Are seen incorporate with the living rock- To endure for aye. The vicar, taking note Of his employment, with a courteous smile Exclaimed, "The sagest antiquarian's eye That task would foil;" then, letting fall his voice While he advanced, thus spake: Tradition tells That, in Eliza s golden days, a knight Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, And fixed his home in this sequestered vaie. 'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath, Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, Unknowing, and unknown. A pleasing thought I sometimes entertain, that, haply bound To Scotland's court in service of his queen, Or sent on mission to some northern chief
Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen With transient observation; and thence caught An image fair, which, brightening in his soul When joy of war and pride of chivalry Languished beneath accumulated years,
Had power to draw him from the world-resolved To make that paradise his chosen home
To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned.
Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest Upon unwritten story fondly traced
From sire to son, in this obscure retreat
The knight arrived, with pomp of spear and shield. And borne upon a charger covered o'er
With gilded housings. And the lofty steed
His sole companion, and his faithful friend, Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range
In fertile pastures-was beheld with eyes
Of admiration and delightful awe
By those untravelled dalesmen. With less pride, Yet free from touch of envious discontent,
They saw a mansion at his bidding rise,
Like a bright star, amid the lowly band
Of their rude homesteads. Here the warrior dwelt, And, in that mansion, children of his own,
Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree That falls and disappears, the house is
And, through improvidence, or want of love For ancient worth and honourable things,
The spear and shield are vanished, which the knight Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains
Of that foundation in domestic care
Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left Of the mild-hearted champion, save this stone, Faithless memorial! and his family name Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang From out the ruins of his stately lodge: These and the name and title at full length,- Sir Alfred Erthing, with appropriate words Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath Or posy-girding round the several fronts Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, That in the steeple hang, his pious gift."
"So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," The gray-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, "All that this world is proud of. From their spheres The stars of human glory are cast down; Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms Of all the mighty, withered and consumed! Nor is power given to lowliest innocence, Long to protect her own. The man himself Departs; and soon is spent the line of those Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks, Fraternities and orders -heaping high New wealth upon the burthen of the old, And placing trust in privilege confirmed And re-confirmed-are scoffed at with a smile Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand Of desolation aimed to slow decline These yield, and these to sudden overthrow; Their virtue, service, happiness, and state Expire; and nature's pleasant robe of green, Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps
Their monuments and their memory. The vast frame Of social nature changes evermore
Her organs and her members with decay Restless, and restless generation, powers And functions dying and produced at need,- And by this law the mighty whole subsists: With an ascent and progress in the main; Yet, oh! how disproportioned to the hopes And expectations of self-flattering minds! The courteous knight, whose bones are here interred, Lived in an age conspicuous as our own
For strife and 'erment in the minds of men, Whence alteration, in the forms of things, Various and vast. A memorable age! Which did to him assign a pensive lot,
To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds, That, on the steady breeze of honour, sailed In long procession calm and beautiful.
He who had seen his own bright order fade, And its devotion gradually decline, (While war, relinquishing the lance and shield, Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws,) Had also witnessed in his morn of life,
That violent commotion, which o'erthrew,
In town, and city, and sequestered glen,
Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof,
And old religious house-pile after pile;
And shook the tenants out into the fields,
Like wild beasts without home! Their hour was come; But why no softening thought of gratitude,
No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt?
Benevolence is mild; nor borrows help,
Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, Fitliest allied to anger and revenge.
But human-kind rejoices in the might
Of mutability; and airy hopes, Dancing around her, hinder and disturb Those meditations of the soul, that feed The retrospective virtues. Festive songs Break from the maddened nations at the sight Of sudden overthrow; and cold neglect Is the sure consequence of slow decay.
Even," said the Wanderer, "as that courteous knight, Bound by his vow to labour for redress Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact By sword and lance the law of gentleness, If I may venture of myself to speak, Trusting that not incongruously I blend Low things with lofty, I too shall be doomed To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem
Of the poor calling which my youth embraced With no unworthy prospect. But enough;
Thoughts crowd upon me--and 'twere seemlier now To stop, and yield our gracious teacher thanks For the pathetic records which his voice Hath here delivered; words of heartfelt truth, Tending to patience when affliction strikes ; To hope and love; to confident repose
In God; and reverence for the dust of man."
