Part 4

A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 220 Was his existence oftentimes _possessed_. O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared The written promise! Early had he learned[28] To reverence the volume that[29] displays The mystery, the life which cannot die; 225 But in the mountains did he _feel_ his faith. All things, responsive to the writing, there[30] Breathed immortality, revolving life, And greatness still revolving; infinite: There littleness was not; the least of things 230 Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped Her prospects, nor did he believe,--he _saw_. What wonder if his being thus became Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires, Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude, 236 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired Wisdom, which works thro' patience; thence he learned In oft-recurring hours[31] of sober thought 240 To look on Nature with a humble heart, Self-questioned where it did not understand, And with a superstitious eye of love.

So passed the time; yet to the nearest town[32] He duly went with what small overplus 245 His earnings might supply, and brought away The book that[33] most had tempted his desires While at the stall he read. Among the hills He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.[AK] Lore of different kind, 250 The annual savings of a toilsome life, His School-master[34] supplied; books that explain The purer elements of truth involved In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, (Especially perceived where nature droops 255 And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind Busy in solitude and poverty. These occupations oftentimes deceived The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 260 In pensive idleness. What could he do, Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life With blind endeavours?[35] Yet, still uppermost, Nature was at his heart as if he felt, Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 265 In all things that[36] from her sweet influence Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. While yet he lingered in the rudiments 270 Of science, and among her simplest laws, His triangles--they were the stars of heaven, The silent stars! Oft did he take delight To measure the altitude[37] of some tall crag That[38] is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 275 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows Inscribed upon its visionary sides,[39] The history of many a winter storm, Or obscure records of the path of fire.[AL]

And thus before his eighteenth year was told, 280 Accumulated feelings pressed his heart With still increasing weight;[40] he was o'erpowered By Nature; by the turbulence subdued Of his own mind; by mystery and hope, And the first virgin passion of a soul 285 Communing with the glorious universe.[AM] Full often wished he that the winds might rage When they were silent: far more fondly now Than in his earlier season did he love Tempestuous nights--the conflict and the sounds 290 That live in darkness. From his intellect And from the stillness of abstracted thought He asked repose; and, failing oft to win[41] The peace required, he scanned the laws of light Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 295 From hollow clefts up to the clearer air A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun Varies its rainbow hues.[42] But vainly thus, And vainly by all other means, he strove To mitigate the fever of his heart. 300

In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, Thus was he reared; much wanting to assist The growth of intellect, yet gaining more,[43] And every moral feeling of his soul Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 305 The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, And drinking from the well of homely life.[AN] --But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, He now was summoned to select the course Of humble industry that[44] promised best 310 To yield him no unworthy maintenance. Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach A village-school--but wandering thoughts were then A misery to him; and the Youth resigned[45] A task he was unable to perform. 315

That stern yet kindly Spirit,[AO] who constrains The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, (Spirit attached to regions mountainous Like their own stedfast clouds) did now impel 320 His restless mind to look abroad with hope. --An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load, Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest;[46] 325 Yet do such travellers find their own delight; And their hard service, deemed debasing now, Gained merited respect in simpler times; When squire, and priest, and they who round them dwelt In rustic sequestration--all dependent 330 Upon the PEDLAR'S toil--supplied their wants, Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few Of his adventurous countrymen were led By perseverance in this track of life 335 To competence and ease:--to him it offered[47] Attractions manifold;--and this he chose. --His Parents on the enterprise bestowed[48] Their farewell benediction, but with hearts Foreboding evil. From his native hills 340 He wandered far; much did he see of men,[AP] Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, Their passions and their feelings; chiefly those Essential and eternal in the heart, That,[49] 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 345 Exist more simple in their elements, And speak a plainer language.[AQ] In the woods, A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, Itinerant in this labour, he had passed The better portion of his time; and there 350 Spontaneously had his affections thriven Amid the bounties of the year, the peace And liberty of nature;[50] there he kept In solitude and solitary thought His mind in a just equipoise of love. 355 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares Of ordinary life; unvexed, unwarped By partial bondage. In his steady course, No piteous revolutions had he felt, No wild varieties of joy and grief. 360 Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned And constant disposition of his thoughts To sympathy with man, he was alive To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 365 And all that was endured; for, in himself Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, He had no painful pressure from without That made him turn aside from wretchedness With coward fears. He could _afford_ to suffer 370 With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came That in our best experience he was rich, And in the wisdom of our daily life. For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, He had observed the progress and decay 375 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too; The history of many families; How they had prospered; how they were o'erthrown By passion or mischance, or such misrule Among the unthinking masters of the earth 380 As makes the nations groan. This active course He followed till provision for his wants Had been obtained;--the Wanderer then resolved[51] To pass the remnant of his days, untasked With needless services, from hardship free. 385 His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: But still he loved to pace the public roads And the wild paths; and, by the summer's warmth Invited, often would he leave his home And journey far, revisiting the scenes 390 That to his memory were most endeared.[52] --Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped[53] By worldly-mindedness or anxious care; Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed By knowledge gathered up from day to day; 395 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life.

