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THE 
 
 EXCURSION, 
 
 BEING A PORTION OF 
 
 THE RECLUSE, 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 
 PA TSJtNOSTKn-RO W. 
 
 1820. 
 
Printed by A. and R. Spottiswoode, 
 Printers- Street, London. 
 
TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K. G. &c. &c. 
 
 Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer ! 
 In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent ; 
 And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent. 
 Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. 
 — Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
 Before thee, Lonsdale, and this Work present, 
 A token (may it prove a monument !) 
 Of high respect and gratitude sincere. 
 Gladly would I have waited till my task 
 Had reached its close ; but Life is insecure, 
 And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream : 
 Therefore, for what is here produced I ask 
 Thy favour ; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
 The Offering, though imperfect, premature. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Rydal Mount, Westmorland, 
 Juli/2% 1814. 
 
 A 3 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 1 HE Title-page announces that this is only a 
 Portion of a Poem ; and the Reader must be 
 here apprized that it belongs to the second part 
 of a long and laborious Work, which is to con- 
 sist of three parts. — The Author will candidly 
 acknowledge that, if the first of these had been 
 completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy 
 his own mind, he should have preferred the 
 natural order of publication, and have given that 
 to the World first 5 but, as the second division 
 of the Work was designed to refer more to pass- 
 ing events, and to an existing state of things, 
 than the others were meant to do, more conti- 
 nuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon 
 it, and greater progress made here than in the 
 rest of the Poem ; and as this part does not 
 depend upon the preceding, to a degree which 
 
 A 4 
 
vui PREFACE. 
 
 will materially injure its own peculiar interest, 
 the Author, complying with the earnest en- 
 treaties of some valued Friends, presents the 
 following Pages to the PubUc. 
 
 It may be proper to state whence the Poem, 
 of which The Excursion is a part, derives its 
 Title of The Recluse. — Several years ago, 
 when the Author retired to his native Moun- 
 tains, with the hope of being enabled to con- 
 struct a literary Work that might live, it was a 
 reasonable thing that he should take a review of 
 his own Mind, and examine how far Nature and 
 Education had qualified him for such employ- 
 ment. As subsidiary to this preparation, he 
 undertook to record, in Verse, the origin and 
 progress of his own powers, as far as he was ac- 
 quainted with them. That Work, addressed to 
 a dear Friend, most distinguished for his know- 
 ledge and genius, and to whom the Author's 
 Intellect is deeply indebted, has been long 
 finished; and the result of the investigation 
 which gave rise to it was a determination to 
 compose a philosophical Poem, containing views 
 of Man, Nature, and Society 5 and to be entitled. 
 The Recluse ; as having for its principal subject 
 the sensations and opinions of a Poet living ii* 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 retirement, — The preparatory Poem is biogra- 
 phical, and conducts the history of the Author's 
 mind to the point when he was emboldened to 
 hope that his faculties were sufficiently ma- 
 tured for entering upon the arduous labour 
 which he had proposed to himself ; and the two 
 Works have the same kind of relation to each 
 other, if he may so express himself, as the 
 Anti-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church. 
 Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted 
 to add, that his minor Pieces, which have been 
 long before the Public, when they shall be 
 properly arranged, will be found by the at- 
 tentive Reader to have such connection with the 
 main Work as may give them claim to be likened 
 to the little Cells, Oratories, and sepulchral 
 Recesses, ordinarily included in those Edifices. 
 
 The Author w^ould not have deemed himself 
 justified in saying, upon this occasion, so much 
 of performances either unfinished, or unpub- 
 lished, if he had not thought that the labour 
 bestowed by him upon what he has heretofore 
 and now laid before the Public, entitled him to 
 candid attention for such a statement as he 
 thinks necessary to throw light upon his endea- 
 vours to please, and he would hope, to hene^t 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 his countrymen. — Nothing further need be 
 added, than that the first and third parts of the 
 Recluse will consist chiefly of meditations in 
 the Author's own Person ; and that in the in- 
 termediate part (The Excursion) the intervention 
 of Characters speaking is employed, and some- 
 thing of a dramatic form adopted. 
 
 It is not the Author's intention formally to 
 announce a system : it was more animating to 
 him to proceed in a different course ; and if he 
 shall succeed in conveying to the mind clear 
 thoughts, lively images, and strong feelings, the 
 Reader will have no difficulty in extracting the 
 system for himself. And in the meantime the 
 following passage, taken from the conclusion of 
 the first book of the Recluse, may be acceptable 
 as a kind of Prospectus of the design and scop 
 of the whole Poem. 
 
 *« On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life 
 Musing in Solitude, 1 oft 'perceive 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
 Accomjianied by feelings of delight 
 Pure, or with no 7i?ipleasi?ig sadness mixed ; 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 And dear remembrances, "whose presence soothes 
 Or elevates the Mind^ intc?it to "weigh 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 The good and evil of mir mortal state. 
 
 — To these emotions^ *whe7icesoe'er they come, 
 
 Whether from breath of outward circumsta?ice. 
 
 Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself, 
 
 I would give utterance in numerous Verse. 
 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope — 
 
 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ,- 
 
 Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual Power ; 
 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread ,• 
 
 Of the individual Mind that keeps her onson 
 
 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 
 To Consciefice only, and the law supreme 
 
 Of that Intelligence which governs all ; 
 
 I sing : — "ft audieiice let me fnd though few /" 
 
 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard, 
 Holiest of Men. — Urania, I shall need 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven I 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, mtist sink 
 Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
 To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
 All strength — all terror, single or in bands, 
 That ever was put forth in personal form ; 
 Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 
 Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones — 
 I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 
 No7' aught of blinder vacancy — scooped out 
 
 By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man, 
 
 My haunt, and the main region of my Song, 
 
 — Beauty — a living Presence of the earth. 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
 Which crcft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
 From earth^s ?naterials — waits upon my steps ; 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move. 
 
