

May creep (I wish that they would softly creep)

Over thy last abode, and we may pass

Reminded less imperiously of thee;—

The ridge itself may sink into the breast

Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more;

Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts,

Thy image disappear!

The Mountain-ash

No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove

Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head

Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine

Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have marked,

By a brook-side or solitary tarn,

How she her station doth adorn: the pool

Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks

Are brightened round her. In his native vale

Such and so glorious did this Youth appear;

A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts

By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam

Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,

By all the graces with which nature's hand

Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards

Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods,

Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form:

Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade

Discovered in their own despite to sense

Of mortals (if such fables without blame

May find chance-mention on this sacred ground)

So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise,

And through the impediment of rural cares,

In him revealed a scholar's genius shone;

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight,

In him the spirit of a hero walked

Our unpretending valley.—How the quoit

Whizzed from the Stripling's arm! If touched by him,

The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch

Of the lark's flight,—or shaped a rainbow curve,

Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field!

The indefatigable fox had learned

To dread his perseverance in the chase.

With admiration would he lift his eyes

To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand

Was loth to assault the majesty he loved:

Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak

To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead,

The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe;

The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves,

And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes,

Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere;

Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim,

And lived by his forbearance.

From the coast

Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his threats;

Our Country marked the preparation vast

Of hostile forces; and she called—with voice

That filled her plains, that reached her utmost shores,

And in remotest vales was heard—to arms!

—Then, for the first time, here you might have seen

The shepherd's grey to martial scarlet changed,

That flashed uncouthly through the woods and fields.

Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire,

And graced with shining weapons, weekly marched,

From this lone valley, to a central spot

Where, in assemblage with the flower and choice

Of the surrounding district, they might learn

The rudiments of war; ten—hardy, strong,

And valiant; but young Oswald, like a chief

And yet a modest comrade, led them forth

From their shy solitude, to face the world,

With a gay confidence and seemly pride;

Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet

Like Youths released from labour, and yet bound

To most laborious service, though to them

A festival of unencumbered ease;

The inner spirit keeping holiday,

Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left.

Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour,

Stretched on the grass, or seated in the shade,

Among his fellows, while an ample map

Before their eyes lay carefully outspread,

From which the gallant teacher would discourse,

Now pointing this way, and now that.—'Here flows,'

Thus would he say, 'the Rhine, that famous stream!

'Eastward, the Danube toward this inland sea,

'A mightier river, winds from realm to realm;

'And, like a serpent, shows his glittering back

'Bespotted—with innumerable isles:

'Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk; observe

'His capital city!' Thence, along a tract

Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears,

His finger moved, distinguishing the spots

Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged;

Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields

On which the sons of mighty Germany

Were taught a base submission.—'Here behold

'A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land,

'Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods,

'And mountains white with everlasting snow!'

—And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow,

Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best

Of that young peasantry, who, in our days,

Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rights—

Ah, not in vain!—or those who, in old time,

For work of happier issue, to the side

Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts,

When he had risen alone! No braver Youth

Descended from Judean heights, to march

With righteous Joshua; nor appeared in arms

When grove was felled, and altar was cast down,

And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed,

And strong in hatred of idolatry.”

The Pastor, even as if by these last words

Raised from his seat within the chosen shade,

Moved toward the grave;—instinctively his steps

We followed; and my voice with joy exclaimed:

“Power to the Oppressors of the world is given,

A might of which they dream not. Oh! the curse,

To be the awakener of divinest thoughts,

Father and founder of exalted deeds;

And, to whole nations bound in servile straits,

The liberal donor of capacities

More than heroic! this to be, nor yet

Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet

Deserve the least return of human thanks;

Winning no recompense but deadly hate

With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn!”

When this involuntary strain had ceased,

The Pastor said: “So Providence is served;

The forked weapon of the skies can send

Illumination into deep, dark holds,

Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce.

Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast

Pity away, soon shall ye quake with 'fear'!

For, not unconscious of the mighty debt

Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes,

Europe, through all her habitable bounds,

Is thirsting for 'their' overthrow, who yet

Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore,

By horror of their impious rites, preserved;

Are still permitted to extend their pride,

Like cedars on the top of Lebanon

Darkening the sun.

But less impatient thoughts,

And love 'all hoping and expecting all,'

This hallowed grave demands, where rests in peace

A humble champion of the better cause,

A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked

No higher name; in whom our country showed,

As in a favourite son, most beautiful.

In spite of vice, and misery, and disease,

Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts,

England, the ancient and the free, appeared

In him to stand before my swimming eyes,

Unconquerably virtuous and secure.

—No more of this, lest I offend his dust:

Short was his life, and a brief tale remains.

One day—a summer's day of annual pomp

And solemn chase—from morn to sultry noon

His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet,

The red-deer driven along its native heights

With cry of hound and horn; and, from that toil

Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed,

This generous Youth, too negligent of self,

Plunged—'mid a gay and busy throng convened

To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock—

Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire

Seized him, that self-same night; and through the space

Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched,

Till nature rested from her work in death.

To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid

A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour

Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue—

A golden lustre slept upon the hills;

And if by chance a stranger, wandering there,

From some commanding eminence had looked

Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen

A glittering spectacle; but every face

Was pallid: seldom hath that eye been moist

With tears, that wept not then; nor were the few,

Who from their dwellings came not forth to join

In this sad service, less disturbed than we.

They started at the tributary peal

Of instantaneous thunder, which announced,

Through the still air, the closing of the Grave;

And distant mountains echoed with a sound

Of lamentation, never heard before!”

The Pastor ceased.—My venerable Friend

Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye;

And, when that eulogy was ended, stood

Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived

The prolongation of some still response,

Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land,

The Spirit of its mountains and its seas,

Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power,

Its rights and virtues—by that Deity

Descending, and supporting his pure heart

With patriotic confidence and joy.

And, at the last of those memorial words,

The pining Solitary turned aside;

Whether through manly instinct to conceal

Tender emotions spreading from the heart

To his worn cheek; or with uneasy shame

For those cold humours of habitual spleen

That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man

Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged

To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue.

—Right toward the sacred Edifice his steps

Had been directed; and we saw him now

Intent upon a monumental stone,

Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall,

Or rather seemed to have grown into the side

Of the rude pile; as oft-times trunks of trees,

Where nature works in wild and craggy spots,

Are seen incorporate with the living rock—

To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note

Of his employment, with a courteous smile

Exclaimed—

“The sagest Antiquarian's eye

That task would foil;” then, letting fall his voice

While he advanced, thus spake: “Tradition tells

That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight

Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired,

And fixed his home in this sequestered vale.

'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath,

Or as a stranger reached this deep recess,

Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought

I sometimes entertain, that haply bound

To Scotland's court in service of his Queen,

Or sent on mission to some northern Chief

Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen

With transient observation; and thence caught

An image fair, which, brightening in his soul

When joy of war and pride of chivalry

Languished beneath accumulated years,

Had power to draw him from the world, resolved

To make that paradise his chosen home

To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned.

Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest

Upon unwritten story fondly traced

From sire to son, in this obscure retreat

The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, and borne

Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked

With broidered housings. And the lofty Steed—

His sole companion, and his faithful friend,

Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range

In fertile pastures—was beheld with eyes

Of admiration and delightful awe,

By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less pride,

Yet free from touch of envious discontent,

They saw a mansion at his bidding rise,

Like a bright star, amid the lowly band

Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt;

And, in that mansion children of his own,

Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree

That falls and disappears, the house is gone;

And, through improvidence or want of love

For ancient worth and honourable things,

The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight

Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch

Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains

Of that foundation in domestic care

Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left

Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone,

Faithless memorial! and his family name

Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang

From out the ruins of his stately lodge:

These, and the name and title at full length,—

'Sir Alfred Irthing', with appropriate words

Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath

Or posy, girding round the several fronts

Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells,

That in the steeple hang, his pious gift.”

“So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies,”

The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed,

“All that this world is proud of. From their spheres

The stars of human glory are cast down;

Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,

Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms

Of all the mighty, withered and consumed!

Nor is power given to lowliest innocence

Long to protect her own. The man himself

Departs; and soon is spent the line of those

Who, in the bodily image, in the mind,

In heart or soul, in station or pursuit,

Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks,

Fraternities and orders—heaping high

New wealth upon the burthen of the old,

And placing trust in privilege confirmed

And re-confirmed—are scoffed at with a smile

Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand

Of Desolation, aimed: to slow decline

These yield, and these to sudden overthrow:

Their virtue, service, happiness, and state

Expire; and nature's pleasant robe of green,

Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps

Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame

Of social nature changes evermore

Her organs and her members, with decay

Restless, and restless generation, powers

And functions dying and produced at need,—

And by this law the mighty whole subsists:

With an ascent and progress in the main;

Yet, oh! how disproportioned to the hopes

And expectations of self-flattering minds!

The courteous Knight, whose bones are here interred,

Lived in an age conspicuous as our own

For strife and ferment in the minds of men;

Whence alteration in the forms of things,

Various and vast. A memorable age!

Which did to him assign a pensive lot—

To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds

That, on the steady breeze of honour, sailed

In long procession calm and beautiful.

He who had seen his own bright order fade,

And its devotion gradually decline,

(While war, relinquishing the lance and shield,

Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws)

Had also witnessed, in his morn of life,

That violent commotion, which o'erthrew,

In town and city and sequestered glen,

Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof,

And old religious house—pile after pile;

And shook their tenants out into the fields,

Like wild beasts without home! Their hour was come;

But why no softening thought of gratitude,

No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt?

Benevolence is mild; nor borrows help,

Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force,

Fitliest allied to anger and revenge.

But Human-kind rejoices in the might

Of mutability; and airy hopes,

Dancing around her, hinder and disturb

Those meditations of the soul that feed

The retrospective virtues. Festive songs

Break from the maddened nations at the sight

Of sudden overthrow; and cold neglect

Is the sure consequence of slow decay.

Even,” said the Wanderer, “as that courteous Knight,

Bound by his vow to labour for redress

Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact

By sword and lance the law of gentleness,

(If I may venture of myself to speak,

Trusting that not incongruously I blend

Low things with lofty) I too shall be doomed

To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem

Of the poor calling which my youth embraced

With no unworthy prospect. But enough;

—Thoughts crowd upon me—and 'twere seemlier now

To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks

For the pathetic records which his voice

Hath here delivered; words of heartfelt truth,

Tending to patience when affliction strikes;

To hope and love; to confident repose

In God; and reverence for the dust of Man.”

BOOK EIGHTH
THE PARSONAGE
ARGUMENT

Pastor's apology and apprehensions that he might have detained his Auditors too long, with the Pastor's invitation to his house— Solitary disinclined to comply—Rallies the Wanderer—And playfully draws a comparison between his itinerant profession and that of the Knight-errant—Which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in the Country from the manufacturing spirit— Favourable effects—The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler classes—Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if unsupported by moral worth—Physical science unable to support itself—Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among the humbler Classes of Society—Picture of a Child employed in a Cotton-mill— Ignorance and degradation of Children among the agricultural Population reviewed—Conversation broken off by a renewed Invitation from the Pastor—Path leading to his House—Its appearance described—His Daughter—His Wife—His Son (a Boy) enters with his Companion—Their happy appearance—The Wanderer how affected by the sight of them.

THE pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale

To those acknowledgments subscribed his own,

With a sedate compliance, which the Priest

Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said:—

“If ye, by whom invited I began

These narratives of calm and humble life,

Be satisfied, 'tis well,—the end is gained;

And, in return for sympathy bestowed

And patient listening, thanks accept from me.

—Life, death, eternity! momentous themes

Are they—and might demand a seraph's tongue,

Were they not equal to their own support;

And therefore no incompetence of mine

Could do them wrong. The universal forms

Of human nature, in a spot like this,

Present themselves at once to all men's view:

Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make

The individual known and understood;

And such as my best judgment could select

From what the place afforded, have been given;

Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal

To his might well be likened, who unlocks

A cabinet stored with gems and pictures—draws

His treasures forth, soliciting regard

To this, and this, as worthier than the last,

Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased

More than the exhibitor himself, becomes

Weary and faint, and longs to be released.

—But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight,

And there—”

At this the Solitary shrunk

With backward will; but, wanting not address

That inward motion to disguise, he said

To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake;

—“The peaceable remains of this good Knight

Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn,

If consciousness could reach him where he lies

That one, albeit of these degenerate times,

Deploring changes past, or dreading change

Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought,

The fine vocation of the sword and lance

With the gross aims and body-bending toil

Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth

Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised.

Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates

Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those,

Exiles and wanderers—and the like are these;

Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale,

Carrying relief for nature's simple wants.

—What though no higher recompense be sought

Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil

Full oft procured, yet may they claim respect,

Among the intelligent, for what this course

Enables them to be and to perform.

Their tardy steps give leisure to observe,

While solitude permits the mind to feel;

Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects

By the division of her inward self

For grateful converse: and to these poor men

Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast)

Is bountiful—go wheresoe'er they may;

Kind nature's various wealth is all their own.

Versed in the characters of men; and bound,

By ties of daily interest, to maintain

Conciliatory manners and smooth speech;

Such have been, and still are in their degree,

Examples efficacious to refine

Rude intercourse; apt agents to expel,

By importation of unlooked-for arts,

Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice;

Raising, through just gradation, savage life

To rustic, and the rustic to urbane.

—Within their moving magazines is lodged

Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt

Affections seated in the mother's breast,

And in the lover's fancy; and to feed

The sober sympathies of long-tried friends.

—By these Itinerants, as experienced men,

Counsel is given; contention they appease

With gentle language, in remotest wilds,

Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring;

Could the proud quest of chivalry do more?”

