The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth Volume I Part 42

Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 120 Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain 125 Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? [4]

XV

Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, [5] through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 130 From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. 135

XVI

No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom; 140 No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.

XVII

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145 The downs were visible--and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose.

It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150 From the night terrors of that waste to s.h.i.+eld: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain.

XVIII

Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155 Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place.

Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160 In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close;

XIX

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room 165 Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed.

He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170 Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers a.s.sail;

XX

Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175 Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 180

XXI

Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned, And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound.

Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; 185 Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake.

XXII

But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190 Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its _rage_ was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. 195 And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.

[6]

XXIII

"By Derwent's side my father dwelt--a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; [7] 200 And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; 205 For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

XXIV [8]

"A little croft we owned--a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 210 Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime.

Can I forget our freaks at shearing time!

My hen's rich nest through long gra.s.s scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride 215 Rus.h.i.+ng and racing came to meet me at the water-side! [9]

XXV

"The staff I well [10] remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where [11] the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220 When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; [12]

The red-breast, known for years, which at my cas.e.m.e.nt pecked. 225

XXVI

"The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 230 When Fortune might [13] put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons [14] came;--our final leave we took. [15]

[16]

XXVII

"It was indeed a miserable hour [17] 235 When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made!

Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: 240 Bidding me trust in G.o.d, he stood and prayed;-- I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! [18]

XXVIII

"There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 245 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song [19]

We two had sung, like gladsome birds [20] in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; 250 And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another.

XXIX

"Two years were pa.s.sed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: [21]

What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 255 What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!

To him we turned:--we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; 260 And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

x.x.x

"We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. [22]

Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; [23]

And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265 And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war [24] reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide [25]

The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that [26] flowed for ills which patience might [27] 270 not heal.

x.x.xI