The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth

<< THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live
A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise,
Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,

Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves.» To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sate
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage,-as it chanced, that day,
Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone
His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,

Of caves and trees:-and, when the regular wind Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail,

And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line

Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;

And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam
Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,

Saw mountains,-saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country grey
Which he himself had worn. I

And now at last
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is return'd,
With a determined purpose to resume
The life he had lived there; both for the sake
Of many darling pleasures, and the love

While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire, Which to an only brother he has borne

He fed the spindle of his youngest Child,

Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air

With back and forward steps.

Towards the field

In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Or carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path
That from his cottage to the church-yard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost

The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'T was one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad;—who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters, -with the mariners A fellow-mariner, and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds

1 This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with which the poem begins.

In all his hardships, since that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother Shepherds on their native hills.
-They were the last of all their race:
and now,
When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart
Fail'd in him; and, not venturing to inquire
Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,
Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside;
That, as he knew in what particular spot
His family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his Brother lived, or to the file
Another grave was added.-He had found
Another grave,-near which a full half-hour
He had remain'd; but, as he gazed, there Grew
Such a confusion in his memory,

That he began to doubt; and he had hopes
That he had seen this heap of turf before,—
That it was not another grave; but one
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd

Through fields which once had been well known to him:
And oh what joy the recollection now
Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes,
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,
And everlasting hills themselves were changed.

This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr Gilbert, author of The Hurricane.

By this the Priest, who down the field had come
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate
Stopp'd short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
Perused him with a gay complacency.

Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,

T is one of those who needs must leave the path
Of the world's business to go wild alone:
His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy Man will creep about the fields,
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles,
Into his face, until the setting sun

Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus
Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate

Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd,
The good Man might have communed with himself,
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
Approach'd; he recognised the Priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one

Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

LEONARD.

You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:

Your years make up one peaceful family;

And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
They cannot be remember'd? Scarce a funeral
Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months;
And yet, some changes must take place among you:
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks
Can trace the finger of mortality,

And see, that with our threescore years and ten
We are not all that perish.——I remember,
(For many years ago I pass'd this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side—'t is gone—and that dark cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Which then it had.

Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
That does not play you false.—On that tall pike
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
There were two Springs which bubbled side by side,
As if they had been made that they might be
Companions for each other: the huge crag
Was rent with lightning-one hath disappear'd;
The other, left behind, is flowing still. '——
For accidents and changes such as these,
We want not store of them;-a water-spout
Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
For folks that wander up and down like you,
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
One roaring cataract!—a sharp May-storm
Will come with loads of January snow,
And in one night send twenty score of sheep
To feed the ravens; or a Shepherd dies
By some untoward death among the rocks:
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge-

A wood is fell'd:- and then for our own homes!
A Child is born or christen'd, a Field plough'd,
A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun,
The old House-clock is deck'd with a new face;
And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
To chronicle the time, we all have here

A pair of diaries,-one serving, Sir,

For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side-
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for Historians,
Commend me to these valleys!

Why, there, Sir, is a thought that 's new to me!
The Stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their bread
If every English Church-yard were like ours;
Yet
your conclusion wanders from the truth:
We have no need of names and epitaphs;
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.
And then, for our immortal part! we want
No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale :
The thought of death sits easy on the man
Who has been born and dies among the mountains.

LEONARD.

Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, Sir, could help me to the history
Of half these Graves?

PRIEST.

For eight-score winters past,
With what I've witness'd, and with what I 've heard,
Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening,

If you were seated at my chimney's nook,
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.
Now there's a grave-your foot is half upon it,-
It looks just like the rest; and yet that Man
Died broken-hearted.

LEONARD.

"T is a common case.
We'll take another: who is he that lies
Beneath you ridge, the last of those three graves?
It touches on that piece of native rock
Left in the church-yard wall.

PRIEST.

That's Walter Ewbank.
He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
As ever were produced by youth and age
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
Through five long generations had the heart
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds
Of their inheritance, that single cottage-
You see it yonder!—and those few green fields.
They toil'd and wrought, and still, from Sire to Son,
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little-yet a little-and old Walter,

This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of They left to him the family heart, and land

Hawes-water.

With other burthens than the crop it bore.

Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
And went into his grave before his time.
Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurr'd him
God only knows, but to the very last
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
His pace was never that of an old man :
I almost see him tripping down the path
With his two Grandsons after him:-but You,
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,
Have far to travel,-and on these rough paths
Even in the longest day of midsummer-

But those two Orphans!

LEONARD.

PRIEST.

