Canto Fourth

Thus they, with freaks of proud delight,Beguile the remnant of the night;And many a snatch of jovial songRegales them as they wind along;While to the music, from on high,The echoes make a glad reply.--But the sage Muse the revel heedsNo farther than her story needs;Nor will she servilely attendThe loitering journey to its end.--Blithe spirits of her own impelThe Muse, who scents the morning air,To take of this transported pairA brief and unreproved farewell;To quit the slow-paced waggon's side,And wander down yon hawthorn dell,With murmuring Greta for her guide.--There doth she ken the awful formOf Raven-crag--black as a storm--Glimmering through the twilight pale;And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother,Each peering forth to meet the other:--And, while she roves through St. John's Vale,Along the smooth unpathwayed plain,By sheep-track or through cottage lane,Where no disturbance comes to intrudeUpon the pensive solitude,Her unsuspecting eye, perchance,With the rude shepherd's favoured glance,Beholds the faeries in array,Whose party-coloured garments gayThe silent company betray:Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight!For Skiddaw-top with rosy lightIs touched--and all the band take flight.--Fly also, Muse! and from the dellMount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell;Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawnHoar with the frost-like dews of dawn;Across yon meadowy bottom look,Where close fogs hide their parent brook;And see, beyond that hamlet small,The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall,Lurking in a double shade,By trees and lingering twilight made!There, at Blencathara's rugged feet,Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreatTo noble Clifford; from annoyConcealed the persecuted boy,Well pleased in rustic garb to feedHis flock, and pipe on shepherd's reedAmong this multitude of hills,Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills;Which soon the morning shall enfold,From east to west, in ample vestOf massy gloom and radiance bold.

The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bedHung low, begin to rise and spread;Even while I speak, their skirts of greyAre smitten by a silver ray;And lo!--up Castrigg's naked steep(Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweepAlong--and scatter and divide,Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied)The stately waggon is ascending,With faithful Benjamin attending,Apparent now beside his team--Now lost amid a glittering steam:And with him goes his Sailor-friend,By this time near their journey's end;And, after their high-minded riot,Sickening into thoughtful quiet;As if the morning's pleasant hour,Had for their joys a killing power.And, sooth, for Benjamin a veinIs opened of still deeper pain,As if his heart by notes were stungFrom out the lowly hedge-rows flung;As if the warbler lost in lightReproved his soarings of the night,In strains of rapture pure and holyUpbraided his distempered folly.

Drooping is he, his step is dull;But the horses stretch and pull;With increasing vigour climb,Eager to repair lost time;Whether, by their own desert,Knowing what cause there is for shame,They are labouring to avertAs much as may be of the blame,Which, they foresee, must soon alightUpon his head, whom, in despiteOf all his failings, they love best;Whether for him they are distrest,Or, by length of fasting roused,Are impatient to be housed:Up against the hill they strainTugging at the iron chain,Tugging all with might and main,Last and foremost, every horseTo the utmost of his force!And the smoke and respiration,Rising like an exhalation,Blend with the mist--a moving shroudTo form, an undissolving cloud;Which, with slant ray, the merry sunTakes delight to play upon.Never golden-haired Apollo,Pleased some favourite chief to followThrough accidents of peace or war,In a perilous moment threwAround the object of his careVeil of such celestial hue;Interposed so bright a screen--Him and his enemies between!

Alas! what boots it?--who can hide,When the malicious Fates are bentOn working out an ill intent?Can destiny be turned aside?No--sad progress of my story!Benjamin, this outward gloryCannot shield thee from thy Master,Who from Keswick has pricked forth,Sour and surly as the north;And, in fear of some disaster,Comes to give what help he may,And to hear what thou canst say;If, as needs he must forebode,Thou hast been loitering on the road!His fears, his doubts, may now take flight--The wished-for object is in sight;Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hathStirred him up to livelier wrath;Which he stifles, moody man!With all the patience that he can;To the end that, at your meeting,He may give thee decent greeting.

