Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

The Ruined Cottage

'TWAS summer, and the sun had mounted high:Southward the landscape indistinctly glaredThrough a pale steam; but all the northern downs,In clearest air ascending, showed far offTheir surfaces with shadows dappled o'er 5Of deep embattled clouds. Far as the sightCould reach those many shadows lay in spotsDetermined and unmoved, with steady beamsOf clear and pleasant sunshine interposed;Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 10Extends his careless limbs beside the rootOf some huge oak whose aged branches makeA twilight of their own, a dewy shadeWhere the wren warbles while the dreaming man,Half-conscious of that soothing melody, 15With sidelong 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 roiledWith languid feet which by the slippery groan 20Were baffled still; and when I stretched myselfOn the brown earth my limbs from very heatCould find no rest, nor my weak arm disperseThe insect host which gathered round my faceAnd joined their murmurs to the tedious noise 25Of seeds of bursting gorse that crackled round.

I rose and turned towards a group of treesWhich midway in that level stood alone;And thither come at length, beneath a shadeOf clustering elms4 that sprang from the same root 30I found a ruined house, four naked wallsThat stared upon each other. I looked roundAnd near the door I saw an aged manAlone and stretched upon the cottage bench,An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 35With instantaneous joy I recognizedThat pride of nature and of lowly life,The venerable Armytage, a friendAs dear to me as is the setting sun..Two days before 40We had been fellow-travellers, I knewThat he was in this neighbourhood, and nowDelighted found him here in the cool shade.He lay, his pack of rustic merchandisePillowing his head. I guess he had no thought 45Of his way-wandering life. His eyes were shut,The shadows of the breezy elms aboveDappled his face. With thirsty heat oppressedAt length I hailed him, glad to see his hatBedewed with water-drops, as if the brim 50Had newly scooped a running scream. He roseAnd pointing to a sunflower, bade me climbThe [] wall where that same gaudy flowerLooked out upon the road. It was a plotOf garden-ground now wild, its matted weeds 55Marked with the steps of those whom its they passed,The gooseberry-trees that shot in long lank slips.Or currants hanging from their leafless stemsIn scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleapThe broken wall. Within that cheerless spot, 60Where two tall hedgerows of thick willow boughsJoined in a damp cold nook, I found a well.Half covered up with willow-flowers and weeds,I slaked my thirst and to the shady benchReturned, and while I stood unbonneted 65To catch the motion of the cooler airThe old man said, 'I see around me hereThings which you cannot see. We die, my friend,Nor we alone, but that which each man lovedAnd prized in his peculiar nook of earth 70Dies with him, or is changed, and very soonEven of the good is no memorial left.The poets, in their elegies and songsLamenting the departed, call the groves,They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 75And senseless rocks — nor idly, for they speakIn these their invocations with a voiceObedient to the strong creative powerOf human passion. Sympathies there areMore tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 80That steal upon the meditative mindAnd grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood,And eyed its waters till we seemed to feelOne sadness, they and L For them a bondOf brotherhood is broken: time has been 85When every day the touch of human handDisturbed their stillness, and they ministeredTo human comfort. When I stooped to drinkA spider's web hung to the water's edge,And on the wet and slimy footstone lay 90The useless fragment of a wooden bowl;It moved my very heart. The day has beenWhen I could never pass this road but sheWho lived within these walls, when I appeared,A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 95As my own child. Oh sir! The good die first,And they whose hearts are dry as summer dustBurn to the socket, Many a passengerHas blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looksWhen she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 100From that forsaken spring, and no one cameBut he was welcome, no one went awayBut that it seemed she loved him. She is dead,The worm is on her cheek, and this poor hut,Stripped of its outward garb of household flowers, 105Of rose and sweetbriar, offers to the windA cold bare wall whose earthy top is trickedWith weeds and the rank speargrass. She is dead,And nettles rot and adders sun themselvesWhere we have sat together while she nursed 110Her infant at her breast. The unshod colt,The wandering heifer and the potter's ass,Find shelter now within the chimney-wallWhere I have seen her evening hearthstone blazeAnd through the window spread upon the road 115Its cheerful light. You will forgive me, sir,But often on this cottage do I museAs on a picture, till my wiser mindSinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief.She had a husband, an industrious man, 120Sober and steady. I have heard her sayThat he was up and busy at his loomIn summer ere the mower's scythe had sweptThe dewy grass, and in the early springEre the last star had vanished. They who passed 125At evening, from behind the garden-fenceMight hear his busy spade, which he would plyAfter his daily work till the daylightWas gone, and every leaf and flower were lostIn the dark hedges. So they passed their days 130In peace and comfort and two pretty babesWere their best hope next to the God in heaven.You may remember, now some ten years gone,Two blighting seasons when the fields were leftWith half a harvest. It pleased heaven to add 135A 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 cottagesI with my pack of winter raiment saw 140The hardships of that season. Many richSunk down us in a dream among the poor,And of the poor did many cease to be,