Orphans!-Such they were-
Yet not while Walter lived:-for, though their parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
The old Man was a father to the boys,
Two fathers in one father; and if tears,

Shed when he talk'd of them where they were not,
And hauntings from the infirmity of love,
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
This old Man, in the day of his old age,
Was half a mother to them.-If you weep, Sir,
To hear a Stranger talking about Strangers,
Heaven bless you when you are among your
Ay-You may turn that way-it is a grave
Which will bear looking at.

LEONARD.

kindred!

These Boys-I hope They loved this good old Man?—

PRIEST.

The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep these boys away from church,
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.
Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner

Among these rocks, and every hollow place
Where foot could come, to one or both of them
Was known as well as to the flowers that
grow there.
Like Roc-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
They play'd like two young Ravens on the crags :
Then they could write, ay and speak too, as
well
As many of their betters-and for Leonard!
The very night before he went away,
In my own house I put into his hand
A Bible, and I'd wager house and field
That, if he is alive, he has it yet.

LEONARD.

It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other?-

PRIEST.

That they might

Live to such end, is what both old and young
In this our valley all of us have wish'd,
And what, for my part, I have often pray'd:
But Leonard-

LEONARD.

Then James still is left among you?

PRIEST.

'Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking:
They had an Uncle; -he was at that time
A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas:
And, but for that same Uncle, to this hour
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.
For the Boy loved the life which we lead here;
They did and truly: And though of unripe years, a stripling only,
His soul was knit to this his native soil.
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
The Estate and House were sold; and all their Sheep,
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years :-
Well-all was gone, and they were destitute.
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.

But that was what we almost overlook'd,
They were such darlings of each other. For,
Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter,
The only Kinsman near them, and though he
Inclined to them by reason of his
age,
With a more fond, familiar tenderness,
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
And it all went into each other's hearts.
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
Was two years taller: 't was a joy to see,

To hear, to meet them!-From their house the School
Is distant three short miles-and in the time
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,

Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps
Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords,
Bearing his Brother on his back. I've seen him,
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,
Ay, more than once I've seen him mid-leg deep,
Their two books lying both on a dry stone
Upon the hither side and once I said,
As I remember, looking round these rocks
And hills on which we all of us were born,
That God who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety-

LEONARD.

It may be then

PRIEST.

Never did worthier lads break English bread;

Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.
If there were one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
From the great Gavel, down by Leeza's Banks,
And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
The day would be a very festival;
And those two bells of ours, which there you see-
Hanging in the open air-but, O good Sir!
This is sad talk-they 'll never sound for him-
Living or dead.-When last we heard of him,
He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary Coast.-'T was not a little
That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,
Before it ended in his death, the Youth
Was sadly cross'd-Poor Leonard! when we parted,

The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale,

The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

Stolen from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined-He could not come to an unhallow'd end!

LEONARD.

But these are all the graves of full-grown men !

PRIEST.

Ay, Sir, that pass'd away we took him to us;
He was the Child of all the dale-he lived
Three months with one, and six months with another;
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:
And many, many happy days were his.
But whether blithe or sad, 't is my belief
His absent Brother still was at his heart.
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found
(A practice till this time unknown to him)
That often, rising from his bed at night,

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
He sought his Brother Leonard.-You are moved!
Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.

(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs,
With two or three Companions, whom their course
Of occupation led from height to height
Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length,
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge
The humour of the moment, lagg'd behind.
You see yon precipice;-it wears the shape
Of a vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our shepherds it is call'd THE PILLAR.
Upon its aëry summit crown'd with heath,
The Loiterer, not unnoticed by his Comrades,
Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place
On their return, they found that he was gone.
No ill was fear'd; but one of them by chance
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house

PRIEST.

Nay, God forbid!-You recollect I mention'd
A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
Upon the grass,—and waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice
Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen headlong.
And so, no doubt, he perish'd: at the time,
We guess, that in his hands he must have held
His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff
It had been caught; and there for many years
It hung-and moulder'd there.

The Priest here ended—
The Stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away
The power
of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
And Leonard, when they reach'd the church-yard gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round,—
And, looking at the grave, he said, « My Brother!>>
The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated
That Leonard would partake his homely fare :
The other thank'd him with a fervent voice;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove
That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd
All that the Priest had said: his early years
Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All press'd on him with such a weight, that now,
This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd
A place in which he could not bear to live:
So he relinquish'd all his purposes.
He travell'd on to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
Reminding him of what had pass'd between them;

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The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth: Complete in One Volume