 An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
 Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of old 
 Sought in the Atlantic Main, why should they be 
 A history only of departed things. 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
 For the discerning intellect of Man, 
 When wedded to this goodly universe 
 In hve and holy passion, shall find these 
 A simple produce of the common day, 
 
 — /, long before the blissful hour ariives, 
 Would chaunt, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
 Of this great consummation : — and, by words 
 Which speak of nothing more than what we are. 
 Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
 
 Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
 To noble raptures ; while my voice ^proclaims 
 Haw exquisitely the individual Mind 
 
PREFACE. xlii 
 
 {And the progressive powers j)erhaps 7io less 
 Of the whole species) to the external World 
 Is Jit ted : — and how exquisitely, too. 
 Theme this but little heard of among Men, 
 The external World is fitted to the Mind ; 
 And the creation {by 7io loxmr name 
 Can it be called) which they with blended might 
 Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 
 
 — Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I of t 
 Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 Of madding passio7is mutually inflamed ; 
 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish ,• or must hang 
 Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorronsjf barricadoed evey-more 
 
 Within the walls of Cities ,- may these sounds 
 Have their authentic comment, — that even these 
 Hearing, I be not dowticast or forlorn I 
 
 — Come thou prophetic Spirit that inspirest . 
 The human Soul of universal earth. 
 Dreaming on things to come ,« and dost possess 
 A metropolitan Temple in the hearts 
 
 Of mighty Poets ; upon me bestow 
 A gift of genuine insight ,• that my Song 
 With star-like virtue in its place may shine ; 
 Shedding benignant influence, — and secure. 
 Itself, from all malevolent effect 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 Of those mutations that extend their $way 
 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if "joith this 
 
 I mix more louoly matter ; with the thing 
 
 Contemplated, describe the Mind of Man 
 
 Contemplating ; and w/io, a?id what he was. 
 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 
 This Vision, — when and where, and hem he lived ; 
 
 Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
 
 May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power, 
 
 Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
 
 Of all illumination, may my Life 
 
 Express the image of a better time, 
 
 More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse 
 
 My Heart in genuine freedom : — allpuf^e thoughts 
 
 Be with me ,• — so shall thy wf ailing Icme 
 
 Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end /" 
 
SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 A summer forenoon — The Author reaches a ruined Cottage upon a 
 Common, and there meets with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, 
 of whom he gives an account — The Wanderer while resting 
 under the shade of the Trees that surround the Cottage relates 
 the History of its last Inhabitant. 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose cha- 
 racter is further illustrated — Morning scene, and view of a Village 
 Wake — Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he purposes to 
 visit — View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend 
 had chosen for his retreat — feelings of the Author at the sight of 
 it — Soimd of singing from below — a funeral procession — De- 
 scent into the Valley — Observations drawn from the Wanderer 
 at sight of a Book accidentally discovered in a recess in the Valley 
 
 — Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary — Wander- 
 er's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district 
 
 — Solitary contrasts with this, that of the Individual carried a 
 few minutes before from the Cottage — Brief conversation — The 
 Cottage entered — description of the Solitary's apartment — re- 
 past there — View from the Window of two mountain summits — 
 and the Solitary's description of the Companionship they aflTord 
 
xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 him — account of the departed Inmate of the Cottage — descrip- 
 tion of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon 
 the Solitary's mind — Quit the House. 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Images in the Valley — Another Recess in it entered and described — 
 Wanderer's sensations — Solitary's excited by the same objects — 
 Contrast between these — Despondency of the Solitary gently 
 reproved — Conversation exhibiting the Solitary's past and pre- 
 sent opinions and feelings, till he enters upon his own History at 
 length — His domestic felicity — afflictions — dejection — roused 
 by the French Revolution — Disappointment and disgust — Voy- 
 age to America — disappointment and disgust pursue him — his 
 return — His languor and depression of mind, from want of faith 
 in the great truths of Religion, and want of confidence in the 
 virtue of Mankind. 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. 
 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 State of feeling produced by the foregoing Narrative — A belief in a 
 superintending Providence the only adequate support imder afflic- 
 tion — Wanderer's ejaculation to the supreme Being — Account 
 of his own devotional feelings in youth involved in it — Implores 
 that he may retain in age the power to find repose among endur- 
 ing and eternal things — What these latter are — Acknowledges 
 the difficulty of a lively faith — Hence immoderate sorrow — but 
 doubt or despondence not therefore to be inferred — And pro- 
 ceeds to administer consolation to the Solitary — Exhortations — 
 How these are received — Wanderer resumes — and applies his 
 discourse to that other cause of dejection in the Solitary's mind 
 the disappointment of his expectations from the French Revo- 
 lution — States the rational grounds of hope — and insists on the 
 necessity of patience and fortitude with respect to the course of 
 the great revolutions of the world — Knowledge the source of 
 tranquillity — Rural life and Solitude particularly favourable to a 
 
Vj 
 
 CONTENTS. xvii 
 
 knowledge of the inferior Creatures — Study of their habits and 
 ways recommended for its influence on the affections and the ima- 
 gination — Exhortation to bodily exertion and an active Commu- 
 nion with Nature — Morbid Solitude a pitiable thing — If the 
 elevated imagination cannot be exerted — try the humbler fancy 
 — Superstition better than apathy — Apathy and destitution un- 
 known in the infancy of society — The various modes of Religion 
 prevented it — this illustrated in the Jewish, Persian, Babylonian, 
 Chaldean, and Grecian modes of belief — Solitary interposes — 
 Wanderer, in answer, points out the influence of religious and 
 imaginative feeling on the mind in the humble ranks of society, in 
 rural Ufe especially — This illustrated from present and past times 
 — Observation that these principles tend to recal exploded super- 
 stitions and popery — Wanderer rebuts this charge, and contrasts 
 the dignities of the Imagination with the presumptive littleness of 
 certain modern Philosophers, whom the Solitary appears to 
 esteem — Recommends to him other lights and guides — Asserts 
 the power of the Soul to regenerate herself — Solitary agitated, 
 and asks how — Reply — Personal appeal — Happy for us that 
 the imagination and affections in our own despite mitigate the 
 evils of that state of intellectual Slavery which the calculating 
 understanding is so apt to produce — Exhortation to activity of 
 Body renewed — How Nature is to be communed with — Wan- 
 derer concludes with a prospect of a legitimate union of the ima- 
 gination, the affections, the understanding, and the reason — 
 Effect of the Wanderer's discourse — Evening — Return to the 
 Cottage, 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Farewell to the Valley — Reflections — Sight of a large and popu- 
 lous Vale — Solitary consents to go forward — Vale described — 
 The Pastor's Dwelling, and some account of him — The Church- 
 yard — Church and Monuments — The Solitary musing, and 
 where — Roused — In the Church-yard the Solitary communicates 
 the thoughts which had recently passed through his mind — Lofty 
 tone of the Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to — Rite 
 
