-What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand,
What penetrating power of sun or breeze,
Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul
Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice?
This torpor is no pitiable work
Of modern ingenuity; no town
Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught
Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law,
To which (and who can tell where or how soon?)
He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce:
His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe,2
The carter's whip that 3 on his shoulder rests
In air high-towering with a boorish pomp,
The sceptre of his sway; his country's name,
Her equal rights, her churches and her schools—
What have they done for him? And, let me ask,
For tens of thousands uninformed as he?
In brief, what liberty of mind is here?"
This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, To whom the appeal couched in its closing words 5 Was pointedly addressed; and to the thoughts That, in assent or opposition, rose
To which in after years he may be rouzed.
-This Boy the Fields produce: his spade and hoe, 1814.
Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give
Prompt utterance; but the Vicar interposed
With invitation urgently renewed.2
-We followed, taking as he led, a path
Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall,3*
Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight
Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots
That gave them nourishment.
Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methought, Is here-how grateful this impervious screen! 5
-Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot On rural business passing to and fro
Was the commodious walk: a careful hand
Had marked the line, and strewn its surface o'er 6 pure cerulean gravel,* from the heights
That gave them nourishment. How sweet me-
thought,
When the fierce wind comes howling from the north,
How grateful, this impenetrable screen!
The hedge of hollies dark and tall,' and the 'pure cerulean gravel' on the walk between the 'pastor's mansion' and the 'house of prayer,' are all due to the imagination of the poet. There is nothing now-either at Hackett or at the parsonage in Grasmere at all corresponding to the details given in The Excursion; and it is not likely that the surroundings of either house in Wordsworth's time resembled the description given in the poem.-ED.
Fetched by a neighbouring brook.-Across the vale
The stately fence accompanied our steps;
And thus the pathway, by perennial green
Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite,
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain,
The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer.
Like image of solemnity, conjoined
With feminine allurement soft and fair,
The mansion's self displayed;-a reverend pile
With bold projections and recesses deep;
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood
Fronting the noontide sun.
We paused to admire
The pillared porch, elaborately embossed;
The low wide windows with their mullions old;
The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone;
And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose,
By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers
And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned:
Profusion bright! and every flower assuming
A more than natural vividness of hue,
From unaffected contrast with the gloom
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil
Of yew, in which survived some traces, here
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device
And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore,
Blending their diverse foliage with the green
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped
The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight
For wren and redbreast,—where they sit and sing
Their slender ditties when the trees are bare.
Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else
Were incomplete) a relique of old times 1
Happily spared, a little Gothic niche
Of nicest workmanship; that once had held2
The sculptured image of some patron-saint,
Or of the blessed virgin, looking down
On all who entered those religious doors.
But lo! where from the rocky garden-mount
Crowned by its antique summer-house-descends,
Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl;
For she hath recognised her honoured friend,
The Wanderer ever welcome! A prompt kiss
The gladsome Child bestows at his request;
And, up the flowery lawn as we advance,
Hangs on the old Man with a happy look,
And with a pretty restless hand of love.
-We enter-by the Lady of the place
Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port: 3
A lofty stature undepressed by time,
Whose visitation had not wholly spared
The finer lineaments of form and face; 5
To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in
And wisdom loves.-But when a stately ship
Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast
On homeward voyage, what-if wind and wave,
And hardship undergone in various climes,
Have caused her to abate the virgin pride,
And that full trim of inexperienced hope
With which she left her haven-not for this,
Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze
Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 1
Brightness and touching beauty of her own,
That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared?
This goodly Matron, shining in the beams
Of unexpected pleasure.-Soon the board
Was spread, and we partook a plain repast.
Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled
The mid-day hours with desultory talk;
From trivial themes to general argument
Passing, as accident or fancy led,
Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose
And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve
Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 4
Resumed the manners of his happier days;
And 5 in the various conversation bore
Here in cool shelter, while the scorching heat
Oppressed the fields, we sate, and entertained
Dropped from our minds; and even the shy Recluse 1814.
* A reminiscence of St Bees, or of days spent on the Cumbrian coast. Compare the sonnets, With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, and Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Vol. IV. pp. 33, 34.-ED.
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