Part 26

"'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 265 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 270 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? 275 '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[658] inward hoard 280 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 285 For noontide solace on the summer grass, The warm lap of his mother earth:[IN] and so, Their lenient term of separation past, That family (whose graves you there behold) By yet a higher privilege once more 290 Were gathered to each other."[IO] Calm of mind And silence waited on these closing words; Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear Lest in those[659] passages of life were some That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 296 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 300 By useful habits, to a fitter soil Transplanted ere too late.--The hermit, lodged Amid[660] the untrodden desert, tells his beads, With each repeating its allotted prayer And thus divides and thus relieves the time; 305 Smooth task, with _his_[661] 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 310 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[IP] 315 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, 320 And conquests 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; 325 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 330 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 335 Of worldly intercourse between[662] man and man, And in his humble dwelling, he appears A labourer, with moral virtue girt, With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 339

"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, 345 Deservedly have styled.[IQ]--From his abode In a dependent chapelry that lies Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild,[IR] Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, And, having once espoused, would never quit; 350 Into its graveyard will ere long be borne That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone[663] May cover him;[IS] and by its help, perchance, A century shall hear his name pronounced, With images attendant on the sound; 355 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[664] itself in words To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." 360

The Pastor pressed by thoughts which round his theme Still linger'd, after a brief pause, resumed; "Noise[665] is there not enough in doleful war, But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 365 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 370 Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse The perturbation in the suffering breast, And propagate its kind, far as he may?[666] --Ah who (and with such rapture as befits The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 375 The good man's purposes and deeds;[667] retrace His struggles, his discomfitures[668] deplore, His triumphs hail, and glorify his end; That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 380 And like the soft infections of the heart, By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, Hamlet, and town;[669] and piety survive Upon the lips of men in hall or bower; Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 385 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[670] ground receive That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 390 Of what lies here[671] 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 395 Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, Oft stretches toward[672] me, like a long straight path Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies,[673] 400 From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn The precious gift of hearing.[IT] He grew up From year to year in loneliness of soul; And this deep mountain-valley was to him Soundless, with all its streams.[IU] The bird of dawn Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 406 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 410 Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,[IV] The agitated scene before his eye Was silent as a picture: evermore 415 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; 420 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; 426 Nor husband's[674] 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. 430 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; 435 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; 440 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 445 His introverted spirit; and bestowed Upon his life an outward dignity Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, The stormy day, each had[675] its own resource; Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 450 Science severe, or word of holy Writ Announcing immortality and joy To the assembled spirits of just men Made perfect, and from injury secure.[676] --Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 455 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, 460 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 465 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; 470 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, 475 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, 480 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, 485 Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch.[IW] Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained; Ask of the channelled rivers if they held A safer, easier, more determined, course. 490 What terror doth it strike into the mind To think of one, blind and alone, advancing Straight toward some precipice's airy brink![677] But, timely warned, _He_ would have stayed his steps, Protected, say enlightened, by his ear; 495 And on the very edge[678] 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[679] in the woods, that could from him conceal 500 Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live Upon his touch.[IX] 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, 505 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;[IY] and the frame Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 510 Fancy, and understanding; while the voice Discoursed of natural or[680] moral truth With eloquence, and such authentic power, That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood Abashed, and tender pity overawed."[IZ] 515

"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. 520 And to the mind among her powers of sense This transfer is permitted,--not alone That the bereft their recompense may win;[681] But for remoter purposes of love And charity; nor last nor least for this, 525 That to the imagination may be given A type and shadow of an awful truth;[682] How, likewise, under sufferance divine, Darkness is banished from the realms of death, By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 530 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; 535 And wisdom married to immortal verse?"[JA]

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 church-yard where we sate, 541 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. 545

"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: 550 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. 555 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, 560 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 565 With _silent_ increase: summers, winters--past, Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say, Ten summers and ten winters of a space[683] That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 570 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! 575 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, 580 Though of the kind which beasts and birds present[684] 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 585 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 590 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 595 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[685] of glory for the ascending moon; And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, And on whose forehead inaccessible 601 The raven lodged in safety.--Many a ship Launched into Morecamb-bay to _him_ hath owed[686] Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears The loftiest of her pendants; He, from park 605 Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles[687] And the vast engine labouring in the mine, Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked The trunk and body of its[688] marvellous strength, 610 If his undaunted enterprise had failed Among the mountain coves. "Yon household fir,[689] A guardian planted to fence off the blast, But towering high the roof above, as if Its humble destination were forgot-- 615 That sycamore, which annually holds Within its shade, as in a stately tent[JB] On all sides open to the fanning breeze, A grave assemblage, seated while they shear The fleece-encumbered flock--the Joyful Elm, 620 Around whose trunk the maidens[690] dance in May-- And the Lord's Oak--would plead their several rights In vain, if he were master of their fate; His sentence[691] to the axe would doom them all. But, green in age and lusty as he is, 625 And promising to keep his hold on earth[692] 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, 630 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![JC] 635 --Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board Of Gold-rill[JD] 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 640 Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm[693] 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; 645 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, 650 Day after day[694] the gladness is diffused To all that come, almost to all[695] 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, 655 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; 660 A happiness that ebbed not, but remained To fill the total measure of his[696] soul! --From the low tenement, his own abode, Whither, as to a little private cell, He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 665 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; 670 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 675 Of desolating anguish for them all! --Just as the Child could totter on the floor, And, by some friendly finger's help upstayed, Range round the garden walk, while she perchance Was catching at some novelty of spring, 680 Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell Drawn by the sunshine--at that hopeful season[697] The winds of March, smiting insidiously,[698] Raised in the tender passage of the throat Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarned, 685 The household lost their pride and soul's delight. --But time hath power[699] 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 690 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.[JE]