“Happy,” rejoined the Wanderer, “they who gain

A panegyric from your generous tongue!

But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained

Aught of romantic interest, it is gone.

Their purer service, in this realm at least,

Is past for ever.—An inventive Age

Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet

To most strange issues. I have lived to mark

A new and unforeseen creation rise

From out the labours of a peaceful Land

Wielding her potent enginery to frame

And to produce, with appetite as keen

As that of war, which rests not night or day,

Industrious to destroy! With fruitless pains

Might one like me 'now' visit many a tract

Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again,

A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight,

Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came—

Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill;

Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud,

And dignified by battlements and towers

Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow

Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream.

The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild,

And formidable length of plashy lane,

(Prized avenues ere others had been shaped

Or easier links connecting place with place)

Have vanished—swallowed up by stately roads

Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom

Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has lent

Her waters, Air her breezes; and the sail

Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse,

Glistening along the low and woody dale;

Or, in its progress, on the lofty side,

Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from far.

Meanwhile, at social Industry's command,

How quick, how vast an increase! From the germ

Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced

Here a huge town, continuous and compact,

Hiding the face of earth for leagues—and there,

Where not a habitation stood before,

Abodes of men irregularly massed

Like trees in forests,—spread through spacious tracts,

O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires

Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths

Of vapour glittering in the morning sun.

And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns his steps,

He sees the barren wilderness erased,

Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims

How much the mild Directress of the plough

Owes to alliance with these new-born arts!

—Hence is the wide sea peopled,—hence the shores

Of Britain are resorted to by ships

Freighted from every climate of the world

With the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum

Of keels that rest within her crowded ports,

Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays;

That animating spectacle of sails

That, through her inland regions, to and fro

Pass with the respirations of the tide,

Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally,

Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice

Of thunder daunting those who would approach

With hostile purposes the blessed Isle,

Truth's consecrated residence, the seat

Impregnable of Liberty and Peace.

And yet, O happy Pastor of a flock

Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care

And Heaven's good providence, preserved from taint!

With you I grieve, when on the darker side

Of this great change I look; and there behold

Such outrage done to nature as compels

The indignant power to justify herself;

Yea, to avenge her violated rights,

For England's bane.—When soothing darkness spreads

O'er hill and vale,” the Wanderer thus expressed

His recollections, “and the punctual stars,

While all things else are gathering to their homes,

Advance, and in the firmament of heaven

Glitter—but undisturbing, undisturbed;

As if their silent company were charged

With peaceful admonitions for the heart

Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord;

Then, in full many a region, once like this

The assured domain of calm simplicity

And pensive quiet, an unnatural light

Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes

Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge;

And at the appointed hour a bell is heard—

Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll

That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest—

A local summons to unceasing toil!

Disgorged are now the ministers of day;

And, as they issue from the illumined pile,

A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door—

And in the courts—and where the rumbling stream,

That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels,

Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed

Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths,

Mother and little children, boys and girls,

Enter, and each the wonted task resumes

Within this temple, where is offered up

To Gain, the master idol of the realm,

Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old

Our ancestors, within the still domain

Of vast cathedral or conventual church,

Their vigils kept; where tapers day and might

On the dim altar burned continually,

In token that the House was evermore

Watching to God. Religious men were they;

Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire

Above this transitory world, allow

That there should pass a moment of the year,

When in their land the Almighty's service ceased.

Triumph who will in these profaner rites

Which we, a generation self-extolled,

As zealously perform! I cannot share

His proud complacency:—yet do I exult,

Casting reserve away, exult to see

An intellectual mastery exercised

O'er the blind elements; a purpose given,

A perseverance fed; almost a soul

Imparted—to brute matter. I rejoice,

Measuring the force of those gigantic powers

That, by the thinking mind, have been compelled

To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man.

For with the sense of admiration blends

The animating hope that time may come

When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might

Of this dominion over nature gained,

Men of all lands shall exercise the same

In due proportion to their country's need;

Learning, though late, that all true glory rests,

All praise, all safety, and all happiness,

Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes,

Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves,

Palmyra, central in the desert, fell;

And the Arts died by which they had been raised.

—Call Archimedes from his buried tomb

Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse,

And feelingly the Sage shall make report

How insecure, how baseless in itself,

Is the Philosophy whose sway depends

On mere material instruments;—how weak

Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped

By virtue.—He, sighing with pensive grief,

Amid his calm abstractions, would admit

That not the slender privilege is theirs

To save themselves from blank forgetfulness!”

When from the Wanderer's lips these words had fallen,

I said, “And, did in truth those vaunted Arts

Possess such privilege, how could we escape

Sadness and keen regret, we who revere,

And would preserve as things above all price,

The old domestic morals of the land,

Her simple manners, and the stable worth

That dignified and cheered a low estate?

Oh! where is now the character of peace,

Sobriety, and order, and chaste love,

And honest dealing, and untainted speech,

And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer;

That made the very thought of country-life

A thought of refuge, for a mind detained

Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd?

Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept

With conscientious reverence, as a day

By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced

Holy and blest? and where the winning grace

Of all the lighter ornaments attached

To time and season, as the year rolled round?”

“Fled!” was the Wanderer's passionate response,

“Fled utterly! or only to be traced

In a few fortunate retreats like this;

Which I behold with trembling, when I think

What lamentable change, a year—a month—

May bring; that brook converting as it runs

Into an instrument of deadly bane

For those, who, yet untempted to forsake

The simple occupations of their sires,

Drink the pure water of its innocent stream

With lip almost as pure.—Domestic bliss

(Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,)

How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart!

Lo! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve,

The habitations empty! or perchance

The Mother left alone,—no helping hand

To rock the cradle of her peevish babe;

No daughters round her, busy at the wheel,

Or in dispatch of each day's little growth

Of household occupation; no nice arts

Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire,

Where once the dinner was prepared with pride;

Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind;

Nothing to praise to teach, or to command!

The Father, if perchance he still retain

His old employments, goes to field or wood,

No longer led or followed by the Sons;

Idlers perchance they were,—but in 'his' sight;

Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth:

'Till their short holiday of childhood ceased,

Ne'er to return! That birthright now is lost.

Economists will tell you that the State

Thrives by the forfeiture—unfeeling thought,

And false as monstrous! Can the mother thrive

By the destruction of her innocent sons

In whom a premature necessity

Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes

The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up

The infant Being in itself, and makes

Its very spring a season of decay!

The lot is wretched, the condition sad,

Whether a pining discontent survive,

And thirst for change; or habit hath subdued

The soul deprest, dejected—even to love

Of her close tasks, and long captivity.

Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns

A native Briton to these inward chains,

Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep;

Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed!

He is a slave to whom release comes not,

And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns,

Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up

Among the clouds, and roars through the ancient woods;

Or when the sun is shining in the east,

Quiet and calm. Behold him—in the school

Of his attainments? no; but with the air

Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch.

His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes

Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes.

Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale,

His respiration quick and audible;

And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam

Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush

Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form,

Is that the countenance, and such the port,

Of no mean Being? One who should be clothed

With dignity befitting his proud hope;

Who, in his very childhood, should appear

Sublime from present purity and joy!

The limbs increase; but liberty of mind

Is gone for ever; and this organic frame,

So joyful in its motions, is become

Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead;

And even the touch, so exquisitely poured

Through the whole body, with a languid will

Performs its functions; rarely competent

To impress a vivid feeling on the mind

Of what there is delightful in the breeze,

The gentle visitations of the sun,

Or lapse of liquid element—by hand,

Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth—perceived.

—Can hope look forward to a manhood raised

On such foundations?”

“Hope is none for him!”

The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed,

“And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep.

Yet be it asked, in justice to our age,

If there were not, before those arts appeared,

These structures rose, commingling old and young,

And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint;

If there were not, 'then', in our far-famed Isle,

Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed

Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large;

Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape,

As abject, as degraded? At this day,

Who shall enumerate the crazy huts

And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth

A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair

Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear;

Or wearing, (shall we say?) in that white growth

An ill-adjusted turban, for defence

Or fierceness, wreathed around their sunburnt brows,

By savage Nature? Shrivelled are their lips,

Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet

On which they stand; as if thereby they drew

Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots,

From earth, the common mother of us all.

Figure and mien, complexion and attire,

Are leagued to strike dismay; but outstretched hand

And whining voice denote them supplicants

For the least boon that pity can bestow.

Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found;

And with their parents occupy the skirts

Of furze-clad commons; such are born and reared

At the mine's mouth under impending rocks;

Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave;

Or where their ancestors erected huts,

For the convenience of unlawful gain,

In forest purlieus; and the like are bred,

All England through, where nooks and slips of ground

Purloined, in times less jealous than our own,

From the green margin of the public way,

A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom

And gaiety of cultivated fields.

Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale)

Do I remember oft-times to have seen

'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest watch,

Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand;

Then, following closely with the cloud of dust,

An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone

Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage.

—Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin,

And, on the freight of merry passengers

Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed;

And spin—and pant—and overhead again,

Wild pursuivants! until their breath is lost,

Or bounty tires—and every face, that smiled

Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way.

—But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe,

These, bred to little pleasure in themselves,

Are profitless to others.

Turn we then

To Britons born and bred within the pale

Of civil polity, and early trained

To earn, by wholesome labour in the field,

The bread they eat. A sample should I give

Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich

The tender age of life, ye would exclaim,

'Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes

Impart new gladness to the morning air!'

Forgive me if I venture to suspect

That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse,

Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints;

Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees

Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear,

Fellows to those that lustily upheld

The wooden stools for everlasting use,

Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow

Under whose shaggy canopy are set

Two eyes—not dim, but of a healthy stare—

Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange—

Proclaiming boldly that they never drew

A look or motion of intelligence

From infant-conning of the Christ-crossrow,

Or puzzling through a primer, line by line,

Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last.

—What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand,

What penetrating power of sun or breeze,

Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul

Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice?

This torpor is no pitiable work

Of modern ingenuity; no town

Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught

Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law,

To which (and who can tell where or how soon?)

He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce:

His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe,

The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests

In air high-towering with a boorish pomp,

The sceptre of his sway; his country's name,

Her equal rights, her churches and her schools—

What have they done for him? And, let me ask,

For tens of thousands uninformed as he?

In brief, what liberty of 'mind' is here?”

This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man,

To whom the appeal couched in its closing words

Was pointedly addressed; and to the thoughts

That, in assent or opposition, rose

Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give

Prompt utterance; but the Vicar interposed

With invitation urgently renewed.

—We followed, taking as he led, a path

Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall,

Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight

Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots

That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds

Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methought,

Is here—how grateful this impervious screen!

—Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot

On rural business passing to and fro

Was the commodious walk: a careful hand

Had marked the line, and strewn its surface o'er

With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights

Fetched by a neighbouring brook.—Across the vale

The stately fence accompanied our steps;

And thus the pathway, by perennial green

Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite,

As by a beautiful yet solemn chain,

The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer.

Like image of solemnity, conjoined

With feminine allurement soft and fair,

The mansion's self displayed;—a reverend pile

With bold projections and recesses deep;

Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood

Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to admire

The pillared porch, elaborately embossed;

The low wide windows with their mullions old;

The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone;

And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose,

By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers

And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned:

Profusion bright! and every flower assuming

A more than natural vividness of hue,

From unaffected contrast with the gloom

Of sober cypress, and the darker foil

Of yew, in which survived some traces, here

Not unbecoming, of grotesque device

And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof

Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore,

Blending their diverse foliage with the green

Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped

The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight

For wren and redbreast,—where they sit and sing

Their slender ditties when the trees are bare.

Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else

Were incomplete) a relique of old times

Happily spared, a little Gothic niche

Of nicest workmanship; that once had held

The sculptured image of some patron-saint,

Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down

On all who entered those religious doors.

But lo! where from the rocky garden-mount

Crowned by its antique summer-house—descends,

Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl;

For she hath recognised her honoured friend,

The Wanderer ever welcome! A prompt kiss

The gladsome Child bestows at his request;

And, up the flowery lawn as we advance,

Hangs on the old Man with a happy look,

And with a pretty restless hand of love.

—We enter—by the Lady of the place

Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port:

A lofty stature undepressed by time,

Whose visitation had not wholly spared

The finer lineaments of form and face;

To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in

And wisdom loves.—But when a stately ship

Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast

On homeward voyage, what—if wind and wave,

And hardship undergone in various climes,

Have caused her to abate the virgin pride,

And that full trim of inexperienced hope

With which she left her haven—not for this,

Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze

Play on her streamers, fails she to assume

Brightness and touching beauty of her own,

That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared

This goodly Matron, shining in the beams

Of unexpected pleasure.—Soon the board

Was spread, and we partook a plain repast.

Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled

The mid-day hours with desultory talk;

From trivial themes to general argument

Passing, as accident or fancy led,

Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose

And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve

Dropping from every mind, the Solitary

Resumed the manners of his happier days;

And in the various conversation bore

A willing, nay, at times, a forward part;

Yet with the grace of one who in the world

Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now

Occasion given him to display his skill,

Upon the stedfast 'vantage-ground of truth.

He gazed, with admiration unsuppressed,

Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale,

Seen, from the shady room in which we sate,

In softened perspective; and more than once

Praised the consummate harmony serene

Of gravity and elegance, diffused

Around the mansion and its whole domain;

Not, doubtless, without help of female taste

And female care.—“A blessed lot is yours!”

The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh

Breathed over them: but suddenly the door

Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys

Appeared, confusion checking their delight.

—Not brothers they in feature or attire,

But fond companions, so I guessed, in field,

And by the river's margin—whence they come,

Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated.

One bears a willow-pannier on his back,

The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives

More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be

To that fair girl who from the garden-mount

Bounded:—triumphant entry this for him!

Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone,

On whose capacious surface see outspread

Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts;

Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees

Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle.

Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone

With its rich freight; their number he proclaims;

Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged;

And where the very monarch of the brook,

After long struggle, had escaped at last—

Stealing alternately at them and us

(As doth his comrade too) a look of pride:

And, verily, the silent creatures made

A splendid sight, together thus exposed;

Dead—but not sullied or deformed by death,

That seemed to pity what he could not spare.

But oh, the animation in the mien

Of those two boys! yea in the very words

With which the young narrator was inspired,

When, as our questions led, he told at large

Of that day's prowess! Him might I compare,

His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence,

To a bold brook that splits for better speed,

And at the self-same moment, works its way

Through many channels, ever and anon

Parted and re-united: his compeer

To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight

As beautiful—as grateful to the mind.

—But to what object shall the lovely Girl

Be likened? She whose countenance and air

Unite the graceful qualities of both,

Even as she shares the pride and joy of both.

My grey-haired Friend was moved; his vivid eye

Glistened with tenderness; his mind, I knew,

Was full; and had, I doubted not, returned,

Upon this impulse, to the theme—erewhile

Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys

Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal;

And He—to whom all tongues resigned their rights

With willingness, to whom the general ear

Listened with readier patience than to strain

Of music, lute or harp, a long delight

That ceased not when his voice had ceased—as One

Who from truth's central point serenely views

The compass of his argument—began

Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone.

BOOK NINTH
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE
ARGUMENT

Wanderer asserts that an active principle pervades the Universe, its noblest seat the human soul—How lively this principle is in Childhood—Hence the delight in old Age of looking back upon Childhood—The dignity, powers, and privileges of Age asserted— These not to be looked for generally but under a just government— Right of a human Creature to be exempt from being considered as a mere Instrument—The condition of multitudes deplored—Former conversation recurred to, and the Wanderer's opinions set in a clearer light—Truth placed within reach of the humblest— Equality—Happy state of the two Boys again adverted to—Earnest wish expressed for a System of National Education established universally by Government—Glorious effects of this foretold—Walk to the Lake—Grand spectacle from the side of a hill—Address of Priest to the Supreme Being—In the course of which he contrasts with ancient Barbarism the present appearance of the scene before him—The change ascribed to Christianity—Apostrophe to his flock, living and dead—Gratitude to the Almighty—Return over the Lake— Parting with the Solitary—Under what circumstances.

“TO every Form of being is assigned,”

Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage,

“An 'active' Principle:—howe'er removed

From sense and observation, it subsists

In all things, in all natures; in the stars

Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds,

In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone

That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks,

The moving waters, and the invisible air.

Whate'er exists hath properties that spread

Beyond itself, communicating good

A simple blessing, or with evil mixed;

Spirit that knows no insulated spot,

No chasm, no solitude; from link to link

It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds.

This is the freedom of the universe;

Unfolded still the more, more visible,

The more we know; and yet is reverenced least,

And least respected in the human Mind,

Its most apparent home. The food of hope

Is meditated action; robbed of this

Her sole support, she languishes and dies.

We perish also; for we live by hope

And by desire; we see by the glad light

And breathe the sweet air of futurity;

And so we live, or else we have no life.

To-morrow—nay perchance this very hour

(For every moment hath its own to-morrow!)

Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick

With present triumph, will be sure to find

A field before them freshened with the dew

Of other expectations;—in which course

Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys

A like glad impulse; and so moves the man

'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears,—

Or so he ought to move. Ah! why in age

Do we revert so fondly to the walks

Of childhood—but that there the Soul discerns

The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired

Of her own native vigour; thence can hear

Reverberations; and a choral song,

Commingling with the incense that ascends,

Undaunted, toward the imperishable heavens,

From her own lonely altar?

Do not think

That good and wise ever will be allowed,

Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate

As shall divide them wholly from the stir

Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said

That Man descends into the VALE of years;

Yet have I thought that we might also speak,

And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age,

As of a final EMINENCE; though bare

In aspect and forbidding, yet a point

On which 'tis not impossible to sit

In awful sovereignty; a place of power,

A throne, that may be likened unto his,

Who, in some placid day of summer, looks

Down from a mountain-top,—say one of those

High peaks, that bound the vale where now we are.

Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye,

Forest and field, and hill and dale appear,

With all the shapes over their surface spread:

But, while the gross and visible frame of things

Relinquishes its hold upon the sense,

Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems

All unsubstantialized,—how loud the voice

Of waters, with invigorated peal

From the full river in the vale below,

Ascending! For on that superior height

Who sits, is disencumbered from the press

Of near obstructions, and is privileged

To breathe in solitude, above the host

Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air

That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves

Many and idle, visits not his ear:

This he is freed from, and from thousand notes

(Not less unceasing, not less vain than these,)

By which the finer passages of sense

Are occupied; and the Soul, that would incline

To listen, is prevented or deterred.

And may it not be hoped, that, placed by age

In like removal, tranquil though severe,

We are not so removed for utter loss;

But for some favour, suited to our need?

What more than that the severing should confer

Fresh power to commune with the invisible world,

And hear the mighty stream of tendency

Uttering, for elevation of our thought,

A clear sonorous voice, inaudible

To the vast multitude; whose doom it is

To run the giddy round of vain delight,

Or fret and labour on the Plain below.

But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes

Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close

And termination of his mortal course;

Them only can such hope inspire whose minds

Have not been starved by absolute neglect;

Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil;

To whom kind Nature, therefore, may afford

Proof of the sacred love she bears for all;

Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensure.

For me, consulting what I feel within

In times when most existence with herself

Is satisfied, I cannot but believe,

That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope

And Reason's sway predominates; even so far,

Country, society, and time itself,

That saps the individual's bodily frame,

And lays the generations low in dust,

Do, by the almighty Ruler's grace, partake

Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth

And cherishing with ever-constant love,

That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is turned

Out of her course, wherever man is made

An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool

Or implement, a passive thing employed

As a brute mean, without acknowledgment

Of common right or interest in the end;

Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt.

Say, what can follow for a rational soul

Perverted thus, but weakness in all good,

And strength in evil? Hence an after-call

For chastisement, and custody, and bonds,

And oft-times Death, avenger of the past,

And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare

Entrust the future.—Not for these sad issues

Was Man created; but to obey the law

Of life, and hope, and action. And 'tis known

That when we stand upon our native soil,

Unelbowed by such objects as oppress

Our active powers, those powers themselves become

Strong to subvert our noxious qualities:

They sweep distemper from the busy day,

And make the chalice of the big round year

Run o'er with gladness; whence the Being moves

In beauty through the world; and all who see

Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood.”

