William Wordsworth

Here you will find the Long Poem Old Cumberland Beggar, The of poet William Wordsworth

Old Cumberland Beggar, The

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; 
And he was seated, by the highway side, 
On a low structure of rude masonry 
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man 
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag 
All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
Of idle computation. In the sun, 
Upon the second step of that small pile, 
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
He sat, and ate his food in solitude: 
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, 
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
Approached within the length of half his staff. 
Him from my childhood have I known; and then 
He was so old, he seems not older now; 
He travels on, a solitary Man, 
So helpless in appearance, that for him 
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack 
And careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin 
Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, 
But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 
Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned, 
The old man does not change his course, the boy 
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, 
And passes gently by, without a curse 
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
He travels on, a solitary Man; 
His age has no companion. On the ground 
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along 
'They' move along the ground; and, evermore, 
Instead of common and habitual sight 
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
He plies his weary journey; seeing still, 
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
Impressed on the white road,--in the same line, 
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! 
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet 
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 
In look and motion, that the cottage curs, 
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away, 
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, 
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: 
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. 
But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye 
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not 
A burthen of the earth! 'Tis Nature's law 
That none, the meanest of created things, 
Or forms created the most vile and brute, 
The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good, 
A life and soul, to every mode of being 
Inseparably linked. Then be assured 
That least of all can aught--that ever owned 
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime 
Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed, 
So low as to be scorned without a sin; 
Without offence to God cast out of view; 
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door, 
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him 
Behold a record which together binds 
Past deeds and offices of charity, 
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
Among the farms and solitary huts, 
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, 
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, 
The mild necessity of use compels 
To acts of love; and habit does the work 0 
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy 
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
To virtue and true goodness. 
Some there are, 
By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
And meditative, authors of delight 
And happiness,