THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, VOL. 8 (Completed)

THE WIDOW ON WINDMERE SIDE

Published 1842

[The facts recorded in this Poem were given me, and the character of the person described, by my friend the Rev. R. P. Graves,[169] who has long officiated as curate at Bowness, to the great benefit of the parish and neighbourhood. The individual was well known to him. She died before these verses were composed. It is scarcely worth while to notice that the stanzas are written in the sonnet form, which was adopted when I thought the matter might be included in twenty-eight lines.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--ED.

I

How beautiful when up a lofty height

Honour ascends among the humblest poor,

And feeling sinks as deep! See there the door

Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight

Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's spite

She wasted no complaint, but strove to make

A just repayment, both for conscience-sake

And that herself and hers should stand upright

In the world's eye. Her work when daylight failed

Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept

Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed

With some, the noble Creature never slept;

But, one by one, the hand of death assailed

Her children from her inmost heart bewept.

II

The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow,

Till a winter's noon-day placed her buried Son

Before her eyes, last child of many gone--

His raiment of angelic white, and lo!

His very feet bright as the dazzling snow

Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even

As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven,

Surpasses aught these elements can show.

Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour

Whate'er befel she could not grieve or pine;

But the Transfigured, in and out of season,

Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power

Over material forms that mastered reason.

Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine!

III

But why that prayer? as if to her could come

No good but by the way that leads to bliss

Through Death,--so judging we should judge amiss.

Since reason failed want is her threatened doom,

Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom:

Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss

The air or laugh upon a precipice;

No, passing through strange sufferings toward the tomb,

She smiles as if a martyr's crown were won:

Oft, when light breaks through clouds or waving trees,

With outspread arms and fallen upon her knees

The Mother hails in her descending Son

An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies

Her own angelic glory seems begun.

[169] The late Archdeacon of Dublin, author of Life of Sir William Rowan Hamilton, etc. He gives the date of the composition of the poem as 1837.--ED.