The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth Volume I Part 44

And other joys my fancy to allure-- The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 410 In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June [59]

Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

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"But ill they suited me--those journeys dark [60] 415 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch!

To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch.

The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match.

The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 420 And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.

XLVIII

"What could I do, unaided and unblest?

My [61] father! gone was every friend of thine: 425 And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline.

Nor was I [62] then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; 430 In open air forgetful would I sit [63]

Whole hours, with [64] idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

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"The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, [65] 435 Now coldly given, now utterly refused.

The ground [66] I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Forgone the home delight of constant truth, 440 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

L

"Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend [67]

Where my poor heart lost all its fort.i.tude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend--[68] 445 Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend Have I."--She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 450

LI

True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks--for pondering he was mute the while.

Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 455 'Twas not for _him_ to speak--a man so tried.

Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.

LII

Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, 460 Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle,--but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; 465 They paused, and heard a hoa.r.s.er voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement.

LIII

A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay 470 Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay 475 The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.

LIV

His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in pa.s.sion, made reply 480 With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;-- Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485 Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.

LV

Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- 490 Strange repet.i.tion of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron pa.s.sage found; [D]

Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495

LVI

Within himself he said--What hearts have we!

The blessing this a father gives his child!

Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild.

The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500 The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son--so all was reconciled.

Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.

LVII

"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505 Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510 Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"-- While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.

LVIII

Forthwith the pair pa.s.sed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515 Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene 520 Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.

LIX

They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525 Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale.

Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her br.i.m.m.i.n.g pail, And l.u.s.tily the master carved the bread, 530 Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.

LX

Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.

She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535 She left him there; for, cl.u.s.tering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540

LXI

A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.

She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545 The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.

LXII