William Wordsworth - The Excursion, Book I ("The Ruined Cottage") lyrics

Ist Part 'Twas summer and the sun was mounted high. Along the south the uplands feebly glared Through a pale steam, and all the northern downs In clearer air ascending shewed far off Their surfaces with shadows dappled o'er Of deep embattled clouds: far as the sight Could reach those many shadows lay in spots Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of clear and pleasant sunshine interposed; Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss Extends his careless limbs beside the root Of some huge oak whose aged branches make A twilight of their own, a dewy shade Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man, Half-conscious of that soothing melody, With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, By those impending branches made more soft, More soft and distant. Other lot was mine. Across a bare wide Common I had toiled With languid feet which by the slipp'ry ground Were baffled still, and when I stretched myself On the brown earth my limbs from very heat Could find no rest nor my weak arm disperse The insect host which gathered round my face And joined their murmurs to the tedious noise Of seeds of bursting gorse that crackled round. I rose and turned towards a group of trees Which midway in that level stood alone, And thither come at length, beneath a shade Of clustering elms that sprang from the same root I found a ruined house, four naked walls That stared upon each other. I looked round And near the door I saw an aged Man, Alone, and stretched upon the cottage bench; An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. With instantaneous joy I recognized That pride of nature and of lowly life, The venerable Armytage, a friend As dear to me as is the setting sun. Two days before We had been fellow-travellers. I knew That he was in this neighbourhood and now Delighted found him here in the cool shade. He lay, his pack of rustic merchandize Pillowing his head—I guess he had no thought Of his way-wandering life. His eyes were shut; The shadows of the breezy elms above Dappled his face. With thirsty heat oppress'd At length I hailed him, glad to see his hat Bedewed with water-drops, as if the brim Had newly scoop'd a running stream. He rose And pointing to a sun-flower bade me climb The [ ] wall where that same gaudy flower Looked out upon the road. It was a plot Of garden-ground, now wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those whom as they pa**'d, The goose-berry trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap The broken wall. Within that cheerless spot, Where two tall hedgerows of thick willow boughs Joined in a damp cold nook, I found a well Half-choked with willow flowers and weeds. I slaked my thirst and to the shady bench Returned, and while I stood unbonneted To catch the motion of the cooler air The old Man said, “I see around me here Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, 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. The Poets in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, And senseless rocks, nor idly; for they speak In these their invocations with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power Of human pa**ion. 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 One sadness, they and 1. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When every day the touch of human hand Disturbed their stillness, and they ministered To human comfort. When I stooped to drink, A spider's web hung to the water's edge, And on the wet and slimy foot-stone lay The useless fragment of a wooden bowl; It moved my very heart. The day has been When I could never pa** this road but she Who lived within these walls, when I appeared, A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her As my own child. O Sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a pa**enger Has blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From the forsaken spring, and no one came But he was welcome, no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The worm is on her cheek, and this poor hut, Stripp'd of its outward garb of houshold flowers, Of rose and sweet-briar, offers to the wind A cold bare wall whose earthy top is tricked With weeds and the rank spear-gra**. She is dead, And nettles rot and adders sun themselves Where we have sate together while she nurs'd Her infant at her breast. The unshod Colt, The wandering heifer and the Potter's a**, Find shelter now within the chimney-wall Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze And through the window spread upon the road Its cheerful light.--You will forgive me, Sir, But often on this cottage do I muse As on a picture, till my wiser mind Sinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief. She had a husband, an industrious man, Sober and steady; I have heard her say That he was up and busy at his loom In summer ere the mower's scythe had swept The dewy gra**, and in the early spring Ere the last star had vanished. They who pa**'d At evening, from behind the garden-fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply After his daily work till the day-light Was gone and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So they pa**'d their days In peace and comfort, and two pretty babes Were their best hope next to the God in Heaven. —You may remember, now some ten years gone, 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: A happy land was stricken to the heart; 'Twas a sad time of sorrow and distress: A wanderer among the cottages, I with my pack of winter raiment saw The hardships of that season: many rich Sunk down as in a dream among the poor, And of the poor did many cease to be, And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridg'd Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With chearful hope: but ere the second autumn A fever seized her husband. 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 Was all consumed. As I have said, 'twas now A time of trouble; shoals of artisans Were from their daily labour turned away To hang for bread on parish charity, They and their wives and children—happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedges or the kite That makes her dwelling in the mountain rocks. Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dwelt In this poor cottage; at his door he stood And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them, or with his knife Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks, Then idly sought about through every nook Of house or garden any casual task Of use or ornament, and with a strange, Amusing but uneasy novelty He blended 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 And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, And he would leave his home, and to the town Without an errand would he turn his steps Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes And with a cruel tongue: at other times He played with them wild freaks of merriment: And 'twas a piteous thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. ‘Every smile,' Said Margaret to me here beneath these trees, ‘Made my heart bleed.'” At this the old Man paus'd And looking up to those enormous elms He said, ‘“Tis now the hour of deepest noon. At this still season of repose and peace, This hour when all things which are not at rest Are chearful, while this multitude of flies Fills all the air with happy melody, Why should a tear be in an old man's eye? Why should we thus with an untoward mind And in the weakness of humanity 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?” End of the first Part Second Part He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: But when he ended there was in his face Such easy chearfulness, a look so mild That for a little time it stole away All recollection, and that simple tale Pa**ed from my mind like a forgotten sound. A while on trivial things we held discourse, To me soon tasteless. In my own despite I thought of that poor woman as of one Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed Her homely tale with such familiar power, With such a[n active] countenance, an eye So busy, that the things of which he spake Seemed present, and, attention now relaxed, There was a heartfelt chillness in my veins. I rose, and turning from that breezy shade Went out into the open air and stood To drink the comfort of the warmer sun. Long time I had not stayed ere, looking round Upon that tranquil ruin, I returned And begged of the old man that for my sake He would resume his story. He replied, “It were a wantonness and would demand Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts Could hold vain dalliance with the misery Even of the dead, contented thence to draw A momentary pleasure never marked By reason, barren of all future good. But we have known that there is often found In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, A power to virtue friendly; were't not so, I am a dreamer among men, indeed An idle dreamer. 'Tis a common tale, By moving accidents uncharactered, A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed In bodily form, and to the grosser sense But ill adapted, scarcely palpable To him who does not think. But at your bidding I will proceed. While thus it fared with them To whom this cottage till that hapless year Had been a blessed home, it was my chance To travel in a country far remote. And glad I was when, halting by yon gate That leads from the green lane, again I saw These lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest: With many pleasant thoughts I cheer'd my way O'er the flat common. At the door arrived, I knocked, and when I entered with the hope Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me A little while, then turned her head away Speechless, and sitting down upon a chair Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do Or how to speak to her. Poor wretch! at last She rose from off her seat—and then, oh Sir! I cannot tell how she pronounced my name: With fervent love, and with a face of grief Unutterably helpless, and a look That seem'd to cling upon me, she enquir'd If I had seen her husband. As she spake A strange surprize and fear came to my heart, Nor had I power to answer ere she told That he had disappeared—just two months gone. He left his house; two wretched days had pa**ed, And on the third by the first break of light, Within her casement full in view she saw A purse of gold. ‘I trembled at the sight,' Said Margaret, ‘for I knew it was his hand That placed it there, and on that very day By one, a stranger, from my husband sent, The tidings came that he had joined a troop Of soldiers going to a distant land. He left me thus—Poor Man! he had not heart To take a farewell of me, and he feared That I should follow with my babes, and sink Beneath the misery of a soldier's life.' This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And when she ended I had little power To give her comfort, and was glad to take Such words of hope from her own mouth as serv'd To cheer us both: but long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around As if she had been shedding tears of joy. We parted. It was then the early spring; I left her busy with her garden tools; And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, And while I paced along the foot-way path Called out, and sent a blessing after me With tender chearfulness and with a voice That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale With this my weary load, in heat and cold, Through many a wood, and many an open ground, In sunshine or in shade, in wet or fair, Now blithe, now drooping, as it might befal, My best companions now the driving winds And now the ‘trotting brooks' and whispering trees And now the music of my own sad steps, With many a short-lived thought that pa**'d between And disappeared. I came this way again Towards the wane of summer, when the wheat Was yellow, and the soft and bladed gra** Sprang up afresh and o'er the hay-field spread Its tender green. When I had reached the door I found that she was absent. In the shade Where now we sit I waited her return. Her cottage in its outward look appeared As chearful as before; in any shew Of neatness little changed, but that I thought The honeys**le crowded round the door And from the wall hung down in heavier wreathes, And knots of worthless stone-crop started out Along the window's edge, and grew like weeds Against the lower panes. I turned aside And stroll'd into her garden.— It was chang'd: The unprofitable bindweed spread his bells From side to side and with unwieldy wreaths Had dragg'd the rose from its sustaining wall And bent it down to earth; the border-tufts— Daisy and thrift and lowly camomile And thyme—had straggled out into the paths Which they were used to deck. Ere this an hour Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps, And as I walked before the door it chanced A stranger pa**ed, and guessing whom I sought He said that she was used to ramble far. The sun was sinking in the west, and now I sate with sad impatience. From within Her solitary infant cried aloud. The spot though fair seemed very desolate, The longer I remained more desolate. And, looking round, I saw the corner-stones, Till then unmark'd, on either side the door With dull red stains discoloured and stuck o'er With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep That feed upon the commons thither came Familiarly and found a couching-place Even at her threshold.