 a 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 of Baptism, and the professions accompanying it, contrasted with 
 the real state of human life — Inconsistency of the best men — 
 Acknowledgment that practice falls far below the injunctions of 
 duty as existing in the mind — General complaint of a falling-off 
 in the value of life after the time of youth — Outward appear- 
 ances of content and happiness in degree illusive — Pastor ap- 
 proaches — Appeal made to him — His answer — \Yanderer in 
 sympathy with him — Suggestion that the least ambitious Inquirers 
 may be most free from error — The Pastor is desired to give some 
 Portraits of the living or dead from his own observation of life 
 among these Mountains — and for what purpose — Pastor con- 
 sents — Mountain cottage — Excellent qualities of its Inhabitants 
 — Solitary expresses his pleasure ; but denies the praise of virtue to 
 worth of this kind — Feelings of the Priest before he enters upon 
 his account of Persons interred in the Church-yard — Graves of 
 unbaptized Infants — What sensations they excite — Funeral and 
 sepulchral Observances — Whence — Ecclesiastical Establishments 
 — Whence derived — Profession of Belief in the doctrine of Im- 
 mortality. 
 
 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUN- 
 TAINS. 
 
 Poet's Address to the State and Church of England — The Pastor 
 not inferior to the ancient Worthies of the Church — He begins 
 his Narratives with an Instance of unrequited love — Anguish of 
 mind subdued — and how — The lonely Miner, an Instance of 
 Perseverance, which leads by contrast to an Example of abused 
 talents, irresolution, and weakness — Solitary, applying this co- 
 vertly to his own case, asks for an Instance of some Stranger, 
 
 whose dispositions may have led him to end his days here 
 
 Pastor, in answer, gives an account of the harmonizing influence 
 of Solitude upon two Men of opposite principles, who had en- 
 countered agitations in pubHc life — The Rule by which Peace 
 may be obtained expressed — and where — Solitary hints at an 
 overpowering Fatality — Answer of the Pastor — What subjects 
 he will exclude from his Narratives -— Conversation upon this — 
 
CONTENTS. xix 
 
 Instance of an unamiable character, a Female — and why given — 
 Contrasted with this, a meek Sufferer, from unguarded and be- 
 trayed love — Instance of heavier guilt — and its consequences to 
 the Offender — With this Instance of a Marriage Contract broken 
 is contrasted one of a Widower, evidencing his faithful affection 
 towards his deceased Wife by his care of their female Children — 
 Second Marriage of a Widower prudential and happy. 
 
 BOOK SEVENTH. 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUN- 
 TAINS. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind — Pastor 
 invited to give account of certain Graves that lie apart — Clergy- 
 man and his Family — Fortunate influence of change of situation 
 — Activity in extreme old age — Another Clergyman, a character of 
 resolute Virtue — Lamentations over mis-directed applause — In- 
 stance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man — Elevated 
 character of a blindman — Reflection upon Blindness — 
 Interrupted by a Peasant who passes — his animal cheerful- 
 ness and careless vivacity — He occasions a digression on the fall 
 of beautiful and interesting Trees — A female Infant's Grave 
 — Joy at her Birth — Sorrow at her Departure — A youthful 
 Peasant — his patriotic enthusiasm -r- distinguished qualities — 
 and untimely Death — Exultation of the Wanderer, as a pa- 
 triot, in this Picture — Solitary how affected — Monument of a 
 Knight — Traditions concerning him — Peroration of Wanderer 
 on the transitoriness of things and the revolutions of society — 
 Hints at his own past Calling — Thanks the Pastor. 
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Pastor's apprehensions that he might have detained his Auditors too 
 long — Invitation to his House — Solitary disinclined to comply 
 — rallies the Wanderer ; and somewhat playfully draws a compa- 
 rison between his itinerant profession and that of the Knight- 
 errant — which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes 
 in the Country from the manufacturing spirit — Favourable ef- 
 
XX CONTENTS. 
 
 fects — The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has aftected 
 the humbler classes — Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all na- 
 tional grandeur if unsupported by moral worth — gives Instances 
 — Physical science unable to support itself — Lamentations over 
 an excess of manufacturing industr}' among the humbler Classes 
 of Society — Picture of a Child employed in a Cotton-mill — Ig- 
 norance and degradation of Children among the agricultural Po- 
 pulation reviewed — Conversation broken off by a renewed Invi- 
 tation from the Pastor — Path leading to his House — Its appear- 
 ance described — His Daughter — His Wife — His Son (a Boy) 
 enters with his Companion — Their happy appearance — The 
 Wanderer how affected by the sight of them. 
 
 BOOK NINTH. 
 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, &c. 
 
 Wanderer asserts that an active principle pervades the Universe — 
 Its noblest seat the human soul — How lively this principle is in 
 Childhood — Hence the delight in Old Age of looking back upon 
 Childhood — The dignity, powers, and privileges of Age asserted 
 
 — These not to be looked for generally but under a just govern- 
 ment — Right of a human Creature to be exempt from being con- 
 sidered as a mere Instrument — Vicious inclinations are best kept 
 under by giving good ones an opportunity to shew themselves — 
 The condition of multitudes deplored from want of due respect 
 to this truth on the part of their superiors in society — Former 
 conversation recurred to, and the Wanderer's opinions set in a 
 clearer light — Genuine principles of equality — Truth placed 
 within reach of the humblest — Happy state of the two Boys again 
 adverted to ■ — Earnest wish expressed for a System of National 
 Education established universally by Government — Glorious ef- 
 fects of this foretold — Wanderer breaks off — Walk to the Lake 
 
