Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/327

301 That wears a look so full of peace, and hope,

And love, benignant Mother of the Vale,

How fair amid her brood of Cottages!

She was to him a sickness and reproach.

Much to the last remained unknown; but this

Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died;

Though pitied among Men, absolved by God,

He could not find forgiveness in himself;

Nor could endure the weight of his own shame.

Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn

And from her Grave.—Behold—upon that Ridge,

Which, stretching boldly from the mountain side,

Carries into the centre of the Vale

Its rocks and woods—the Cottage where she dwelt;

And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left

(Full eight years past) the solitary prop

Of many helpless Children. I begin

With words which might be prelude to a Tale

Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel

No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes

See daily in that happy Family.

—Bright Garland form they for the pensive brow