William Wordsworth

The Old Cumberland Beggar

from Lyrical Ballads (Volume II, 1800)

The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.

		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
5		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,
10		He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,
		And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look
		Of idle computation. In the sun,
		Upon the second step of that small pile,
		Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
15		He sate, and eat his food in solitude;
		And ever, scatter'd 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,
20		Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd 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,
25		So helpless in appearance, that for him
		The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw
		With 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,
30		But still when he has given his horse the rein
		Towards the aged Beggar turns 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
35		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 perchance
40		The old Man does not change his course, the Boy
		Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side,
		And passes gently by, without a curse
		Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

		He travels on, a solitary Man,
45		His age has no companion. On the ground
		His eyes are turn'd, 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,
50		And the blue sky, one little span of earth
		Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
		Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground,
		He plies his weary journey, seeing still,
		And never knowing that he sees, some straw,
55		Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track,
		The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left
		Impress'd on the white road, in the same line,
		At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
		His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feet
60		Disturb the summer dust, he is so still
		In look and motion that the cottage curs,
		Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away
		Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
		The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
65		And urchins newly breech'd 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
70		To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
		Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
		Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not
		A burthen of the earth. Tis Nature's law
		That none, the meanest of created things,
75		Of 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 link'd. While thus he creeps
80		From door to door, the Villagers in him
		Behold a record which together binds
		Past deeds and offices of charity
		Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive
		The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
85		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,
90		Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
		The mild necessity of use compels
		To acts of love; and habit does the work
		Of reason, yet prepares that after joy
		Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
95		By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursu'd
		Doth find itself insensibly dispos'd
		To virtue and true goodness. Some there are,
		By their good works exalted, lofty minds
		And meditative, authors of delight
100		And happiness, which to the end of time
		Will live, and spread, and kindle; minds like these,
		In childhood, from this solitary being,
		This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd,
		(A thing more precious far than all that books
105		Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
		That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
		In which they found their kindred with a world
		Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
		Who sits at his own door, and like the pear
110		Which overhangs his head from the green wall,
		Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
		The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
		Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove
		Of their own kindred, all behold in him
115		A silent monitor, which on their minds
		Must needs impress a transitory thought
		Of self-congratulation, to the heart
		Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
		His charters and exemptions; and perchance,
120		Though he to no one give the fortitude
		And circumspection needful to preserve
		His present blessings, and to husband up
		The respite of the season, he, at least,
		And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.

125		Yet further. - Many, I believe, there are
		Who live a life of virtuous decency,
		Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
		No self-reproach, who of the moral law
		Establish'd in the land where they abide
130		Are strict observers, and not negligent,
		Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart
		Or act of love to those with whom they dwell,
		Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

		Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
135		- But of the poor man ask, the abject poor,
		Go and demand of him, if there be here,
		In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
		And these inevitable charities,
		Wherewith to satisfy the human soul.
140		No - man is dear to man: the poorest poor
		Long for some moments in a weary life
		When they can know and feel that they have been
		Themselves the fathers and the dealers out
		Of some small blessings, have been kind to such
145		As needed kindness, for this single cause,
		That we have all of us one human heart.
		- Such pleasure is to one kind Being known
		My Neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
		Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself
150		By her own wants, she from her chest of meal
		Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
		Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
		Returning with exhilarated heart,
		Sits by her tire and builds her hope in heav'n.

155		Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
		And while, in that vast solitude to which
		The tide of things has led him, he appears
		To breathe and live but for himself alone,
		Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear about
160		The good which the benignant law of heaven
		Has hung around him, and, while life is his,
		Still let him prompt the unletter'd Villagers
		To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
		Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
165		And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
		The freshness of the vallies, let his blood
		Struggle with frosty air and winter snows,
		And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath
		Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face.
170		Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
		Gives the last human interest to his heart.
		May never House, misnamed of industry,
		Make him a captive; for that pent-up din,
		Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
175		Be his the natural silence of old age.
		Let him be free of mountain solitudes,
		And have around him, whether heard or nor,
		The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
		Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now
180		Have been so long familiar with the earth,
		No more behold the horizontal sun
		Rising or setting, let the light at least
		Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
		And let him, where and when he will, sit down
185		Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
		Of high-way side, and with the little birds
		Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally,
		As in the eye of Nature he has liv'd,
		So in the eye of Nature let him die.

First published 1800

Robert Clark

William Wordsworth

The Old Cumberland Beggar

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