LX
Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;
Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.
Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;
Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.
Wordsworth - 1
Pallid with dismay 475
The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast;
And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.
LIV
His voice with indignation rising high
Such further deed in manhood's name forbade;
The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480
With bitter insult and revilings sad;
Asked him in scorn what business there he had;
What kind of plunder he was hunting now;
The gallows would one day of him be glad;--
Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485
Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.
LV
Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched
With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round
His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched
As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- 490
Strange repetition of the deadly wound
He had himself inflicted. Through his brain
At once the griding iron passage found; [D]
Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495
LVI
Within himself he said--What hearts have we!
The blessing this a father gives his child!
Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,
Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild.
The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500
The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;
He kissed his son--so all was reconciled.
Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke
Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.
LVII
"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505
Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece;
Much need have ye that time more closely draw
The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,
And that among so few there still be peace:
Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510
Your pains shall ever with your years increase? "--
While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.
LVIII
Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look
Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515
Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook,
That babbled on through groves and meadows green;
A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between;
The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays,
And melancholy lowings intervene 520
Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,
Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.
LIX
They saw and heard, and, winding with the road
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;
Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525
Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale.
Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale:
It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread,
The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail,
And lustily the master carved the bread, 530
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.
LX
Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;
Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.
She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535
She left him there; for, clustering round his knees,
With his oak-staff the cottage children played;
And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees
And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade
Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540
LXI
A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;
Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.
She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood
As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one,
A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545
The carman wet her lips as well behoved;
Bed under her lean body there was none,
Though even to die near one she most had loved
She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.
LXII
The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 550
And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,
Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain
The jolting road and morning air severe.
The wain pursued its way; and following near
In pure compassion she her steps retraced 555
Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here,"
She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste
The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.
LXIII
While to the door with eager speed they ran,
From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 560
Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan;
No pity asking, on the group she gazed
With a dim eye, distracted and amazed;
Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan.
Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised, 565
I have a house that I can call my own;
Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone! "
LXIV
So in they bear her to the chimney seat,
And busily, though yet with fear, untie
Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570
And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.
Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh
She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear;
Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die,
The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; 575
Till now I did not think my end had been so near.
LXV
"Barred every comfort labour could procure,
Suffering what no endurance could assuage,
I was compelled to seek my father's door,
Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580
But sickness stopped me in an early stage
Of my sad journey; and within the wain
They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage,
Unless beneath your roof I may remain:
For I shall never see my father's door again. 585
LXVI
"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;
But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek
May my end be!
The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast;
And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.
LIV
His voice with indignation rising high
Such further deed in manhood's name forbade;
The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480
With bitter insult and revilings sad;
Asked him in scorn what business there he had;
What kind of plunder he was hunting now;
The gallows would one day of him be glad;--
Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485
Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.
LV
Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched
With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round
His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched
As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- 490
Strange repetition of the deadly wound
He had himself inflicted. Through his brain
At once the griding iron passage found; [D]
Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495
LVI
Within himself he said--What hearts have we!
The blessing this a father gives his child!
Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,
Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild.
The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500
The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;
He kissed his son--so all was reconciled.
Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke
Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.
LVII
"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505
Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece;
Much need have ye that time more closely draw
The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,
And that among so few there still be peace:
Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510
Your pains shall ever with your years increase? "--
While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.
LVIII
Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look
Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515
Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook,
That babbled on through groves and meadows green;
A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between;
The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays,
And melancholy lowings intervene 520
Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,
Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.
LIX
They saw and heard, and, winding with the road
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;
Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525
Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale.
Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale:
It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread,
The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail,
And lustily the master carved the bread, 530
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.
LX
Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;
Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.
She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535
She left him there; for, clustering round his knees,
With his oak-staff the cottage children played;
And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees
And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade
Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540
LXI
A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;
Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.
She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood
As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one,
A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545
The carman wet her lips as well behoved;
Bed under her lean body there was none,
Though even to die near one she most had loved
She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.
LXII
The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 550
And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,
Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain
The jolting road and morning air severe.
The wain pursued its way; and following near
In pure compassion she her steps retraced 555
Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here,"
She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste
The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.
LXIII
While to the door with eager speed they ran,
From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 560
Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan;
No pity asking, on the group she gazed
With a dim eye, distracted and amazed;
Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan.
Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised, 565
I have a house that I can call my own;
Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone! "
LXIV
So in they bear her to the chimney seat,
And busily, though yet with fear, untie
Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570
And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.
Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh
She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear;
Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die,
The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; 575
Till now I did not think my end had been so near.
LXV
"Barred every comfort labour could procure,
Suffering what no endurance could assuage,
I was compelled to seek my father's door,
Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580
But sickness stopped me in an early stage
Of my sad journey; and within the wain
They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage,
Unless beneath your roof I may remain:
For I shall never see my father's door again. 585
LXVI
"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;
But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek
May my end be!
