Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness
His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress
His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried "Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish-forgive me, but forgive!"
To tell the change that voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still, while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content."
She slept in peace,-his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face, then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look.
His ears were never silent; sleep forsook
His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;
All night from time to time under him shook
The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;
And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"
The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot;
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care
Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air
A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,
He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.
Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:
"O welcome sentence which will end though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"
His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:-no one on his form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance,
When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.
Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect.
[Begun 1787.-Completed 1795.-Published 1798.]
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.-He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude. Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sandpiper: And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, When nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those Beings to whose minds Warm from the labours of benevolence
The world, and human life, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness; then he would sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died, this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR.
[Composed 1797.-Published 1800.]
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road May thence remount at ease. The aged Man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; And scanned them with a fixed and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, That, still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand his alms upon the ground, But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still, when he has given his horse the rein, Watches the aged Beggar with a look Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned The old man does not change his course, the boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips or anger at his heart.
He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road,—in the same line,
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