“Then,” said the Solitary, “by what force

Of language shall a feeling heart express

Her sorrow for that multitude in whom

We look for health from seeds that have been sown

In sickness, and for increase in a power

That works but by extinction? On themselves

They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts

To know what they must do; their wisdom is

To look into the eyes of others, thence

To be instructed what they must avoid:

Or rather, let us say, how least observed,

How with most quiet and most silent death,

With the least taint and injury to the air

The oppressor breathes, their human form divine,

And their immortal soul, may waste away.”

The Sage rejoined, “I thank you—you have spared

My voice the utterance of a keen regret,

A wide compassion which with you I share.

When, heretofore, I placed before your sight

A Little-one, subjected to the arts

Of modern ingenuity, and made

The senseless member of a vast machine,

Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel;

Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget

The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught;

The slave of ignorance, and oft of want,

And miserable hunger. Much, too much,

Of this unhappy lot, in early youth

We both have witnessed, lot which I myself

Shared, though in mild and merciful degree:

Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed,

Through which I struggled, not without distress

And sometimes injury, like a lamb enthralled

'Mid thorns and brambles; or a bird that breaks

Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind,

Though with her plumes impaired. If they, whose souls

Should open while they range the richer fields

Of merry England, are obstructed less

By indigence, their ignorance is not less,

Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt

That tens of thousands at this day exist

Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs

Of those who once were vassals of her soil,

Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees

Which it sustained. But no one takes delight

In this oppression; none are proud of it;

It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore;

A standing grievance, an indigenous vice

Of every country under heaven. My thoughts

Were turned to evils that are new and chosen,

A bondage lurking under shape of good,—

Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind,

But all too fondly followed and too far;—

To victims, which the merciful can see

Nor think that they are victims—turned to wrongs,

By women, who have children of their own,

Beheld without compassion, yea with praise!

I spake of mischief by the wise diffused

With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads

The healthier, the securer, we become;

Delusion which a moment may destroy!

Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had seen

Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground,

Where circumstance and nature had combined

To shelter innocence, and cherish love;

Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived,

Possessed of health, and strength, and peace of mind;

Thus would have lived, or never have been born.

Alas! what differs more than man from man!

And whence that difference? whence but from himself?

For see the universal Race endowed

With the same upright form!—The sun is fixed,

And the infinite magnificence of heaven

Fixed, within reach of every human eye;

The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears;

The vernal field infuses fresh delight

Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense,

Even as an object is sublime or fair,

That object is laid open to the view

Without reserve or veil; and as a power

Is salutary, or an influence sweet,

Are each and all enabled to perceive

That power, that influence, by impartial law.

Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all;

Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears;

Imagination, freedom in the will;

Conscience to guide and check; and death to be

Foretasted, immortality conceived

By all,—a blissful immortality,

To them whose holiness on earth shall make

The Spirit capable of heaven, assured.

Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be deemed

The failure, if the Almighty, to this point

Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide

The excellence of moral qualities

From common understanding; leaving truth

And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark;

Hard to be won, and only by a few;

Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects,

And frustrate all the rest! Believe it not:

The primal duties shine aloft—like stars;

The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,

Are scattered at the feet of Man—like flowers.

The generous inclination, the just rule,

Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts—

No mystery is here! Here is no boon

For high—yet not for low; for proudly graced—

Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends

To heaven as lightly from the cottage hearth

As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose soul

Ponders this true equality, may walk

The fields of earth with gratitude and hope;

Yet, in that meditation, will he find

Motive to sadder grief, as we have found;

Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown,

And for the injustice grieving, that hath made

So wide a difference between man and man.

Then let us rather fix our gladdened thoughts

Upon the brighter scene. How blest that pair

Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even now)

Blest in their several and their common lot!

A few short hours of each returning day

The thriving prisoners of their village school:

And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes

Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy:

To breathe and to he happy, run and shout

Idle,—but no delay, no harm, no loss;

For every genial power of heaven and earth,

Through all the seasons of the changeful year,

Obsequiously doth take upon herself

To labour for them; bringing each in turn

The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health,

Beauty, or strength! Such privilege is theirs,

Granted alike in the outset of their course

To both; and, if that partnership must cease,

I grieve not,” to the Pastor here he turned,

“Much as I glory in that child of yours,

Repine not for his cottage-comrade, whom

Belike no higher destiny awaits

Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled;

The wish for liberty to live—content

With what Heaven grants, and die—in peace of mind,

Within the bosom of his native vale.

At least, whatever fate the noon of life

Reserves for either, sure it is that both

Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn;

Whether regarded as a jocund time,

That in itself may terminate, or lead

In course of nature to a sober eve.

Both have been fairly dealt with; looking back

They will allow that justice has in them

Been shown, alike to body and to mind.”

He paused, as if revolving in his soul

Some weighty matter; then, with fervent voice

And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed—

“O for the coming of that glorious time

When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth

And best protection, this imperial Realm,

While she exacts allegiance, shall admit

An obligation, on her part, to 'teach'

Them who are born to serve her and obey;

Binding herself by statute to secure

For all the children whom her soil maintains

The rudiments of letters, and inform

The mind with moral and religious truth,

Both understood and practised,—so that none,

However destitute, be left to droop

By timely culture unsustained; or run

Into a wild disorder; or be forced

To drudge through a weary life without the help

Of intellectual implements and tools;

A savage horde among the civilised,

A servile band among the lordly free!

This sacred right, the lisping babe proclaims

To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will,

For the protection of his innocence;

And the rude boy—who, having overpast

The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled,

Yet mutinously knits his angry brow,

And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent,

Or turns the godlike faculty of speech

To impious use—by process indirect

Declares his due, while he makes known his need.

—This sacred right is fruitlessly announced,

This universal plea in vain addressed,

To eyes and ears of parents who themselves

Did, in the time of their necessity,

Urge it in vain; and, therefore, like a prayer

That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven,

It mounts to meet the State's parental ear;

Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart,

And be not most unfeelingly devoid

Of gratitude to Providence, will grant

The unquestionable good—which, England, safe

From interference of external force,

May grant at leisure; without risk incurred

That what in wisdom for herself she doth,

Others shall e'er be able to undo.

Look! and behold, from Calpe's sun-burnt cliffs

To the flat margin of the Baltic sea,

Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds;

Laws overturned; and territory split,

Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind,

And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes

Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust

Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed.

Meantime the sovereignty of these fair Isles

Remains entire and indivisible:

And, if that ignorance were removed, which breeds

Within the compass of their several shores

Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each

Might still preserve the beautiful repose

Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres.

—The discipline of slavery is unknown

Among us,—hence the more do we require

The discipline of virtue; order else

Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace.

Thus, duties rising out of good possest,

And prudent caution needful to avert

Impending evil, equally require

That the whole people should be taught and trained.

So shall licentiousness and black resolve

Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take

Their place; and genuine piety descend,

Like an inheritance, from age to age.

With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear

Of numbers crowded on their native soil,

To the prevention of all healthful growth

Through mutual injury! Rather in the law

Of increase and the mandate from above

Rejoice!—and ye have special cause for joy.

—For, as the element of air affords

An easy passage to the industrious bees

Fraught with their burthens; and a way as smooth

For those ordained to take their sounding flight

From the thronged hive, and settle where they list

In fresh abodes—their labour to renew;

So the wide waters, open to the power,

The will, the instincts, and appointed needs

Of Britain, do invite her to cast off

Her swarms, and in succession send them forth;

Bound to establish new communities

On every shore whose aspect favours hope

Or bold adventure; promising to skill

And perseverance their deserved reward.

Yes,” he continued, kindling as he spake,

“Change wide, and deep, and silently performed,

This Land shall witness; and as days roll on,

Earth's universal frame shall feel the effect;

Even till the smallest habitable rock,

Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs

Of humanised society; and bloom

With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their fragrance,

A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven.

From culture, unexclusively bestowed

On Albion's noble Race in freedom born,

Expect these mighty issues: from the pains

And faithful care of unambitious schools

Instructing simple childhood's ready ear:

Thence look for these magnificent results!

—Vast the circumference of hope—and ye

Are at its centre, British Lawgivers;

Ah! sleep not there in shame! Shall Wisdom's voice

From out the bosom of these troubled times

Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind,

And shall the venerable halls ye fill

Refuse to echo the sublime decree?

Trust not to partial care a general good;

Transfer not to futurity a work

Of urgent need.—Your Country must complete

Her glorious destiny. Begin even now,

Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian plague

Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, makes

The brightness more conspicuous that invests

The happy Island where ye think and act;

Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit,

Show to the wretched nations for what end

The powers of civil polity were given.”

Abruptly here, but with a graceful air,

The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased

Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said,

“Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen

Upon this flowery slope; and see—beyond—

The silvery lake is streaked with placid blue;

As if preparing for the peace of evening.

How temptingly the landscape shines! The air

Breathes invitation; easy is the walk

To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moored

Under a sheltering tree.”—Upon this hint

We rose together; all were pleased; but most

The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy.

Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills

She vanished—eager to impart the scheme

To her loved brother and his shy compeer.

—Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house

And earnest preparation.—Forth we went,

And down the vale along the streamlet's edge

Pursued our way, a broken company,

Mute or conversing, single or in pairs.

Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched

The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed

In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw

A twofold image; on a grassy bank

A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood

Another and the same! Most beautiful,

On the green turf, with his imperial front

Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb,

The breathing creature stood; as beautiful,

Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart.

Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky,

And each seemed centre of his own fair world:

Antipodes unconscious of each other,

Yet, in partition, with their several spheres,

Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight!

“Ah! what a pity were it to disperse,

Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle,

And yet a breath can do it!”

These few words

The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed

Gathered together, all in still delight,

Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said

In like low voice to my particular ear,

“I love to hear that eloquent old Man

Pour forth his meditations, and descant

On human life from infancy to age.

How pure his spirit! in what vivid hues

His mind gives back the various forms of things,

Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude!

While he is speaking, I have power to see

Even as he sees; but when his voice hath ceased,

Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now,

That combinations so serene and bright

Cannot be lasting in a world like ours,

Whose highest beauty, beautiful as it is,

Like that reflected in yon quiet pool,

Seems but a fleeting sunbeam's gift, whose peace,

The sufferance only of a breath of air!”

More had she said—but sportive shouts were heard

Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys,

Who, bearing each a basket on his arm,

Down the green field came tripping after us.

With caution we embarked; and now the pair

For prouder service were addrest; but each,

Wishful to leave an opening for my choice,

Dropped the light oar his eager hand had seized.

Thanks given for that becoming courtesy,

Their place I took—and for a grateful office

Pregnant with recollections of the time

When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere!

A Youth, I practised this delightful art;

Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew

Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy marge

Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accordant, oars

Free from obstruction; and the boat advanced

Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk,

That, disentangled from the shady boughs

Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves

With correspondent wings the abyss of air.

—“Observe,” the Vicar said, “yon rocky isle

With birch-trees fringed; my hand shall guide the helm,

While thitherward we shape our course; or while

We seek that other, on the western shore;

Where the bare columns of those lofty firs,

Supporting gracefully a massy dome

Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate

A Grecian temple rising from the Deep.”

“Turn where we may,” said I, “we cannot err

In this delicious region.”—Cultured slopes,

Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves,

And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods,

Surrounded us; and, as we held our way

Along the level of the glassy flood,

They ceased not to surround us; change of place

From kindred features diversely combined,

Producing change of beauty ever new.

—Ah! that such beauty, varying in the light

Of living nature, cannot be portrayed

By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill;

But is the property of him alone

Who hath beheld it, noted it with care,

And in his mind recorded it with love!

Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse

Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks

Of trivial occupations well devised,

And unsought pleasures springing up by chance;

As if some friendly Genius had ordained

That, as the day thus far had been enriched

By acquisition of sincere delight,

The same should be continued to its close.

One spirit animating old and young,

A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore

Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed—and there,

Merrily seated in a ring, partook

A choice repast—served by our young companions

With rival earnestness and kindred glee.

Launched from our hands the smooth stone skimmed the lake;

With shouts we raised the echoes:—stiller sounds

The lovely Girl supplied—a simple song,

Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks

To be repeated thence, but gently sank

Into our hearts; and charmed the peaceful flood.

Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils

From land and water; lilies of each hue—

Golden and white, that float upon the waves,

And court the wind; and leaves of that shy plant,

(Her flowers were shed) the lily of the vale,

That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds

Her pensive beauty; from the breeze her sweets.

Such product, and such pastime, did the place

And season yield; but, as we re-embarked,

Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore

Of that wild spot, the Solitary said

In a low voice, yet careless who might hear,

“The fire, that burned so brightly to our wish,

Where is it now?—Deserted on the beach—

Dying, or dead! Nor shall the fanning breeze

Revive its ashes. What care we for this,

Whose ends are gained? Behold an emblem here

Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys!

And, in this unpremeditated slight

Of that which is no longer needed, see

The common course of human gratitude!”

This plaintive note disturbed not the repose

Of the still evening. Right across the lake

Our pinnace moves; then, coasting creek and bay,

Glades we behold, and into thickets peep,

Where couch the spotted deer; or raised our eyes

To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat

Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls;

And thus the bark, meandering with the shore,

Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier

Of jutting rock invited us to land.

Alert to follow as the Pastor led,

We clomb a green hill's side; and, as we clomb,

The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave

Fair prospect, intercepted less and less,

O'er the flat meadows and indented coast

Of the smooth lake, in compass seen:—far off,

And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower,

In majesty presiding over fields

And habitations seemingly preserved

From all intrusion of the restless world

By rocks impassable and mountains huge.

Soft heath this elevated spot supplied,

And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couched

Or sate reclined; admiring quietly

The general aspect of the scene; but each

Not seldom over anxious to make known

His own discoveries; or to favourite points

Directing notice, merely from a wish

To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared.