 — embark — Description of scenery and amusements — Grand 
 spectacle from the side of a hill — Address of Priest to the Su- 
 preme Being — in the Course of which he contrasts with ancient 
 Barbarism the present appearance of the scene before him — The 
 change ascribed to Christianity — Apostrophe to his Flock, living 
 and dead — Gratitude to the Almighty — Return over the Lake 
 
 — Parting with the Solitary — Under what circumstances. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
BOOK FIRST, 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 'TwAS summer, and the sun had mounted high : 
 Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
 Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs, 
 In clearest air ascending, shewed far off 
 A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
 From many a brooding cloud ; far as the sight 
 Could reach, those many shadows lay in spots 
 Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 
 Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed. 
 Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 
 Extends his careless limbs along the front 
 
 b2 
 
4 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
 A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
 Where the wren warbles ; while the dreaming Man, 
 Half conscious of the soothing melody. 
 With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, 
 By that impending covert made more soft. 
 More low and distant ! Other lot was mine ; 
 Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain 
 As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 
 Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 
 With languid feet, which by the slippery ground 
 Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse 
 The host of insects gathering round my face. 
 And ever witli me as I paced along. 
 
 Upon that open level stood a Grove, 
 The wished-for port to which my steps were bound. 
 Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
 Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, 
 Appeared a roofless hut ; four naked walls 
 That stared upon each other ! I looked round, 
 And to my wish and to my hope espied 
 Him whom I sought ; a Man of reverend age. 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
 There was he seen upon the Cottage bench, 
 Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
 An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 
 
 Him had I marked the day before — alone 
 And in the middle of the public way 
 Stationed, as if to rest himself, with face 
 Turned tow'rds the sun then setting, while that 
 Afforded to his Figure, as he stood. 
 Detained for contemplation or repose. 
 Graceful support; the countenance of the Man 
 Was hidden from my view, and he himself 
 Unrecognized ; but, stricken by the sight. 
 With slacken' d footsteps I advanced, and soon 
 A glad congratulation we exchanged 
 At such unthought-of meeting. — For the night 
 We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 
 He by appointment waited for me here, 
 Beneath the shelter of these clustering elms. 
 
 We were tried Friends : I fi-om my Childhood up 
 Had known him. — In a little Town obscure, 
 
 B 3 
 
6 THE WANDERER. 
 
 A market-villfige, seated in a tract 
 Of mountains, where my school-day time was passed. 
 One room he owned, the fifth part of a house, 
 A place to which he drew, from time to time. 
 And found a kind of home or harbour there. 
 
 He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy Boys 
 Singled out me, as he in sport would say. 
 For my grave looks — too thoughtful for my years. • 
 As I grew up it was my best delight 
 To be his chosen Comrade. Many a time. 
 On holidays, we wandered through the woods, 
 A pair of random travellers ; we sate — 
 We walked ; he pleased me with his sweet discourse 
 Of things which he had seen ; and often touch'd 
 Abstrusest matter, reasonings of tlie mind 
 Turned inward ; or at my request he sang 
 Old songs — the product of his native hills ; 
 A skilful distribution of sweet sounds. 
 Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
 As cool refreshing Water, by the care 
 Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
 Through a parched meadow-groimd, in time of drought. 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse : 
 How precious when in riper days I learn'd 
 To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 
 In the plain presence of his dignity ! 
 
 Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
 By Nature ; Men endowed with highest gifts. 
 The vision and the faculty divine, 
 Yet wanting the accomplishment of Verse, 
 (Which, in the docile season of their youth, 
 It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of books. 
 Or haply by a temper too severe, 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame), 
 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
 By circumstance to take unto the height 
 The measure of themselves, these favored Beings, 
 All but a scattered few, live out their time, 
 Husbanding that which they possess within, 
 And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest minds 
 Are often those of whom the noisy world 
 Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 
 His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 
 
 B 4 
 
8 THE WANDERER. 
 
 But, as tlie mind was filled with inward light, 
 So not without distinction had he lived. 
 Beloved and honoured — far as he was known. 
 And some small portion of his eloquent speech. 
 And something that may serve to set in view 
 The feeling pleasures of hi& loneliness, 
 The doings, observations, which his mind 
 Had dealt with — I will here record in verse ; 
 "Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 
 Or rise, as venerable Nature leads. 
 The high and tender Muses shall accept 
 With gracious smile, deliberately pleased. 
 And listening Time reward with sacred praise. 
 
 Among the hills of Athol he was bom : 
 There, on a small hereditary Farm, 
 An unproductive shp of rugged ground, 
 His Father dwelt ; and died in poverty ; 
 While He, whose lowly fortune I retrace. 
 The youngest of three sons, was yet a babe, 
 A little One — unconscious of their loss. 
 But ere he had outgrown his infant days 
 His widowed Mother, for a second Mate, 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 Espoused the Teacher of the Village School ; 
 
 Who on her offspring zealously bestowed 
 
 Needful instruction ; not alone in arts 
 
 Which to his humble duties appertained, 
 
 But in the lore of right and wrong, the rule 
 
 Of human kindness, in the peaceful ways 
 
 Of honesty, and holiness severe. 
 
 A virtuous Household though exceeding poor ! 
 
 Pure Livers were they all, austere and grave. 
 
 And fearing God ; the very Children taught 
 
 Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word. 
 
 And an habitual piety, maintained 
 
 With strictness scarcely known on English ground 
 
 From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak. 
 In summer, tended cattle on the Hills ; 
 But, through the inclement and the perilous days 
 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired 
 To his Step-father's School, that stood alone. 
 Sole Building on a mountain's dreary edge. 
 Far from the sight of City spire, or sound 
 Of Minster clock ! From that bleak Tenement 
 He, many an evening to his distant home 
 
10 THE WANDERER. 
 
 In solitude returning, saw the Hills 
 
 Grow larger in the darkness, all alone 
 
 Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
 
 And travelled through the wood, with no one near 
 
 To whom he might confess the things he saw. 
 
 So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
 
 In such communion, not from terror free. 
 
 While yet a Child, and long before his time. 
 
