Moving untouched in silver purity, And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. A mournful labour, while to her is given XXXIII. THE WAGGONER. In Cairo's crowded streets The impatient Merchant wondering waits in vain, TO CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. 1804. MY DEAR FRIEND, WHEN I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked why THE WAGGONER was not added?' -To say the truth,-from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was tead to you in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am very truly yours, Rydal Mount, May 20, 1819. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. CANTO FIRST. 'Tis spent—this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheel ing, That solitary bird Is all that can be heard In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon! Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night Propitious to your earth-born light! But, where the scattered stars are seen In hazy straits the clouds between, Each, in his station twinkling not, Seems changed into a pallid spot. The mountains against heaven's grave weight Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. The air, as in a lion's den, Is close and hot;-and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze Hush, there is some one on the stir! 'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner; Who long hath trod this toilsome way, Companion of the night and day. That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The Wain announces-by whose side Along the banks of Rydal Mere He paces on, a trusty Guide, Listen! you can scarcely hear! Hither he his course is bending ;Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes, Many a breathing-fit he takes ;Steep the way and wearisome, Yet all the while his whip is dumb! The Horses have worked with right good-will, Heaven shield him from mishap and snare! To all who entered Grasmere Vale; Here is no danger, none at all! Beyond his wish he walks secure; But pass a mile--and then for trial,Then for the pride of self-denial; If he resist that tempting door, Which with such friendly voice will call; If he resist those casement panes, And that bright gleam which thence will fall Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, Inviting him with cheerful lure: For still, though all be dark elsewhere, Some shining notice will be there, Of open house and ready fare. The place to Benjamin right well Is known, and by as strong a spell As used to be that sign of love And hope the OLIVE-BOUGH and Dove; He knows it to his cost, good Man! Who does not know the famous SWAN? Object uncouth! and yet our boast, For it was painted by the Host; His own conceit the figure planned, "Twas coloured all by his own hand; And that frail Child of thirsty clay, Of whom I sing this rustic lay, Could tell with self-dissatisfaction Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! Well! that is past-and in despite To stand or go is at their pleasure; Now am I fairly safe to-night- I saw you, between rage and fear, *This rude piece of self-taught art (such is the progress of refinement) has been supplanted by a professional production. A word from me was like a charm ; Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough While Benjamin in earnest mood A storm, which had been smothered long, The thunder had begun to growl He heard not, too intent of soul; He marked not that 'twas still as death. The road is black before his eyes, As if intent on magic spell ; Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, Still sit upon Helm-crag together! * A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous Cobbler near Arroquhar in Scotland. The ASTROLOGER was not unseen By solitary Benjamin; But total darkness came anon, And he and every thing was gone: (That would have rocked the sounding trees And Benjamin is groping near them, He is astounded,-wonder not,― Till, breaking in upon the dying strain, A rending o'er his head begins the fray again. Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, And oftentimes compelled to halt, The horses cautiously pursue Their way, without mishap or fault; And now have reached that pile of stones, When, passing through this narrow strait, Stony, and dark, and desolate, Benjamin can faintly hear A voice that comes from some one near, While, with increasing agitation, The Woman urged her supplication, In rueful words, with sobs betweenThe voice of tears that fell unseen; There came a flash-a startling glare, And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! "Tis not a time for nice suggestion, Another voice, in tone as hoarse As a swoln brook with rugged course, Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast? I've had a glimpse of you-avast! Or, since it suits you to be civil, Take her at once-for good and evil!" "It is my Husband," softly said The Woman, as if half afraid: By this time she was snug within, Through help of honest Benjamin ; She and her Babe, which to her breast With thankfulness the Mother pressed; And now the same strong voice more near Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer? Rough doings these! as God's my judge, The sky owes somebody a grudge! We've had in half an hour or less A twelvemonth's terror and distress!" Then Benjamin entreats the Man Would mount, too, quickly as he can: The Sailor Sailor now no more, But such he had been heretoforeTo courteous Benjamin replied, "Go you your way, and mind not me; For I must have, whate'er betide, My Ass and fifty things beside,Go, and I'll follow speedily!" The Waggon moves-and with its load Descends along the sloping road; And the rough Sailor instantly Turns to a little tent hard by: For when, at closing-in of day, The Sailor gathers up his bed, Takes down the canvass overhead; And, after farewell to the place, A parting word-though not of grace, Pursues, with Ass and all his store, The way the Waggon went before. CANTO SECOND. IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling Dinning from the CHERRY TREE! Thence the sound-the light is thereAs Benjamin is now aware, Who, to his inward thoughts confined, Had almost reached the festive door, When, startled by the Sailor's roar, He hears a sound and sees the light, And in a moment calls to mind That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT!* Although before in no dejection, His ears are by the music thrilled, His eyes take pleasure in the road And there are reasons manifold That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning, Nor has thought time to come and go, A term well known in the North of England, and applied to rural Festivals where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing. He draws him to the door-"Come in, 'Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we, What tankards foaming from the tap! A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, He thinks not of his long, long, strife ;— The Sailor, Man by nature gay, Under cover, Terror over, Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. With bowl that sped from hand to hand, The gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun, They hear when every dance is done, When every whirling bout is o'er The fiddle's squeak*—that call to bliss, Ever followed by a kiss ; They envy not the happy lot, But enjoy their own the more ! While thus our jocund Travellers fare, Up springs the Sailor from his chair— Limps (for I might have told before That he was lame) across the floorIs gone-returns-and with a prize; With what?-a Ship of lusty size; A gallant stately Man-of-war, Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. Surprise to all, but most surprise To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes, Not knowing that he had befriended A Man so gloriously attended! "This," cries the Sailor, a Third-rate isStand back, and you shall see her gratis! This was the Flag-ship at the Nile, The Vanguard-you may smirk and smile, A nobler ship did never swim, And you shall see her in full trim: So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards, Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, * At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his partner. |