It were your lot to dwell, would soon become
Your prized Companions. — Many are the notes
Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores;
And well those lofty Brethren bear their part
chiefly when the storm
Rides high; then all the upper air they fill
With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow,
Like smoke, along the level of the blast,
In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song
Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails;
And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon,
Methinks that I have heard them echo back
The thunder's greeting:- nor have Nature's laws
Left them ungifted with a power to yield
Music of finer tone; a harmony,
So do I call it, though it be the hand
Of silence, though there be no voice;- the clouds,
The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns,
Motions of moonlight, all come thither — touch,
And have an answer thither come, and shape
A language not unwelcome to sick hearts
And idle spirits: - there the sun himself,
At the calm close of summer's longest day,
Rests his substantial Orb; - between those heights
And on the top of either pinnacle,
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Sparkle the Stars, as of their station proud. Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man
Than the mute Agents stirring there: - alone
Here do I sit and watch.
Regretted like the Nightingale's last note, Had scarcely closed this high-wrought Rhapsody, Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said, "Now for the Tale with which you threaten'd us!" "In truth the threat escaped me unawares; Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand For my excuse. Dissever'd from mankind,
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seem'd
When ye look'd down upon us from the crag,
Islanders of a stormy mountain sea,
We are not so ;- perpetually we touch
Upon the vulgar ordinance of the world,
And he, whom this our Cottage hath to-day
Relinquish'd, lived dependent for his bread
Upon the laws of public charity.
The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains
As might from that occasion be distill'd,
Open'd, as she before had done for me,
Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner;
The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare
Which appetite required a blind dull nook
Such as she had. the kennel of his rest!
This, in itself not ill, would yet have been
Ill borne in earlier life, but his was now
The still contentedness of seventy years.
Calm did he sit beneath the wide-spread tree
Of his old age; and yet less calm and meek,
Winningly meek or venerably calm,
Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise
A penalty, if penalty it were,
For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime.
I loved the Old Man, for I pitied him!
A task it was, I own, to hold discourse
With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts,
But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes;
Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way,
And helpful to his utmost power: and there
Our Housewife knew full well what she possess'd!
He was her Vassal of all labour, till'd
Her garden, from the pasture fetch'd her Kine;
And, one among the orderly array
Of Hay-makers, beneath the burning sun
Maintain'd his place; or heedfully pursued
His course, on errands bound, to other vales,
Leading sometimes an inexperienced Child,
Too young for any profitable task.
So moved he like a Shadow that perform'd
Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn
For what reward! The Moon her monthly round
Hath not completed since our Dame, the Queen
Of this one cottage and this lonely dale,
Into my little sanctuary rush'd
Voice to a rueful treble humanized,
And features in deplorable dismay.—
I treat the matter lightly, but, alas!
It is most serious: persevering rain
Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain tops
Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides;
This had I seen and saw; but, till she spake,
Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend,
Who at her bidding, early and alone,
Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf
For winter fuel, to his noontide meal
Return'd not, and now, haply, on the Heights
Lay at the mercy of this raging storm.
“Inhuman!” said I, "was an Old Man's life
Not worth the trouble of a thought? - alas!
This notice comes too late." With joy I saw
We sallied forth together; found the tools
Which the neglected Veteran had dropp'd,
But through all quarters look'd for him in vain.
We shouted but no answer! Darkness fell
Without remission of the blast or shower,
And fears for our own safety drove us home.
I, who weep little, did, I will confess,
The moment I was seated here alone,
Honour my little Cell with some few tears
Which anger and resentment could not dry.
All night the storm endured; and, soon as help
Had been collected from the neighbouring Vale,
With morning we renew'd our quest: the wind
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills
Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist;
And long and hopelessly we sought in vain.
Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass
A heap of ruin, almost without walls,
And wholly without roof, (the bleach'd remains
Of a small Chapel, where, in ancient time,
The Peasants of these lonely valleys used
To meet for worship on that central height) —
We there espied the Object of our search,
Lying full three parts buried among tufts
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