 He had perceived the presence and the power 
 
 Of greatness; and deep feelings had impressed 
 
 Great objects on his mind, with portraiture 
 
 And colour so distinct, that on his mind 
 
 They lay like substances, and almost seemed 
 
 To haunt the bodily sense. He had received 
 
 (Vigorous in native genius as he was) 
 
 A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, 
 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 
 All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms ; 
 
 And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
 
 Aji active power to fasten images 
 
 Upon his brain ; and on theii* pictured lines 
 
 Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
 
THE WANDERER. U 
 
 The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail. 
 While yet a Child, with a Child's eagerness 
 Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 
 On all things which the moving seasons brought 
 To feed such appetite : nor this alone 
 Appeased his yearning : — in the after day 
 Of Boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn. 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 
 He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments. 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye. 
 Or by creative feeling overborne. 
 Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 
 Even in their fix'd and steady lineaments 
 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind. 
 Expression ever varying I 
 
 Thus informed. 
 He had small need of books ; for many a Tale 
 Traditionary, round the mountains hung. 
 And many a Legend, peopling the dark woods, 
 Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
 And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
 By which she is made quick to recognize 
 
12 THE WANDERER. 
 
 The moral properties and scope of things. 
 
 But eagerly he read, and read again, 
 
 Whatever the Minister's old Shelf supplied ; 
 
 The life and death of Martyrs, who sustained, 
 
 With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
 
 Triumphantly displayed in records left 
 
 Of Persecution, and the Covenant — Times 
 
 Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour I 
 
 And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
 
 A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
 
 That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
 
 Romance of Giants, chronicle of Fiends, 
 
 Proftise in garniture of wooden cuts 
 
 Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire, 
 
 Shaip-knee'd, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too, 
 
 With long and ghostly shanks — forms which once seen 
 
 Could never be forgotten ! 
 
 In his heart, 
 Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
 Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
 By sound diiFus'd, or by the breathing air, 
 Or by the silent looks of happy thmgs. 
 
THE WANDERER, IS 
 
 Or flowing from the universal face 
 
 Of earth and sky. But he had feU the power 
 
 Of Nature, and already was prepared. 
 
 By his intense conceptions, to receive 
 
 Deeply the lesson deep of love which he. 
 
 Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
 
 To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 
 
 From early childhood, even, as hath been said. 
 From his sixth year, he had been sent abroad 
 In summer to tend herds : such was his task 
 Thenceforward 'till the later day of youth. 
 O then what soul was his, when, on the tops 
 Of the high mountains, he beheld the sun 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked — 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 
 In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touch'd, 
 And in their silent faces did he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none. 
 Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form 
 All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
 
14. THE WANDERER, 
 
 His animal being ; in them did he live, 
 And by them did he live; they were his life. 
 In such access of mind, in such high hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
 
 A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
 Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
 Oh then how beautiful, how bright appeared 
 The written Promise ! He had early learned 
 To reverence the Volume which displays 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die : 
 But in the mountains did he Jeel his faith; 
 There did he see the writing ; — all things there 
 Breathed inunortality, revolving life. 
 And greatness still revolving; infinite; 
 There littleness was not ; the least of things 
 
THE WAMDERER. 15 
 
 Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saw» 
 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 
 Subhme and comprehensive ! Low desires, 
 
 Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his heart 
 
 Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
 
 Oft as he called those extacies to mind. 
 
 And whence they flowed ; and from them he acquired 
 
 Wisdom, which works thro' patience ; thence he learned 
 
 In many a calmer hour of sober thought 
 
 To look on Nature with a humble heart, 
 
 Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time ; yet to a neighbouring town 
 He duly went with what small overplus 
 His earnings might supply, and brought away 
 The Book which most had tempted his desires 
 While at the Stall he read. Among the liills 
 He gazed upon that mighty Orb of Song 
 The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
 His Step-father supplied ; books that explain 
 
16 THE WANDERER. 
 
 The purer elements of truth involved 
 
 In Imes and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
 
 (Especially perceived where nature droops 
 
 And feeling is suppressed,) preserve the mind 
 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 
 These occupations oftentimes deceived 
 
 The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
 
 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
 
 In pensive idleness. What could he do 
 
 With blind endeavours, in that lonesome life. 
 
 Thus thirsting daily ? Yet still uppermost 
 
 Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 
 
 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
 
 In all things which from her sweet influence 
 
 Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms. 
 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
 
 While yet he lingered in the rudiments 
 
 Of science, and among her simplest laws, 
 
 His triangles — • they were the stars of heaven, 
 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 
 To measure th* altitude of some tall crag 
 
 Which is the eagle's birth-place, or some }ieak 
 
THE WANDERER. ]? 
 
 Familiar with forgotten years, that shews 
 Inscribed, as with the silence of the thought, 
 Upon it*s bleak and visionary sides, 
 The history of many a winter storm. 
 Or obscure records of the path of fire. 
 
 And thus, before his eighteenth year was told. 
 Accumulated feeUngs pressed his heart 
 With an increasing weight ; he was overpowered 
 By Nature, by the turbulence subdued 
 Of his own mind; by mystery and hope. 
 And the first virgin passion of a soul 
 Communing with the glorious Universe. 
 Full often wished he that the winds might rage 
 When they were silent ; far more fondly now 
 Than in his earlier season did he love 
 Tempestuous nights — the conflict and the sounds 
 That live in darkness : — from his intellect 
 And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
 He asked repose ; and I have heard him say 
 That often, failing at this time to gain 
 The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 
 
18 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
 From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
 A cloud of mist, which in the sunshine frames 
 A lasting tablet — for the observer's eye 
 Var3dng it's rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 
 And vainly by all other means, he strove 
 To mitigate the fever of his heart. 
 
 In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 
 Thus, even from Childhood upward, was he reared 
 For intellectual progress wanting much, 
 Doubtless, of needful help — yet gaining more. 
 And every moral feeling of his soul 
 Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 
 The keen, the wholesome air of poverty. 
 And drinking from the well of homely life. 
 — But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 
 He now was summoned to select the course 
 Of humble industry which promised best 
 To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
 The Mother strove to make her Son perceive 
 With what advantage he might teach a School 
 
THE WANDERER. 19 
 
 In the adjoining Village ; but the Youth, 
 
 Who of this service made a short essay, 
 
 Found that the wanderings of his thought were then 
 
 A misery to him ; that he must resign 
 
 A task he was unable to perform. 
 