There he is--resolved to stop,Till the waggon gains the top;But stop he cannot--must advance:Him Benjamin, with lucky glance,Espies--and instantly is ready,Self-collected, poised, and steady:And, to be the better seen,Issues from his radiant shroud,From his close-attending cloud,With careless air and open mien.Erect his port, and firm his going;So struts yon cock that now is crowing;And the morning light in graceStrikes upon his lifted face,Hurrying the pallid hue awayThat might his trespasses betray.But what can all avail to clear him,Or what need of explanation,Parley or interrogation?For the Master sees, alas!That unhappy Figure near him,Limping o'er the dewy grass,Where the road it fringes, sweet,Soft and cool to way-worn feet;And, O indignity! an Ass,By his noble Mastiffs side,Tethered to the waggon's tail:And the ship, in all her pride,Following after in full sail!Not to speak of babe and mother;Who, contented with each other,And snug as birds in leafy arbour,Find, within, a blessed harbour!

With eager eyes the Master pries;Looks in and out, and through and through;Says nothing--till at last he spiesA wound upon the Mastiff's head,A wound, where plainly might be readWhat feats an Ass's hoof can do!But drop the rest:--this aggravation,This complicated provocation,A hoard of grievances unsealed;All past forgiveness it repealed;And thus, and through distempered bloodOn both sides, Benjamin the good,The patient, and the tender-hearted,Was from his team and waggon parted;When duty of that day was o'er,Laid down his whip--and served no more.--Nor could the waggon long survive,Which Benjamin had ceased to drive:It lingered on;--guide after guideAmbitiously the office tried;But each unmanageable hillCalled for his patience and his skill;--And sure it is, that through this night,And what the morning brought to light,Two losses had we to sustain,We lost both WAGGONER and WAIN!

Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame,The gift of this adventurous song;A record which I dared to frame,Though timid scruples checked me long;They checked me--and I left the themeUntouched;--in spite of many a gleamOf fancy which thereon was shed,Like pleasant sunbeams shifting stillUpon the side of a distant hill:But Nature might not be gainsaid;For what I have and what I missI sing of these;--it makes my bliss!Nor is it I who play the part,But a shy spirit in my heart,That comes and goes--will sometimes leapFrom hiding-places ten years deep;Or haunts me with familiar face,Returning, like a ghost unlaid,Until the debt I owe be paid.Forgive me, then; for I had beenOn friendly terms with this Machine:In him, while he was wont to traceOur roads, through many a long year's space,A living almanack had we;We had a speaking diary,That in this uneventful place,Gave to the days a mark and nameBy which we knew them when they came.--Yes, I, and all about me here,Through all the changes of the year,Had seen him through the mountains go,In pomp of mist or pomp of snow,Majestically huge and slow:Or, with a milder grace adorningThe landscape of a summer's morning;While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plainThe moving image to detain;And mighty Fairfield, with a chimeOf echoes, to his march kept time;When little other business stirred,And little other sound was heard;In that delicious hour of balm,Stillness, solitude, and calm,While yet the valley is arrayed,On this side with a sober shade;On that is prodigally bright--Crag, lawn, and wood--with rosy light.--But most of all, thou lordly Wain!I wish to have thee here again,When windows flap and chimney roars,And all is dismal out of doors;And, sitting by my fire, I seeEight sorry carts, no less a train!Unworthy successors of thee,Come straggling through the wind and rain:And oft, as they pass slowly on,Beneath my windows, one by one,See, perched upon the naked heightThe summit of a cumbrous freight,A single traveller--and thereAnother; then perhaps a pair--The lame, the sickly, and the old;Men, women, heartless with the cold;And babes in wet and starveling plight;Which once, be weather as it might,Had still a nest within a nest,Thy shelter--and their mother's breast!Then most of all, then far the most,Do I regret what we have lost;Am grieved for that unhappy sinWhich robbed us of good Benjamin;--And of his stately Charge, which noneCould keep alive when He was gone!