—The house-clock struck eight; I turned and saw her distant a few steps. Her face was pale and thin, her figure too Was chang'd. As she unlocked the door she said, ‘It grieves me you have waited here so long, But in good truth I've wandered much of late And sometimes, to my shame I speak, have need Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' While on the board she spread our evening meal She told me she had lost her elder child, That he for months had been a serving-boy Apprenticed by the parish. ‘I perceive You look at me, and you have cause. Today I have been travelling far, and many days About the fields I wander, knowing this Only, that what I seek I cannot find. And so I waste my time: for I am changed; And to myself,' said she, ‘have done much wrong, And to this helpless infant. I have slept Weeping, and weeping I have waked; my tears Have flow'd as if my body were not such As others are, and I could never die. But I am now in mind and in my heart More easy, and I hope,' said she, ‘that heaven Will give me patience to endure the things Which I behold at home.' It would have grieved Your very heart to see her. Sir, I feel The story linger in my heart. I fear 'Tis long and tedious, but my spirit clings To that poor woman: so familiarly Do I perceive her manner, and her look And presence, and so deeply do I feel Her goodness, that not seldom in my walks A momentary trance comes over me; And to myself I seem to muse on one By sorrow laid asleep or borne away, A human being destined to awake To human life, or something very near To human life, when he shall come again For whom she suffered. Sir, it would have griev'd Your very soul to see her: evermore Her eye-lids droop'd, her eyes were downward cast; And when she at her table gave me food She did not look at me. Her voice was low, Hey body was subdued. In every act Pertaining to her house-affairs appeared The careless stillness which a thinking mind Gives to an idle matter—still she sighed, But yet no motion of the breast was seen, No heaving of the heart. While by the fire We sate together, sighs came on my ear; I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then With the best hope and comfort I could give; She thanked me for my will, but for my hope It seemed she did not thank me. I returned And took my rounds along this road again Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower Had chronicled the earliest day of spring. I found her sad and drooping; she had learn'd No tidings of her husband: if he lived She knew not that he lived; if he were dead She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same In person [ ] appearance, but her house Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence; The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless [ ], The windows too were dim, and her few books, Which, one upon the other, heretofore Had been piled up against the corner-panes In seemly order, now with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe Had from its mother caught the trick of grief And sighed among its playthings. Once again I turned towards the garden-gate and saw More plainly still that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: the earth was hard, With weeds defaced and knots of withered gra**; No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled on the earth; a chain of straw Which had been twisted round the tender stem Of a young apple-tree lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And seeing that my eye was on the tree She said, ‘I fear it will be dead and gone Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house Together we returned, and she inquired If I had any hope. But for her Babe And for her little friendless Boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place. His sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail, his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when I pa**ed this way beaten by Autumn winds She told me that her little babe was dead And she was left alone. That very time, I yet remember, through the miry lane She walked with me a mile, when the bare trees Trickled with foggy damps, and in such sort That any heart had ached to hear her begg'd That wheresoe'er I went I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then, Our final parting, for from that time forth Did many seasons pa** ere I returned Into this tract again.Five tedious years She lingered in unquiet widowhood, A wife and widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting. I have heard, my friend, That in that broken arbour she would sit The idle length of half a sabbath day— There, where you see the toadstool's lazy head— And when a dog pa**ed by she still would quit The shade and look abroad. On this old Bench For hours she sate, and evermore her eye Was busy in the distance, shaping things Which made her heart beat quick. Seest thou that path? (The green-sward now has broken its grey line) There to and fro she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of flax That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps.— Yet ever as there pa**ed A man whose garments shewed the Soldier's red, Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb, The little child who sate to turn the wheel Ceased from his toil, and she with faltering voice, Expecting still to learn her husband's fate, Made many a fond inquiry; and when they Whose presence gave no comfort were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate Which bars the traveller's road she often stood And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully, Most happy if from aught discovered there Of tender feeling she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut Sunk to decay, for he was gone whose hand At the first nippings of October frost Closed up each chink and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived Through the long winter, reckless and alone, Till this reft house by frost, and thaw, and rain Was sapped; and when she slept the nightly damps Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence; and still that length of road And this rude bench one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart, and here, my friend, In sickness she remained, and here she died, Last human tenant of these ruined walls.” The old Man ceased: he saw that I was mov'd; From that low Bench, rising instinctively, I turned aside in weakness, nor had power To thank him for the tale which he had told. I stood, and leaning o'er the garden-gate Reviewed that Woman's suff'rings, and it seemed To comfort me while with a brother's love I blessed her in the impotence of grief. At length upon the hut I fix'd my eyes Fondly, and traced with milder interest That secret spirit of humanity Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies Of nature, 'mid her plants, her weeds, and flowers, And silent overgrowings, still survived. The old man, seeing this, resumed and said, “My Friend, enough to sorrow have you given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more; Be wise and chearful, and no longer read The forms of things with an unworthy eye. She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-gra** on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops silver'd o'er, As once I pa**ed did to my heart convey So still an image of tranquillity, So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair From ruin and from change, and all the grief The pa**ing shews of being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream that could not live Where meditation was. I turned away And walked along my road in happiness.” He ceased. By this the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance which began To fall upon us where beneath the trees We sate on that low bench, and now we felt, Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. The old man rose and hoisted up his load. Together casting then a farewell look Upon those silent walls, we left the shade And ere the stars were visible attained A rustic inn, our evening resting-place. The End