And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridgedOf daily comforts, gladly reconciled 145To numerous self-denials, MargaretWent struggling on through those calamitous yearsWith cheerful hope. But ere the second autumn,A fever seized her husband. In diseaseHe lingered long, and when his strength returned 150He found the little he had stored to meetThe hour of accident, or crippling age,Was all consumed. As I have said, 'twas nowA time of trouble: shoals of artisansWere from their daily labour turned away 155Го hang for bread on parish chantyThey and their wives and children — happier farCould they have lived as do the little birdsThat peck along the hedges, or the kiteThat makes her dwelling in the mountain rocks. 160Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dweltIn this poor cottage. At his door he stoodAnd whistled many a snatch of merry tunesThat had no mirth in them, or with his knifeCarved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks; 165Then idly sought about through every nookOr house or garden any casual taskOf use or ornament and with a strange,Amusing but uneasy noveltyHe blended where he might the various tasks 170Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring,But this endured not; his good humour soonBecame a weight in which no pleasure was,And poverty brought on a petted moodAnd a sore temper. Day by day he drooped, 175And he would leave his home, and to the townWithout an errand would he turn his steps,Or wander here and there among the fields.One while he would speak lightly of his babesAnd with a cruel tongue; at other times 180He played with them wild freaks of merriment,And 'twas a piteous thing to see the looksOf the poor innocent children. "Every smile",Said Margaret to me here beneath these trees,"Made my heart bleed.” At this the old man paused, 185And looking up to those enormous elmsHe 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 restAre cheerful, while this multitude of flies 190Fills 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 humanityFrom natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 195To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears,And feeding on disquiet, thus disturbThe calm of Nature with our restless thoughts?'

Second Part

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone,But when he ended there was in his face 200Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,That for a little time it stole awayAll recollection, and that simple talePassed from my mind like a forgotten sound.A while on trivial things we held discourse, 205To me soon tasteless. In my own despiteI thought or that poor woman as or oneWhom I had known and loved. He had rehearsedHer homely tale with such familiar power,With such an active countenance, an eye 210So busy, that the things of which he spakeSeemed present, and, attention now relaxed,There was a heartfelt chillness in my veins.I rose, and turning from that breezy shadeWent out into the open air, and stood 215To drink the comfort of the warmer sun.Long time I had not stayed ere, looking roundUpon that tranquil ruin, I returnedAnd begged of the old man that for my sakeHe would resume his story.He replied, 220It were a wantonness, and would demandSevere reproof, if we were men whose heartsCould hold vain dalliance with the miseryEven of the dead contented thence to drawA momentary pleasure, never marked 225By reason, barren of all future good.But we have known that there is often foundIn mournful thoughts, and always might be found,A power to virtue friendly; were’t not soI am a dreamer among men, indeed 230An idle dreamer, Tis a common taleBy moving accidents uncharactered,A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothedIn bodily form, and to the grosser senseBut ill adapted — scarcely palpable 235To him who does not think. But at your biddingI will proceed.While thus it fared with themTo whom this cottage till that hapless yearHad been a blessed home» it was my chanceTo travel in a country far remote; 240And glad I was when, halting by yon gateThat leads from the green lane, again I sawThese lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest —With many pleasant thoughts I cheered my wayO'er the flat common. At the door arrived, 245I knocked, and when I entered, with the hopeOf usual greeting, Margaret looked at meA little while, then turned her head awaySpeechless, and sitting down upon a chairWept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 250Or how to speak to her. Poor wretch! At lastShe 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 griefUnutterably helpless, and a look 255That seemed to cling upon me, she enquiredIf I had seen her husband. As she spakeA strange surprise and fear came to my heart,Nor had I power to answer ere she toldThat he had disappeared — just two months gone- 260He left his house: two wretched days had passed,And on the third by the first break of light,Within her casement full in view she sawA purse of gold. "I trembled at the sight",That placed it there, And on that very dayBy one, a stranger, from my husband sent,The tidings came that he had joined a troopOf soldiers going to a distant land.He left me thus. Poor man, he had not heart 270To take a farewell of me, and he fearedThat I should follow with my babes, and sinkBeneath the misery of a soldier's life”.This tale did Margaret tell with many tears,And when she ended I had little power 275To give her comfort, and was glad to takeSuch words of hope from her own mouth as servedTo cheer us both. But long we had not talkedEre we built up a pile of better thoughts,And with a brighter eye she looked around 280As 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 footway path, 285Called our and sent a blessing after me,With tender cheerfulness, and with a voiceThat seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.I roved o'er many a hill and many a daleWith this my weary load, in heat'and cold, 290Through many a wood and many an open ground,In sunshine or in shade, in wet or fair,Now blithe, now drooping, as it might befall;My best companions now the driving windsAnd now the "trotting brooks" and whispering trees, 295And now the music of my own sad steps,With many a short-lived thought that passed betweenAnd disappeared. I came this way againTowards the wane of summer, when the wheatWas yellow, and the sofr and bladed grass 300Sprang up afresh and o'er the hayfield spreadIts tender green. When I had reached the doorI found that she was absent. In the shadeWhere we now sit I waited her return.Her cottage in its outward look appeared 305As cheerful as before, in any showOf neatness little changed — but that I thoughtThe honeysuckle crowded round the doorAnd from the wall hung down in heavier wreaths,And knots of worthless sconecrop started out 310Along the window's edge, and grew like weedsAgainst the lower panes. I turned asideAnd strolled into her garden, It was changed.The unprofitable bindweed spread his bellsFrom side to side, and with unwieldy wreaths 315Had dragged the rose from its sustaining wallAnd bent it down to earth31 The border tufts,Daisy, and thrift, and lowly camomile,And thyme, had straggled out into the pathsWhich they were used to deck.Ere this an hour 320Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps,And as I walked before the door it chancedA stranger passed, and guessing whom I sought,He said that she was used to ramble far.The sun was sinking in the west, and now 325I sat with sad impatience. From withinHer 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, 330Till then unmarked, on either side the doorWith dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'erWith tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheepThat feed upon the commons thither cameFamiliarly, and found a coaching-place 335Even 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 tooWas changed. As she unlocked the door she said,"It grieves me you have waited here so long, 340But in good truth I've wandered much of late,And sometimes — to my shame I speak — have needOf my best prayers to bring me back again."While on the board she spread our evening mealShe told me she had lost her elder child, 345That he for months had been a serving-boy,Apprenticed by the parish, — "I perceiveYou look at me, and you have cause. TodayI have been travelling far, and many daysAbout the fields I wander, knowing this 350Only, 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 sleptWeeping, and weeping I have waked. My tears 355Have flowed as if my body were nut suchAs others are, and I could never die.But I am now in mind and in my heartMore easy, and I hope", said she, "that HeavenWill give me patience to endure the things 360Which I behold at home."

Second Part (2)

It would have grievedYour very soul to see her. Sir, I reelThe story linger in my heart. I fearTis long and tedious, but my spirit clingsTo that poor woman. So familiarly 365Do I perceive her manner and her lookAnd presence, and so deeply do I feelHer goodness, that not seldom in my walksA momentary trance comes over meAnd to myself 1 seem to muse on one 370By sorrow laid asleep or borne away,A human being destined to awakeTo human life, or something very nearTo human life, when he shall come againFor whom she suffered. Sir, it would have grieved 375Your very soul to see her: evermoreHer eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast.And when she at her table gave me foodShe did not look at me. Her voice was low,Her body was subdued. In every act 380Pertaining to her house-aftairs appearedThe careless stillness which a thinking mindGives 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 385We sat together, sighs came on my ear —I knew not how, and hardly whence, they came.I took my staff, and when I kissed her babeThe tears stood in her eyes. I left her thenWith the best hope and comfort 1 could give: 390She thanked me for my will, but for my hopeIt seemed she did not thank me.I returnedAnd took my rounds along this road againEre on its sunny bank the primrose flowerHad chronicled the earliest day of spring. 395I found her sad and drooping. She had learned.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 sameIn person or appearance, but her house 400Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence,The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearthWas comfortless,The windows too were dim, and her few booksWhich one upon the other heretofore 405Had been piled up against the corner-panesIn seemly order, now with straggling leavesLay scattered here and there, open or shut,As they had chanced со fall. Her infant babeHad from its mother caught the trick36 of grief, 410And sighed among its playthings. Once againI turned towards the garden-gate, and sawMore plainly still that poverty and griefWere now come nearer to her. The earth was hard,With weeds defaced and knots of withered grass; 415No ridges there appeared of clear black mould37No winter greenness. Of her herbs and flowersIt seemed the better pare were gnawed awayOr trampled on the earth. A chain of straw,Which had been twisted round the tender stem 420Of 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,Ere Robert come again."Towards the houseTogether we returned, and she enquiredIf 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 430Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loomStill in its place. His Sunday garments hungUpon the self-same nail, his very staffStood undisturbed behind the door. And whenI passed this way beaten by autumn winds, 435She told me that her little babe was deadAnd she was left alone. That very time,I yet remember, through the miry laneShe walked with me a mile, when the bare treesTrickled with foggy damps, and in such sort 440That any heart had ached to hear her, beggedThat wheresoe'er I went I still would askFor him whom she had lost. We parted then,Our final parting; for from that time forthDid many seasons pass ere I returned 445Into this tract again.Five tedious yearShe lingered in unquiet widowhood,A wife and widow. Needs must it have beenA sore heart-wasting. I have heard, my friend,That in that broken arbour she would sit 450The idle length of half a sabbath day —There, where you see the toadstool's lazy head —And when a dog passed by she still would quitThe shade and look abroad. On this old benchFor hours she sat, and evermore her eye 455Was busy in the distance, shaping thingsWhich made her heart beat quick, Seest thou that path? —The greensward now has broken its grey line —There to and fro she paced through many a dayOf the warm summer, from a belt of flax 460That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn threadWith backward steps. Yet ever as there passedA man whose garments showed the soldier's redOr crippled mendicant in sailor's garb,The little child who sat to turn the wheel 465Ceased from his toil, and she, with faltering voice,Expecting still to learn her husband's fateMade many a fond enquiry; and when theyWhose presence gave no comfort were gone by,Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate 470Which bars the traveller's road, she often stood,And when a stranger horseman came, the latchWould lift, and in his face look wistfully,Most happy if from aught discovered thereOf tender feeling she might dare repeat 475The same sad question.Meanwhile her poor hutSunk to decay; for he was gone, whose handAt the first nippings of October frostClosed up each chink, and with fresh bands of strawChequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 480Through the long winter, reckless and atone,Till this reft house, by frost, and thaw, and rain,Was sapped; and when she slept, the nightly dampsDid chill her breast, and in the stormy dayHer tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind 485Even at the side of her own fire. Yet stillShe loved this wretched spot, nor would for worldsHave 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, 490In sickness she remained; and here she died,Last human tenant of these ruined wallsThe old man ceased; he saw that I was moved.From that low bench, rising instinctivelyI turned aside in weakness, nor had power 495To thank him for the tale which he had told.I stood, and leaning o'er the garden gateReviewed that woman's sufferings: and it seemedTo comfort me while with a brother's loveI blessed her in the impotence of grief 500At length towards the cottage I returnedFondly, and traced with milder interestThat secret spirit of humanityWhich, mid the calm oblivious tendenciesOf Nature, mid her plants, her weeds and flowers, 505And silent overgrowing, 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 cheerful, and no longer read 510The 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 speargrass on that wall,By mist and silent raindrops silvered o'er, 515As once I passed did to my mind conveySo still an image of tranquillity,So calm and still, and looked so beautifulAmid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,That what we feel of sorrow and despair 520From ruin and from change, and all the griefThe passing shows of being leave behindAppeared an idle dream chat could not liveWhere meditation was. I turned away,And walked along my road in happiness. 525He ceased. By this the sun declining shotA slant and mellow radiance, which beganTo fall upon us where beneath the treesWe sat on that low bench. And now we felt,Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on: 530A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,A thrash sang loud, and other melodiesAt distance heard peopled the milder air.The old man rose and hoisted up his load;Together casting then a farewell look 535Upon those silent walls, we left the shade,And ere the stars were visible attainedA rustic inn, our evening resting-place.

Решительность и независимостьI [153]