Pastor's apprehensions that he might have detained his auditors too long-Invitation to his house -Solitary disinclined to comply-rallies the Wanderer; and somewhat playfully draws a comparison between his itinerant profession and that of the knight-errant-which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in the country from the manufacturing spirit-Favourable effects -The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler classes-Wandered asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if unsupported by moral worth-gives instances -Physical science unable to support itself-Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among the humbler classes of society-Picture of a child employed in a cotton-millIgnorance and degradation of children among the agricultural population reviewed-Conversation broken off by a renewed invitation by the pastor-Path leading to his house-Its appearance described-His daughter-His wife-His son (a boy) enters with his companionTheir happy appearance-The Wanderer how affected by the sight of them.
And therefore no incompetence of mine Could do them wrong. The universal forms Of human nature, in a spot like this,
Present themselves at once to all men's view; Ye wished for act and circumstance that make The individual `:nown and understood; And such as my best judgment could select From what the place afforded have been given; Though apprehensions crossed me, in the course Of this self-pleasing exercise, that ye My zeal to his would liken, who unlocks A cabinet with gems or pictures stored, And draws them forth-soliciting regard To this, and this, as worthier than the last, Till the spectator, who a while was pleased More than the exhibitor himself, becomes Weary and faint, and longs to be released. But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight, And there-"
At this the Solitary shrunk With backward will; but, wanting not address That inward motion to disguise, he said
To his compatriot, smiling as he spake : "The peaceable remains of this good knight Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, If consciousness could reach him where he lies That one, albeit of these degenerate times, Deploring changes past, or dreading change Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, The fine vocation of the sword and lance With the gross aims and body-bending toil Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth Pitied, and where they are not known, despised. Yet, by the good knight's leave, the two estates Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, Exiles and wanderers-and the like are these ; Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. What though no higher recompense they seek Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil Full oft procured, yet such may claim respect, Among the intelligent, for what this course Enables them to be and to perform. Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, While solitude permits the mind to feel; Instructs and prompts her to supply defects By the division of her inward self,
For grateful converse and to these poor men (As I have heard you boast with honest pride) Nature is bountiful, where'er they go; Kind nature's various wealth is all their own. Versed in the characters of men; and bound, By tie of daily interest, to maintain Conciliatory manners and smooth speech: Such have been, and still are in their degree, Examples efficacious to refine
Rude intercourse; apt agents to expel, By importation of unlooked-for arts,
Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice; Raising, through just gradation, savage life To rustic, and the rustic to urbane.
Within their moving magazines is lodged Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt Affections seated in the mother's breast, And in the lover's fancy; and to feed The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. By these itinerants, as experienced men, Counsel is given; contention they appease With gentle language; in remotest wilds, Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring: Could the proud quest of chivalry do more?"
'Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, "they who gain A panegyric from your generous tongue! But if to these wayfarers once pertained Aught of romantic interest, 'tis gone; Their purer service, in this realm at least, Is past for ever.-An inventive age
Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet To most strange issues. I have lived to mark A new and unforeseen creation rise
From out the labours of a peaceful land, Wielding her potent enginery to frame And to produce, with appetite as keen As that of war, which rests not night or day, Industrious to destroy! With fruitless pains Might one like me now visit many a tract Which, in his youth, he trod and trod again, A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, Wished for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came, Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill; Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud, And dignified by battlements and towers
Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream.
The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild, And formidable length of plashy lane,
(Prized avenues ere others had been shaped Or easier links connecting place with place) Have vanished,-swallowed up by stately roads Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom
Of Britain's farthest glens. The earth has lent Her waters, air her breezes; and the sail Of traffic glides with ceaseless interchange, Glistening along the low and woody dale, Or on the naked mountain's lofty side. Meanwhile, at social industry's command,
How quick, how vast an increase! From the germ
Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced
Here a huge town, continuous and compact,
Hiding the face of earth for leagues—and there,
Where not a habitation stood before,
Abodes of men irregularly massed
Like trees in forests- spread through spacious tracts, O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires
Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |