The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth Volume I Part 45

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 compa.s.sion 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--"G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.suage, 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! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.-- 590 Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On s.h.i.+pboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.

LXVII

"A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 595 Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; 600 A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

LXVIII

"For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; 605 Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And _he_ had done the deed in the dark wood-- Near his own home!--but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 610 My husband's loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen."

LXIX

Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, 615 He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live 620 I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive!"

LXX

To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. 625 Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." 630

LXXI

_She_ slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look.

His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 635 His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O G.o.d, that I were dead!"

LXXII

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; 640 And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.

The corse interred, not one hour he remained 645 Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fort.i.tude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

LXXIII

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight 650 He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate."

Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," 655 He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

LXXIV

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:--no one on _his_ form or face 660 Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 665 And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

Three years ... 1842.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

... rose and pursued ... 1842.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

... demoniac ... 1842.]

[Variant 4:

1845.