Избранная лирика - Вордсворт Уильям. Страница 83

Second Part

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone,

But when he ended there was in his face 200

Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,

That for a little time it stole away

All recollection, and that simple tale

Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound.

A while on trivial things we held discourse, 205

To me soon tasteless. In my own despite

I thought or that poor woman as or one

Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed

Her homely tale with such familiar power,

With such an active countenance, an eye 210

So busy, that the things of which he spake

Seemed present, and, attention now relaxed,

There was a heartfelt chillness in my veins.

I rose, and turning from that breezy shade

Went out into the open air, and stood 215

To drink the comfort of the warmer sun.

Long time I had not stayed ere, looking round

Upon that tranquil ruin, I returned

And begged of the old man that for my sake

He would resume his story.

He replied, 220

It were a wantonness, and would demand

Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts

Could hold vain dalliance with the misery

Even of the dead contented thence to draw

A momentary pleasure, never marked 225

By reason, barren of all future good.

But we have known that there is often found

In mournful thoughts, and always might be found,

A power to virtue friendly; were’t not so

I am a dreamer among men, indeed 230

An idle dreamer, Tis a common tale

By moving accidents uncharactered,

A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed

In bodily form, and to the grosser sense

But ill adapted — scarcely palpable 235

To him who does not think. But at your bidding

I will proceed.

While thus it fared with them

To whom this cottage till that hapless year

Had been a blessed home» it was my chance

To travel in a country far remote; 240

And glad I was when, halting by yon gate

That leads from the green lane, again I saw

These lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest —

With many pleasant thoughts I cheered my way

O'er the flat common. At the door arrived, 245

I knocked, and when I entered, with the hope

Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me

A little while, then turned her head away

Speechless, and sitting down upon a chair

Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 250

Or how to speak to her. Poor wretch! At last

She 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 grief

Unutterably helpless, and a look 255

That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired

If I had seen her husband. As she spake

A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,

Nor had I power to answer ere she told

That he had disappeared — just two months gone- 260

He 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 saw

A purse of gold. "I trembled at the sight",

That placed it there, And on that very day

By one, a stranger, from my husband sent,

The tidings came that he had joined a troop

Of soldiers going to a distant land.

He left me thus. Poor man, he had not heart 270

To take a farewell of me, and he feared

That I should follow with my babes, and sink

Beneath the misery of a soldier's life”.

This tale did Margaret tell with many tears,

And when she ended I had little power 275

To give her comfort, and was glad to take

Such words of hope from her own mouth as served

To cheer us both. But long we had not talked

Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,

And with a brighter eye she looked around 280

As 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, 285

Called our and sent a blessing after me,

With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice

That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.

I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale

With this my weary load, in heat'and cold, 290

Through 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 winds

And now the "trotting brooks" and whispering trees, 295

And now the music of my own sad steps,

With many a short-lived thought that passed between

And disappeared. I came this way again

Towards the wane of summer, when the wheat

Was yellow, and the sofr and bladed grass 300

Sprang up afresh and o'er the hayfield spread

Its tender green. When I had reached the door

I found that she was absent. In the shade

Where we now sit I waited her return.

Her cottage in its outward look appeared 305

As cheerful as before, in any show

Of neatness little changed — but that I thought

The honeysuckle crowded round the door

And from the wall hung down in heavier wreaths,

And knots of worthless sconecrop started out 310

Along the window's edge, and grew like weeds

Against the lower panes. I turned aside

And strolled into her garden, It was changed.

The unprofitable bindweed spread his bells

From side to side, and with unwieldy wreaths 315

Had dragged the rose from its sustaining wall

And bent it down to earth31 The border tufts,

Daisy, and thrift, and lowly camomile,

And thyme, had straggled out into the paths

Which they were used to deck.

Ere this an hour 320

Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps,

And as I walked before the door it chanced

A 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 325

I sat with sad impatience. From within

Her 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, 330

Till then unmarked, on either side the door

With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er

With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep

That feed upon the commons thither came

Familiarly, and found a coaching-place 335

Even 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 too

Was changed. As she unlocked the door she said,

"It grieves me you have waited here so long, 340

But in good truth I've wandered much of late,

And sometimes — to my shame I speak — have need

Of my best prayers to bring me back again."

While on the board she spread our evening meal

She told me she had lost her elder child, 345

That he for months had been a serving-boy,

Apprenticed by the parish, — "I perceive

You look at me, and you have cause. Today

I have been travelling far, and many days

About the fields I wander, knowing this 350

Only, 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 slept

Weeping, and weeping I have waked. My tears 355

Have flowed as if my body were nut such

As others are, and I could never die.

But I am now in mind and in my heart

More easy, and I hope", said she, "that Heaven

Will give me patience to endure the things 360

Which I behold at home."