 That stern yet kindly spirit, who constrains 
 
 The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, 
 
 The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
 
 (Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
 
 Like their own stedfast clouds) — did now impel 
 
 His restless Mind to look abroad with hope. 
 
 — An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
 
 Through dusty ways, in storm, from door to door, 
 
 A vagrant Merchant bent beneath his load ! 
 
 Yet do such Travellers find their own delight ; 
 
 And their hard service, deemed debasing now, 
 
 Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 
 
 When Squire, and Priest, and they who round them dwelt 
 
 In rustic sequestration — all dependant 
 
 Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants, 
 
 Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. 
 
 Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 
 c 2 
 
20 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Of his adventurous Countrymen were led 
 By perseverance in this Track of life 
 To competence and ease ; — for him it bore 
 Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 
 He asked his Mother's blessing; and, with tears 
 Thanking his second Father, asked from him 
 Paternal blessings. The good Pair bestowed 
 Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
 Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
 He wandered far ; much did he see of Men, 
 Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, 
 Their passions, and their feelings ; chiefly those 
 Essential and eternal in the heart, 
 Which, mid the simpler forms of rural life. 
 Exist more simple in their elements. 
 And speak a plainer language. In the woods, 
 A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, 
 Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 
 The better portion of his time ; and there 
 Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
 Upon the bounties of the year, and felt 
 The liberty of Nature ; there he kept 
 In solitude and solitary thought 
 
THE WANDERER. 21 
 
 His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
 Of ordinary life ; un vexed, un warped 
 By partial bondage. In his steady course, 
 No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
 No wild varieties of joy and grief. 
 Unoccupied by sorrow of it's own 
 His heart lay open ; and, by Nature tuned 
 And constant disposition of his thoughts 
 To sympathy with Man, he was alive 
 To all that was enjoyed where'er he went ; 
 And all that was endured ; for in himself 
 Happy, and quiet in his chearfulness, 
 He had no painful pressure from without 
 That made him turn aside from wretchedness 
 With coward fears . He could afford to suffer 
 With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came 
 That in our best experience he was rich, 
 And in the wisdom of our daily life. 
 For hence, minutely, in his various rounds. 
 He had observed the progress and decay 
 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 
 The History of many Families ; 
 
 c -3 
 
22 THE WANDERER. 
 
 How they had prospered ; how they were overthrown 
 
 By passion or mischance ; or such misrule 
 
 Among the unthinking masters of the earth 
 
 As make the nations groan. — This active course, 
 
 Chosen in youth, through manhood he pursued, 
 
 Till due provision for his modest wants 
 
 Had been obtained ; — and, thereupon, resolved 
 
 To pass the remnant of his days — untasked 
 
 With needless services, — from hardship free. 
 
 His Calling laid aside, he lived at ease : 
 
 But still he loved to pace the public roads 
 
 And the wild paths ; and, when the summer's warmth 
 
 Invited him, would often leave his home 
 
 And journey far, revisiting those scenes 
 
 Which to his memory were most endeared. 
 
 — Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, untouched 
 
 By worldly-mindedness, or anxious care ; 
 
 Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 
 
 By knowledge gathered up from day to day ; — 
 
 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 
 
 The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 
 With whom from childhood he grew up, had held 
 
THE WANDERER. 23 
 
 The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
 Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 
 This he remembered in his riper age 
 With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
 But by the native vigour of his mind. 
 By his habitual wanderings out of doors, 
 By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 
 Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
 He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
 Was melted all away ; so true was this 
 That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
 Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods, 
 Who to the model of his own pure heart 
 Framed his belief, as grace divine inspired. 
 Or human reason dictated with awe. 
 — And surely never did there live on earth 
 A Man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 
 And teazing ways of Children vexed not him. 
 Nor could he bid them from his presence, tired 
 With questions and importunate demands : 
 Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
 Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale, 
 c 4 
 
24. THE WANDERER. 
 
 To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 
 Obtain reluctant hearing. 
 
 Plain his garb ; 
 Such as might suit a rustic sire, prepared 
 For sabbath duties ; yet he was a Man 
 Whom no one could have passed without remark. 
 Active and nervous was his gait ; his limbs 
 And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
 Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek 
 Into a narrower circle of deep red. 
 But had not tamed his eye ; that, under brows 
 Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought 
 From years of youth ; which, like a Being made 
 Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
 To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 
 Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 
 
THE WANDERER. 25 
 
 So was He framed ; and such his course of life 
 Who now, with no Appendage but a Staff, 
 The prized memorial of relinquished toils, 
 Upon that Cottage bench reposed his limbs, 
 Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, 
 His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
 The shadows of the breezy elms above 
 Dappling his face. He had not heard my steps 
 As I approached; and near him did I stand 
 Unnotic'd in the shade, some minutes' space. 
 At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
 Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
 Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose, 
 And ere the pleasant greeting that ensued 
 Was ended, " 'Tis," said I, " a burning day ; 
 My lips are parched with thirst, but you, I guess. 
 Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 
 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb 
 The fence hard by, where that aspiring shrub 
 Looked out upon the road. It was a plot 
 Of garden-ground run wild, it's matted weeds 
 
26 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, 
 The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 
 Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems 
 In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
 The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 
 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 
 Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a Well 
 Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 
 My thirst I slaked, and from the chearless spot 
 Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 
 Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bench ; 
 And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, 
 I yet was standing, freely to respire. 
 And cool my temples in the fanning air. 
 Thus did he speak. " I see around me here 
 Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend, 
 Nor we alone, but that which each man loved 
 And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
 Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 
 Even of the good is no memorial left. 
 — The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
 Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 
 They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 
 
THE WANDERER. 27 
 
 And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, 
 
 In these their invocations, with a voice 
 
 Obedient to the strong creative power 
 
 Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
 
 More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
 
 That steal upon the meditative mind. 
 