The Scottish Church, both on himself and those With whom from childhood he grew up, had held The strong hand of her purity; and still Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 400 This he remembered in his riper age With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. But by the native vigour of his mind, By his habitual wanderings out of doors, By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 405 Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, He had imbibed of fear or darker thought Was melted all away; so true was this, That sometimes his religion seemed to me Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; 410 Who to the model of his own pure heart Shaped[54] his belief, as grace divine inspired, And[55] human reason dictated with awe. --And surely never did there live on earth A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 415 And teasing ways of children vexed not him; [56]Indulgent listener was he to the tongue Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's tale, To his fraternal sympathy addressed, Obtain reluctant hearing. Plain his garb; 420 Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared For sabbath duties; yet he was a man Whom no one could have passed without remark. Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 425 Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek Into a narrower circle of deep red, But had not tamed his eye;[AR] that, under brows Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought From years of youth;[AS] which, like a Being made 430 Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill To blend with knowledge of the years to come, Human, or such as lie beyond the grave.

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So was He framed; and such his course of life Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 435 The prized memorial of relinquished toils, Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, The shadows of the breezy elms above 440 Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound Of my approaching steps, and in the shade Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space.[57] At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 445 Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose, And ere our lively greeting into peace Had settled, "'Tis," said I,[58] "a burning day: My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems,[59] Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 450 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out Upon the public way.[60] It was a plot Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 456 Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap[61] The broken wall. I looked around, and there, Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 460 Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench; 465 And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, I yet was standing, freely to respire, And cool my temples in the fanning air, Thus did he speak. "I see around me here Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, 470 Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left.[AT] --The Poets, in their elegies and songs 475 Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,[AU] And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, In these their invocations, with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power 480 Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, That steal upon the meditative mind, And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 485 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up In mortal stillness; and they ministered 490 To human comfort. Stooping down[62] to drink, Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, Green with the moss of years, and subject only To the soft handling of the elements: 495 There let it lie--how foolish are such thoughts! Forgive them;--never--never did my steps Approach this door but she who dwelt within[63] A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,[AV] 500 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a passenger Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken spring; and no one came 505 But he was welcome; no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguished of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandoned to decay, And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 510

"I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. She was a Woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love; Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 515 Of her own thoughts: by some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A Being, who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 520 The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom,[AW] In summer, ere the mower was abroad 525 Among the dewy grass,--in early spring, Ere the last star had vanished.--They who passed At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After his daily work, until the light 530 Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were spent In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven.

"Not twenty years ago, but you I think 535 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war: This happy Land was stricken to the heart! 540 A Wanderer then among the cottages, I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw The hardships of that season: many rich Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor; And of the poor did many cease to be, 545 And their place knew them not.[AX] Meanwhile, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 550 When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,[64] Smitten with perilous fever. In disease He lingered long; and, when his strength returned, He found the little he had stored, to meet The hour of accident or crippling age, 555 Was all consumed. A second infant now Was added to the troubles of a time Laden, for them and all of their degree, With care and sorrow: shoals of artisans From ill-requited labour turned adrift 560 Sought daily bread from public charity,[65] They, and their wives and children--happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks![66] 565 "A sad reverse it was for him who long Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, This lonely Cottage. At the door[67] he stood, And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them;[AY] or with his knife 570 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks-- Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament; and with a strange, Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 575 He mingled,[68] where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was: And poverty brought on a petted mood 580 And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, And he would leave his work--and to the town Would turn without an errand his slack steps;[69] Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585 And with a cruel tongue; at other times He tossed them with a false unnatural joy: And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. 'Every smile,' Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 590 'Made my heart bleed.'" At this the Wanderer paused; And, looking up to those enormous elms, He said, "'Tis now the hour of deepest noon.[AZ] At this still season of repose and peace, This hour when all things which are not at rest 595 Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies With tuneful hum is filling all the air;[70] Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek?[71] Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, And in the weakness of humanity, 600 From natural wisdom turn our hearts away; To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears; And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?"

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