Part 23

"Two passions, both degenerate, for they both Began in honour, gradually obtained Rule over her, and vexed her daily life; An unremitting,[578] avaricious thrift; And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 710 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. 715 --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; 720 The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart[579] Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's blessing Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust[580] In ceaseless pains--and strictest parsimony Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared, 725 From each day's need, out of each day's least gain.[581]

"Thus[582] all was re-established, and a pile Constructed, that sufficed for every end, Save the contentment of the builder's mind; A mind by nature indisposed to aught 730 So placid, so inactive, as content; A mind intolerant of lasting peace, And cherishing the pang her heart deplored.[583] Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared To the agitation of a brook that runs 735 Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained;[584] But never to be charmed to gentleness: Its best attainment fits of such repose As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming.[585][HW] 740

"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 745 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; 750 And yet the very sound of that kind foot Was anguish to her ears! 'And must she rule,' This was the death-doomed[586] Woman heard to say In bitterness, 'and must she rule and reign, 'Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone? 755 'Tend what I tended,[587] calling it her own!' Enough;--I fear, too much.--One vernal evening,[588] While she was yet in prime of health and strength, I well remember, while I passed her door Alone,[589] with loitering step, and upward eye 760 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 765 '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 770 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,[590] I trust, 775 And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, Tho', in this Vale, remembered with deep awe."

* * * * *

The Vicar paused; and toward a seat advanced, A long stone-seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall;[HX] Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 780 Offering a sunny resting-place to them[591] Who seek the House of worship, while the bells Yet ring with all their voices, or before The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. Beneath the shade we all sate down;[592] and there 785 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 790 Speaks for itself; an Infant there doth rest; The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave.[HY] If mild discourse, and manners that conferred A natural dignity on humblest rank; If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 795 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 800 The spotless ether of a maiden life; If these may make a hallowed spot of earth More holy in the sight of God or Man; Then, o'er that mould,[593] a sanctity shall brood Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 805

"Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could[594] any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed;[HZ] render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod! 810 There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, And on the very turf[595] that roofs her own, The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene.[596] Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 815 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[597] 820 Caught from the pressure of elastic turf Upon the mountains gemmed[598] with morning dew, In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. --Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet, By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 825 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 830 Startling the golden hills. "A wide-spread elm Stands in our valley, named THE JOYFUL TREE;[599] From dateless usage which our peasants hold Of giving welcome to the first of May By dances round its trunk.--And if the sky 835 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 840 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, 845 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, 850 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, 855 Of days advancing toward their utmost length, And small birds singing happily to mates Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power Winds pipe through fading woods; but those blithe notes[600] Strike the deserted to the heart; I speak 860 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, 865 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; 870 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 875 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 881 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; 885 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 890 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 895 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 900 Of their long twilight, pore upon her book[601] By the last lingering help of the open sky Until dark night[602] dismissed her to her bed! Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose The unconquerable pang of despised love.[IA] 905

"A kindlier passion opened[603] on her soul When that poor Child was born. Upon its face She gazed[604] as on a pure and spotless gift Of unexpected promise, where a grief Or dread was all that had been thought of,--joy 910 Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels, Amid a perilous waste that all night long Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm,[605] When he beholds the first pale speck serene Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed, 915 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 921 'Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 'To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I breathe 'The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake[606] 'My Infant! and for that good Mother dear, 925 '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 931 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 935 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; 940 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and crossed The fond affection.[607] She no more could bear By her offence to lay a two-fold weight On a kind parent willing to forget Their slender means: so, to that parent's care 945 Trusting her child, she left their common home, And undertook with dutiful content[608] A Foster-mother's office. "'Tis, perchance, Unknown to you that in these simple vales The natural feeling of equality 950 Is by domestic service unimpaired;[IB] Yet, though such service be, with us, removed From sense of degradation, not the less The ungentle mind can easily find means To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 955 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel: For (blinded by an over-anxious dread Of such excitement and divided thought[609] As with her office would but ill accord)[610] The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, 960 Forbad her all communion with her own: Week after week, the mandate they enforced.[611] --So near! yet not allowed, upon that sight To fix her eyes-alas! 'twas hard to bear! But worse affliction must be borne--far worse; 965 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; 970 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, 975 '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, 980 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: 985 Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt[612] In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene! So call her; for not only she bewailed A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness Her own transgression; penitent sincere 990 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; 995 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, 1000 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; 1005 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 1010 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 1015 A heavenly comfort; there she recognised An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need; There, and, as seemed, there only. "She had built,[613] Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest In blindness all too near the river's edge; 1020 That work a summer flood with hasty swell Had swept away; and now her Spirit longed For its last flight to heaven's security. --The bodily frame wasted from day to day;[614] Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 1025 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, 1030 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, 1035 The ghastly face of cold decay put on A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine! May I not mention--that, within those[615] walls, In due observance of her pious wish, The congregation joined with me in prayer 1040 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, 1045 '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 1050 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 1055 Or less benign than that which I had felt When seated near my venerable Friend, Under[616] those shady elms, from him I heard The story that retraced the slow decline Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 1060 With the neglected house to which she clung.[617] --I noted that the Solitary's cheek Confessed the power of nature.--Pleased though sad, More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate; Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 1065 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 1070 Than to do wrong, albeit[618] themselves have erred. This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals With such, in their affliction.--Ellen's fate, Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 1075 Of one who died within this vale, by doom Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones Of Wilfred Armathwaite?" The Vicar answered, "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, 1080 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 1085 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[619] obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 1090 He craved a substitute in troubled joy; Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow.[620] That which he had been weak enough to do Was misery in remembrance; he was stung, 1095 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 1100 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, 1105 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 1110 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 1115 And from her grave.--Behold--upon that ridge, That,[621] stretching boldly from the mountain side, Carries into the centre of the vale Its rocks and woods--the Cottage where she dwelt; And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 1120 (Full eight years past) the solitary prop Of many helpless Children. I begin With words that[622] might be prelude to a tale Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 1125 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. 1130 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, 1135 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, 1140 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 1145 By nature only; but, if thither led, Ye would discover, then, a studious work Of many fancies, prompting many hands.