 And grow with thought. Beside yon Spring I stood, 
 
 And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
 
 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
 
 Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
 
 When, every day, the touch of human hand 
 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
 
 In mortal stillness ; and they minister'd 
 
 To human comfort. As I stooped to drink, 
 
 Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
 
 The useless fragment of a wooden bowl. 
 
 Green with the moss of years , a pensive sight 
 
 That moved my heart ! — recalling former days 
 
 When I could never pass that road but She 
 
 Who lived within these walls, at my approach, 
 
 A Daughter's welcome gave me ; and I loved her 
 
 As my own child. O Sir ! the good die first, 
 
 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 
28 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Bum to the socket. Many a Passenger 
 
 Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, 
 
 When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
 
 From that forsaken Spring ; and no one came 
 
 But he was welcome ; no one went away 
 
 But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 
 
 The light extinguished of her lonely Hut, 
 
 The Hut itself abandoned to decay, 
 
 And She forgotten in the quiet grave ! 
 
 " I speak," continued he^ " of One whose stock 
 Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
 She was a Woman of a steady mind, 
 Tender and deep in her excess of love, 
 Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
 Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 
 Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
 A Being — who by adding love to peace 
 Might live on earth a life of happiness. 
 Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 
 The humble worth that satisfied her heart : 
 Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
 Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
 
THE WANDERER. 29 
 
 That he was often seated at his loom, 
 
 In summer, ere the Mower was abroad 
 
 Among the dewy grass,- — in early spring. 
 
 Ere the last Star had vanished. — They who passed 
 
 At evening, from behind the garden fence 
 
 Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply. 
 
 After his daily work, until the light 
 
 Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 
 
 In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 
 
 In peace and comfort ; and a pretty Boy 
 
 Was their best hope, — next to the God in Heaven. 
 
 Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came 
 Two blighting seasons when the fields were left 
 With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 
 A worse affliction in the plague of war ; 
 This happy Land was stricken to the heart ! 
 A Wanderer then among the Cottages 
 I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
 The hardships of that season ; many rich 
 Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 
 And of the poor did many cease to be, 
 
30 THE WANDERER. 
 
 And their place knew them not. Meanwhile abridged 
 
 Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
 
 To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
 
 Went struggling on through those calamitous years 
 
 With chearful hope : but, ere the second autumn, 
 
 Her life's true Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, 
 
 Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
 
 He lingered long ; and when his strength returned, 
 
 He found the little he had stored, to meet 
 
 The hour of accident or crippling age. 
 
 Was all consumed. Two children had they now, 
 
 One newly born. As I have said, it was 
 
 A time of trouble; shoals of Artisans 
 
 Were from their daily labour turned adrift 
 
 To seek their bread from public charity. 
 
 They, and their wives and children — happier far 
 
 Could they have lived as do the little birds 
 
 That peck along the hedges, or the Kite 
 
 That makes his dwelling on the mountain Rocks ! 
 
 A sad reverse it was for Him who long 
 Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
 This lonely Cottage. At his door he stood. 
 
THE WANDERER. 31 
 
 And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
 That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — 
 Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
 In house or garden, any casual work 
 Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
 Amusing, yet uneasy novelty. 
 He blended, where he might, the various tasks 
 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
 But this endured not ; his good humour soon 
 Became a weight in which no pleasure w^as : 
 And poverty brought on a petted mood 
 And a sore temper : day by day he drooped. 
 And he would leave his work — and to the Town, 
 Without an errand, would direct his steps, 
 Or wander here and there among the fields. 
 One while he would speak lightly of his Babes, 
 And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
 He tossed them with a false unnatural joy : 
 And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
 Of the poor innocent children. " Every smile," 
 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
 " Made my heart bleed." 
 
32 THE WANDERER. 
 
 At this tlie Wanderer paused ; 
 And, looking up to those enormous Ehns, 
 He said, " 'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. — 
 At this still season of repose and peace. 
 This hour, when all things which are not at rest 
 Are chearful ; while this multitude of flies 
 Is fiUing all the air with melody ; 
 Why should a tear be in an Old Man's eye ? 
 Why should we thus, with an untoward mind. 
 And in the weakness of humanity. 
 From natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 
 To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears, 
 And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
 The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ?" 
 
 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone ; 
 But, when he ended, there was in his face 
 Such easy chearfulness, a look so mild. 
 That for a little timt' it stoh' away 
 
THE WANDERER. 33 
 
 All recollection, and that simple Tale 
 
 Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 
 
 A while on trivial things we held discourse, 
 
 To me soon tasteless. In my own despite 
 
 I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
 
 Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 
 
 Her homely Tale with such familiar power. 
 
 With such an active countenance, an eye 
 
 So busy, that the things of which he spake 
 
 Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed, 
 
 There was a heart-felt chillness in my veins. — ■ 
 
 I rose ; and, turning from the breezy shade, 
 
 Went forth into the open air, and stood 
 
 To drink the comfort of the warmer sun. 
 
 Long time I had not staid, ere, looking round 
 
 Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned. 
 
 And begged of the Old Man that, for my sake. 
 
 He would resume his story. — 
 
 He replied, 
 '' It were a wantonness, and would demand 
 Severe reproof, if we were Men whose hearts 
 Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
 Even of the dead; contented thence to draw 
 
34 THE WANDERER. 
 
 A momentary pleasm'e, never marked 
 
 By reason, barren of all future good. 
 
 But we have known that there is often found 
 
 In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 
 
 A power to virtue friendly ; were't not so, 
 
 I am a Dreamer among men, indeed 
 
 An idle Dreamer ! 'Tis a common Tale, 
 
 An ordinary sorrow of Man's life, 
 
 A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
 
 In bodily form. — But, without further bidding, 
 
 I will proceed. — 
 
 While thus it fared with them. 
 To whom this Cottage, till those hapless years. 
 Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
 To travel in a Country far remote. 
 And glad I was, when, halting by yon gate 
 That leads from the green lane, once more I saw 
 These lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest : 
 With many pleasant thoughts I cheared my way 
 O'er the flat Common. — Having reached the door 
 I knocked, — and, when I entered with the hope 
 Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me 
 A httle while ; then turned her head away 
 
THE WANDERER. 35 
 
 Speechless, — and sitting do^Ti upon a chair 
 Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 
 Or how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last 
 She rose from off her seat, and then, — O Sir ! 
 I cannot tell how she pronounced my name. — 
 With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
 Unutterably helpless, and a look 
 That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired 
 If I had seen her Husband. As she spake 
 A strange surprise and fear came to my heart. 
 Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
 That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 
 He left his House : two wretched days had passed, 
 And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
 Her head from off her pillow, to look forth. 
 Like one in trouble, for returning light. 
 Within her chamber-casement she espied 
 A folded paper, lying as if placed 
 To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
 She opened — found no writing, but therein 
 Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 
 Silver and gold. — "I shuddered at the sight," 
 Said Margaret, " for I knew it was his hand 
 
 D 2 
 
36 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Which placed it there : and ere that day was ended. 
 
