"Stay, cheerful little Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring.
"Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy The promise in thy song; A charm, _that_ thought can not destroy, Doth to thy strain belong.
"Methinks that in my dying hour Thy song would still be dear, And with a more than earthly power My passing Spirit cheer.
"Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting Spring."
She died as before-mentioned in 1835. Her memorial stone states that she was the beloved sister and faithful friend of mourners, who had caused the stone to be erected, with the earnest wish that their remains might be laid by her side, and a humble hope that through Christ they might together be made partakers of the same blessed resurrection. Twelve years afterwards the sod was again cut, to receive, not yet the aged poet or his wife, but their idolised daughter Dora, the devoted wife of Mr. Quillinan, who, in her forty-third year, after a brief period of wedded happiness, died on the 9th July, 1847. Upon the stone at the head of her grave is chiselled a lamb bearing a cross, and the consolatory words: "Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out."
The poet himself was the next to be added to the group, and the slab, with the simple inscription "WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1850," has been gazed upon by as many moistened eyes as the elaborate tombs of any of England's greatest heroes.
Mr. Edward Quillinan, who died in July, 1851, rests near the two beloved companions of his life.
The subject of this brief memoir--the most perfect sister the world hath known--after her sunny youth, her strong maturity, and her afflicted age, now sleeps in peace on the right side of the poet, to whom her self-denying life was devoted, her resting-place, to all who have heard her name being sufficiently indicated by the words
"DOROTHY WORDSWORTH, 1855."
In a few years more the poet's grave received to its shelter the tried and honoured partner of his long life, and the words were added: "Mary Wordsworth, 1859."
From this time there is a break of many years, when the enclosure received another member of the younger generation. Miss Rotha Quillinan, named after the murmuring river, by the banks of which her life was spent, died on the 1st February, 1876. She was the younger daughter of Mr. Quillinan, and, apart from the subsequent relationship, had been an object of especial interest to the poet as his god-daughter.
He wrote the following lines in her album:--
"Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood: Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay; Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay, Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream, Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear After her throes, this Stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it--a memorial theme For others; for thy future self, a spell To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell."
Her surviving sister still resides in the charming retreat at the foot of Loughrigg Fell, overlooking the vale of Ambleside, which had so long been the home of both.
The latest addition to the group was made so lately as the year 1883, when Mr. William Wordsworth, the last surviving son of the poet, was added to the number.
There is, however, one more grave, which, though not within the enclosure, lies close behind it, and claims our notice. Hartley Coleridge, the eldest son of his more distinguished father, was for many years a familiar figure in the neighbourhood where he now rests. As a child, quiet, intelligent, and promising; as a youth, encouraging the hope that he was gifted with a genius which would lead to a career of no ordinary character; as a collegian, fulfilling the bright hopes of his friends, and attaining signal distinction;--his subsequent history affords one more instance of the fact that the greatest genius may by one failing be crippled, and the brightest promise be never followed by its full fruition. But this is not the place to recount his story. His published poems show that he inherited no small portion of his father's poetic ability. In his subsequently rather aimless life, he endeared himself not a little to the sympathetic inhabitants of the vale by his gentle, warm-hearted, and loving disposition. He was passionately fond of children, and would hardly pass through the village without taking a little one into his arms. For his father's sake, as well as his own, he was a favourite with the Wordsworths. It was by Mrs. Wordsworth, the friend of his infancy, that in his fifty-third year his relatives were summoned to his dying bed; and by Wordsworth himself (a year before his own death) his last resting-place was chosen. "Let him lie by us," said the aged poet, "he would have wished it;" adding to the sexton, "keep the ground for us--we are old people, and it cannot be for long."
The following sonnet may be given as a specimen of Hartley Coleridge's poetry, the closing line not inaptly expressing the prayerful attitude with which he approached the eternal future.
"SHE LOVED MUCH.
"She sat and wept beside His feet. The weight Of sin oppressed her heart; for all the blame, And the poor malice of the worldly shame, To her was past, extinct, and out of date; Only the _sin_ remained--the leprous state.
She would be melted by the heat of love, By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove And purge the silver ore adulterate.
She sat and wept, and with her untressed hair Still wiped the feet she was so blest to touch; And He wiped off the soiling of despair From her sweet soul, because she loved so much.
I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears, Make me a humble thing of love and tears."
CHAPTER XVIII.
POEMS.
Miss Wordsworth did not write much poetry. The few pieces she has left behind, though not of the highest order, are sufficient to show that had she devoted herself to it, she might have attained distinction. She was so devoted to her brother that she did not attempt for herself an independent position. She preferred to find subjects for the more skilful pen of her brother, and to act as his amanuensis. The poems that she did write, and which have been published with those of her brother, are worthy of a place here. The first of these, written in 1805, is--
"THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.
(_Suggested to Miss Wordsworth when watching one of the Poet's Children._)
"The days are cold, the nights are long, The north wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty Love!
"The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one _wee_, hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou?
"Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window pane, bedropped with rain: Then, little Darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day."
The following (written in 1806) has been described by Charles Lamb as masterly:--
"ADDRESS TO A CHILD (DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING).
"What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow; Through wood and through vale; and o'er rocky height Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; But how he will come, and whither he goes, There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, And ring a sharp 'larum;--but, if you should look, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock, Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock; --Yet seek him,--and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space; Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!
As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me, You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see That he has been there, and made such a rout, And cracked the branches, and strewn them about; Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig That looked up at the sky so proud and big All last summer, as well you know, Studded with apples, a beautiful show!
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, And growls as if he would fix his claws Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle, Drive them down, like men in a battle: --But let him range round; he does us no harm, We build up the fire, we're snug and warm; Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light; Books have we to read,--but that half-stifled knell, Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
--Come now, we'll to bed! and when we are there, He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
He may knock at the door,--we'll not let him in; May drive at the windows,--we'll laugh at his din; Let him seek his own home, wherever it be; Here's a _cozie_ warm house for Edward and me."
The next (also a child's poem), written in 1807, was composed on the eve of the return of Mrs. Wordsworth, after a month's absence in London.
Miss Wordsworth and the children were then staying at Coleorton:--
"THE MOTHER'S RETURN.
"A month, sweet little-ones, is past Since your dear Mother went away,-- And she to-morrow will return; To-morrow is the happy day.
"O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee; Silent he stood; then laughed amain,-- And shouted, 'Mother, come to me!'
"Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; 'Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear.'
"I told of hills, and far-off towns, And long, long vales to travel through,-- He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, But he submits; what can he do?
"No strife disturbs his sister's breast; She wars not with the mystery Of time and distance, night and day; The bonds of our humanity.
"Her joy is like an instinct--joy Of kitten, bird, or summer fly; She dances, runs without an aim; She chatters in her ecstacy.
"Her brother now takes up the note, And echoes back his sister's glee; They hug the infant in my arms, As if to force his sympathy.
"Then, settling into fond discourse, We rested in the garden bower; While sweetly shone the evening sun, In his departing hour.
"We told o'er all that we had done,-- Our rambles by the swift brook's side, Far as the willow-skirted pool, Where two fair swans together glide.