THE Vicar paused; and toward a seat advanced,
A long stone-seat, fix'd in the Church-yard wall;
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part
Offering a sunny resting-place to them
Who seek the House of worship, while the bells
Yet ring with all their voices, or before
The last hath ceased its solitary knoll.
Beneath the shade we all sate down; and there
His office, uninvited, he resumed.
"As on a sunny bank a tender lamb
Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March,
Screen'd by its parent, so that little mound
Lies guarded by its neighbour; the small heap
Speaks for itself; an Infant there doth rest;
The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave.
If mild discourse, and manners that conferr'd
A natural diguity on humblest rank;
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks,
That for a face not beautiful did more
Than beauty for the fairest face can do;
And if religious tenderness of heart,
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears
Shed when the clouds had gather'd and distain'd
The spotless ether of a maiden life;
If these may make a hallow'd spot of earth
More holy in the sight of God or Man;
Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood
Till the stars sicken at the day of doom.
Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless man,
Could field or grove, could any spot of earth,
Show to his eye an image of the pangs
Which it hath witness'd; render back an echo
Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave,
And on the very turf that roofs her own,
The Mother oft was seen to stand or kneel
In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene.
Now she is not; the swelling turf reports
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears
Is silent; nor is any vestige left
Of the path worn by mournful tread of her
7 The story that follows was told Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister, by the sister of this unhappy young woman. Every particular was exactly as I have related. The party was not known to me, though she lived at Hawkshead; but it was after I left school. The clergyman who administered comfort to her I knew well. Her sister, who told the story, was the wife of a leading yeoman in the vale of Grasmere; and they were an affectionate pair, and greatly respected by every one who knew them.-Author's Notes, 1843.
Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved
In virgin fearlessness, with step that seem'd
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf
Upon the mountains gemm'd with morning dew,
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs.
Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet,
By reconcilement exquisite and rare,
The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl
Were such as might have quicken'd and inspired
A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth
Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade
What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard
Startling the golden hills.
A wide-spread elm
Stands in our valley, named THE JOYFUL TREE;
From dateless usage which our peasants hold
Of giving welcome to the first of May
By dances round its trunk. And if the sky
Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid
To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars
Or the clear Moon. The queen of these gay sports,
If not in beauty yet in sprightly air,
Was hapless Ellen. No one touch'd the ground
So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks
Less gracefully were braided;- but this praise,
Methinks, would better suit another place.
She loved, and fondly deem'd herself beloved.-
The road is dim, the current unperceived,
The weakness painful and most pitiful,
By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth,
May be deliver'd to distress and shame.
Such fate was hers. The last time Ellen danced,
Among her equals, round THE JOYFUL TREE,
She bore a secret burthen; and full soon
Was left to tremble for a breaking vow,
Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow,
Alone, within her widow'd Mother's house.
It was the season of unfolding leaves,
Of days advancing toward their utmost length,
And small birds singing happily to mates
Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power
Winds pipe through fading woods; but those blithe notes
Strike the deserted to the heart: I speak
Of what I know, and what we feel within.
Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt
Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig
A thrush resorts, and annually chants,
At morn and evening from that naked perch,
While all the undergrove is thick with leaves,
A time-beguiling ditty, for delight
Of his fond partner, silent in the nest.
'Ah, why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself,
'Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge;
And nature that is kind in woman's breast,
And reason that in man is wise and good,
And fear of Him who is a righteous judge;
Why do not these prevail for human life,
To keep two hearts together, that began
Their spring-time with one love, and that have need
Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet
To grant, or be received; while that poor bird, —
O, come and hear him! thou who hast to me
Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature,
One of God's simple children that yet know not
The universal Parent, how he sings
As if he wish'd the firmament of heaven
Should listen, and give back to him the voice
Of his triumphant constancy and love;
The proclamation that he makes, how far
His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!'
Such was the tender passage, not by me
Repeated without loss of simple phrase,
Which I perused, even as the words had been
Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand
To the blank margin of a Valentine,
Bedropp'd with tears. "Twill please you to be told
That, studiously withdrawing from the eye
Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet
In lonely reading found a meek resource:
How thankful for the warmth of summer days,
When she could slip into the cottage-barn,
And find a secret oratory there;
Or, in the garden, under friendly veil
Of their long twilight, pore upon her book
By the last lingering help of th' open sky
Until dark night dismiss'd her to her bed!
Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose
Th' unconquerable pang of despised love.
A kindlier passion open'd on her soul
When that poor Child was born. Upon its face
She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift
Of unexpected promise, where a grief
Or dread was all that had been thought of,-joy
Far livelier than bewilder'd traveller feels,
Amid a perilous waste that all night long
Hath harass'd him toiling through fearful storm,
When he beholds the first pale speck serene
Of day-spring in the gloomy East reveal'd,
And greets it with thanksgiving. Till this hour,'
Thus, in her Mother's hearing, Ellen spake,
"There was a stony region in my heart;
But He at whose command the parched rock
Was smitten, and pour'd forth a quenching stream,
Hath soften'd that obdúracy, and made
Unlook'd-for gladness in the desert place,
To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I breathe
The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake,
My Infant and for that good Mother dear
Who bore me; and hath pray'd for me in vain ;-
Yet not in vain; it shall not be in vain.'
She spake, nor was th' assurance unfulfill'd;
And, if heart-rending thoughts would oft return,
They stay'd not long. The blameless Infant grew;
The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved
They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed;
A soothing comforter, although forlorn; .
Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands;
Or a choice shrub, which he who passes by
With vacant mind not seldom may observe
Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house,
Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns.
Through four months' space the Infant drew its food From the maternal breast; then scruples rose;
Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and cross'd The fond affection. She no more could bear
By her offence to lay a twofold weight
On a kind parent willing to forget
Their slender means: so, to that parent's care
Trusting her child, she left their common home,
And undertook with dutiful content
A Foster-mother's office.
Unknown to you that in these simple vales
The natural feeling of equality
Is by domestic service unimpair'd;
Yet, though such service be, with us, removed
From sense of degradation, not the less
Th' ungentle mind can easily find means
To impose severe restraints and laws unjust,
Which hapless Ellen now was doom'd to feel:
For (blinded by an over-anxious dread
Of such excitement and divided thought
As with her office would but ill accord)
The pair whose infant she was bound to nurse
Forbade her all communion with her own:
Week after week the mandate they enforced..
So near! yet not allow'd upon that sight
To fix her eyes,
alas! 'twas hard to bear!
But worse affliction must be borne, far worse;
For 'tis Heaven's will that, after a disease
Begun and ended within three days' space,
Her child should die; as Ellen now exclaim'd,
Her own-deserted child! Once, only once,
She saw it in that mortal malady;
And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain
Permission to attend its obsequies.
She reach'd the house, last of the funeral train;
And some one, as she enter'd, having chanced
To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure,
"Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit
Of anger never seen in her before,
'Nay, ye must wait my time!' and down she sate,
And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat
Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping,
Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child,
Until at length her soul was satisfied.
You see the Infant's Grave; and to this spot,
The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad,
On whatsoever errand, urged her steps:
Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt
In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene!
So call her; for not only she bewail'd
A mother's loss, but mourn'd in bitterness
Her own transgression; penitent sincere
As ever raised to Heaven a streaming eye!-
At length the parents of the foster-child,
Noting that in despite of their commands
She still renew'd and could not but renew
Those visitations, ceased to send her forth;
Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined.
I fail'd not to remind them that they err'd;
For holy Nature might not thus be cross'd,
Thus wrong'd in woman's breast: in vain I pleaded,-
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapp'd,
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