That rapturous moment never shall I forget

When these particular interests were effaced

From every mind!—Already had the sun,

Sinking with less than ordinary state,

Attained his western bound; but rays of light—

Now suddenly diverging from the orb

Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled

By the dense air—shot upwards to the crown

Of the blue firmament—aloft, and wide:

And multitudes of little floating clouds,

Through their ethereal texture pierced—ere we,

Who saw, of change were conscious—had become

Vivid as fire; clouds separately poised,—

Innumerable multitude of forms

Scattered through half the circle of the sky;

And giving back, and shedding each on each,

With prodigal communion, the bright hues

Which from the unapparent fount of glory

They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive.

That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep

Repeated; but with unity sublime!

While from the grassy mountain's open side

We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent

On the refulgent spectacle, diffused

Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space,

The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed:

“Eternal Spirit! universal God!

Power inaccessible to human thought,

Save by degrees and steps which thou hast deigned

To furnish; for this effluence of thyself,

To the infirmity of mortal sense

Vouchsafed; this local transitory type

Of thy paternal splendours, and the pomp

Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven,

The radiant Cherubim;—accept the thanks

Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened,

Presume to offer; we, who—from the breast

Of the frail earth, permitted to behold

The faint reflections only of thy face—

Are yet exalted, and in soul adore!

Such as they are who in thy presence stand

Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink

Imperishable majesty streamed forth

From thy empyreal throne, the elect of earth

Shall be—divested at the appointed hour

Of all dishonour, cleansed from mortal stain.

—Accomplish, then, their number; and conclude

Time's weary course! Or if, by thy decree,

The consummation that will come by stealth

Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail,

Oh! let thy Word prevail, to take away

The sting of human nature. Spread the law,

As it is written in thy holy book,

Throughout all lands; let every nation hear

The high behest, and every heart obey;

Both for the love of purity, and hope

Which it affords, to such as do thy will

And persevere in good, that they shall rise,

To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven.

—Father of good! this prayer in bounty grant,

In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons.

Then, not till then, shall persecution cease,

And cruel wars expire. The way is marked,

The guide appointed, and the ransom paid.

Alas! the nations, who of yore received

These tidings, and in Christian temples meet

The sacred truth to knowledge, linger still;

Preferring bonds and darkness to a state

Of holy freedom, by redeeming love

Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained.

So fare the many; and the thoughtful few,

Who in the anguish of their souls bewail

This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask,

Shall it endure?—Shall enmity and strife,

Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed;

And the kind never perish? Is the hope

Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain

A peaceable dominion, wide as earth,

And ne'er to fail? Shall that blest day arrive

When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell

In crowded cities, without fear shall live

Studious of mutual benefit; and he,

Whom Morn awakens, among dews and flowers

Of every clime, to till the lonely field,

Be happy in himself?—The law of faith

Working through love, such conquest shall it gain,

Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve?

Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart!

And with that help the wonder shall be seen

Fulfilled, the hope accomplished; and thy praise

Be sung with transport and unceasing joy.

Once,” and with mild demeanour, as he spake,

On us the venerable Pastor turned

His beaming eye that had been raised to Heaven,

“Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound

Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle

Unheard, the savage nations bowed the head

To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds;

Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote

Ill purposes, and flatter foul desires.

Then, in the bosom of yon mountain-cove,

To those inventions of corrupted man

Mysterious rites were solemnised; and there—

Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods—

Of those terrific Idols some received

Such dismal service, that the loudest voice

Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard

Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome,

Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks

Of human victims, offered up to appease

Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes

Had visionary faculties to see

The thing that hath been as the thing that is,

Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere

Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous,

Flung from the body of devouring fires,

To Taranis erected on the heights

By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed

Exultingly, in view of open day

And full assemblage of a barbarous host;

Or to Andates, female Power! who gave

(For so they fancied) glorious victory.

—A few rude monuments of mountain-stone

Survive; all else is swept away.—How bright

The appearances of things! From such, how changed

The existing worship; and with those compared,

The worshippers how innocent and blest!

So wide the difference, a willing mind

Might almost think, at this affecting hour,

That paradise, the lost abode of man,

Was raised again: and to a happy few,

In its original beauty, here restored.

Whence but from thee, the true and only God,

And from the faith derived through Him who bled

Upon the cross, this marvellous advance

Of good from evil; as if one extreme

Were left, the other gained.—O ye, who come

To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile,

Called to such office by the peaceful sound

Of sabbath bells; and ye, who sleep in earth,

All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls!

For you, in presence of this little band

Gathered together on the green hill-side,

Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer

Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King;

Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands, have made

Your very poorest rich in peace of thought

And in good works; and him, who is endowed

With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth

Which the salvation of his soul requires.

Conscious of that abundant favour showered

On you, the children of my humble care,

And this dear land, our country, while on earth

We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul,

Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude.

These barren rocks, your stern inheritance;

These fertile fields, that recompense your pains;

The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top;

Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads,

Or hushed; the roaring waters and the still—

They see the offering of my lifted hands,

They hear my lips present their sacrifice,

They know if I be silent, morn or even:

For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart

Will find a vent; and thought is praise to him,

Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind,

From whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow!”

This vesper-service closed, without delay,

From that exalted station to the plain

Descending, we pursued our homeward course,

In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake,

Under a faded sky. No trace remained

Of those celestial splendours; grey the vault—

Pure, cloudless, ether; and the star of eve

Was wanting; but inferior lights appeared

Faintly, too faint almost for sight; and some

Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth

In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained

Her mooring-place; where, to the sheltering tree,

Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow,

With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we paced

The dewy fields; but ere the Vicar's door

Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps;

Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed

A farewell salutation; and, the like

Receiving, took the slender path that leads

To the one cottage in the lonely dell:

But turned not without welcome promise made

That he would share the pleasures and pursuits

Of yet another summer's day, not loth

To wander with us through the fertile vales,

And o'er the mountain-wastes. “Another sun,”

Said he, “shall shine upon us, ere we part;

Another sun, and peradventure more;

If time, with free consent, be yours to give,

And season favours.”

To enfeebled Power,

From this communion with uninjured Minds,

What renovation had been brought; and what

Degree of healing to a wounded spirit,

Dejected, and habitually disposed

To seek, in degradation of the Kind,

Excuse and solace for her own defects;

How far those erring notions were reformed;

And whether aught, of tendency as good

And pure, from further intercourse ensued;

This—if delightful hopes, as heretofore,

Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts

Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past—

My future labours may not leave untold.

1795-1814.

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Title statement
The excursionExcursion
Wordsworth, William, 1770-1850

Proofreader: Triggs, Sara.

creation of machine-readable version: Triggs, Jeffery.

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deposited byTriggs, Jeffery
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Oxford University Press (NY)
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3137

ID [isbn10]

1106001362

ID [isbn13]

9781106001368

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— Revised version of http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/2209

— The excursion, Wordsworth, William, 1770-1850. s.n.. s.l.: s.d.