 That long and anxious day ! I learned from One 
 
 Sent hither by my Husband to impart 
 
 The heavy news, — that he had joined a Troop 
 
 Of Soldiers, going to a distant Land. 
 
 — He left me thus — he could not gather heart 
 
 To take a farewell of me ; for he feared 
 
 That I should follow with my Babes, and sink 
 
 Beneath the misery of that wandering Life." 
 
 This Tale did Margaret tell with many tears : 
 And, when she ended, I had little power 
 To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
 Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 
 To chear us both : — but long we had not talked 
 Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
 And with a brighter eye she looked around 
 As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
 We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring ; 
 I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
 And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, 
 And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
 Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 
 
THE WANDERER. 37 
 
 With tender chearfulness ; and with a voice 
 That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 
 
 I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale. 
 With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 
 Through many a wood, and many an open ground. 
 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair. 
 Drooping, or blithe of heart, as might befal ; 
 My best companions now the driving winds, 
 And now the " trotting brooks" and whispering trees, 
 And now the music of my own sad steps. 
 With many a short-lived thought that passed between. 
 And disappeared. — I journeyed back this way 
 Towards the wane of Summer ; when the wheat 
 Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass 
 Springing afresh had o'er the hay-field spread 
 Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
 I found that she was absent. In the shade. 
 Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
 Her Cottage, then a chearful Object, wore 
 Its customary look, — only, I thought. 
 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch. 
 Hung down in heavier tufts : and that bright weed, 
 D 3 
 
38 THE WANDERER. 
 
 The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
 
 Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 
 
 Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
 
 And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 
 Its pride of neatness. From the border lines 
 
 Composed of daisy and resplendent thrift. 
 
 Flowers straggling forth had on those paths encroached 
 
 Which they were used to deck : — > Carnations, once 
 
 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
 
 For the peculiar pains they had required, 
 
 Declined their languid heads — without support. 
 
 The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, 
 
 Had twined about her two small rows of pease, 
 
 And dragged them to the earth. — Ere this an hour 
 
 Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless steps, 
 
 And, as I walked before the door, it chanced 
 
 A Stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought, 
 
 He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west ; and now 
 
 I sate with sad impatience. From within 
 
 Her solitary Infant cried aloud ; 
 
 Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, 
 
THE WANDERER. : 
 
 The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
 But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
 The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
 The longer I remained more desolate. 
 And, looking round, 1 saw the corner stones, 
 Till then unnoticed, on either side the door 
 With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er 
 With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the Sheep, 
 That fed upon the common, thither came 
 Familiarly; and found a couching-place 
 Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 
 From these tall elms; — the Cottage-clock struck eight;- 
 I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
 Her face was pale and thin, her figure too 
 AVas changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 
 " It grieves me you have waited here so long. 
 But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late, 
 And, sometimes, — to my shame I speak, have need 
 Of my best prayers to bring me back again." 
 While on the board she spread our evening meal, 
 She told me, — interrupting not the work 
 Which gave employment to her listless hands — 
 That she had parted with lier elder Child ; 
 
 jx 4 
 
40 THE WANDERER. 
 
 To a kind Master on a distant farm 
 
 Now happily apprenticed — "I perceive 
 
 You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day 
 
 I have been travelling far ; and many days 
 
 About the fields I wander, knowing this 
 
 Only, that what I seek I cannot find. 
 
 And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
 
 And to myself, said she, have done much wrong 
 
 And to this helpless Infant. I have slept 
 
 Weeping, and weeping I have waked ; my tears 
 
 Have flowed as if my body were not such 
 
 As others are ; and I could never die. 
 
 But I am now in mind and in my heart 
 
 More easy ; and I hope," said she, " that Heaven 
 
 Will give me patience to endure the things 
 
 Which I behold at home." It would have grieved 
 
 Your very soul to see her ; Sir, I feel 
 
 The story linger in my heart : I fear 
 
 'Tis long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
 
 To that poor Woman : — so familiarly 
 
 Do I perceive her manner, and her look. 
 
 And presence, and so deeply do I feel 
 
 Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
 
THE WANDERER. 41 
 
 A momentary trance comes over me ; 
 
 And to myself I seem to muse on One 
 
 By sorrow laid asleep ; — or borne away, 
 
 A hiunan being destined to awake 
 
 To human life, or something very near 
 
 To human life, when he shall come again 
 
 For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 
 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 
 Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast ; 
 
 And, when she at her table gave me food. 
 
 She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
 
 Her body was subdued. In every act 
 
 Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared 
 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 
 Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed. 
 
 But yet no motion of the breast was seen. 
 
 No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 
 
 We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
 
 I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 
 
 Ere my departure, to her care I gave. 
 For her Son's use, some tokens of regard, 
 
42 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
 And I exhorted her to have her trust 
 In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
 I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe 
 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
 With the best hope and comfort I could give ; 
 She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my hope 
 Methought she did not thank me. 
 
 I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
 1 found her sad and drooping ; she had learned 
 No tidings of her Husband ; if he lived 
 She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead 
 She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 
 In person and appearance ; but her House 
 Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence. 
 The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
 Was comfortless, and her small lot of books. 
 Which, in the Cottage window, heretofore 
 Had been piled up against the corner panes 
 In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves 
 
THE WANDERER. 43 
 
 Lay scattered here and there, open or shut. 
 As they had chanced to fall. Her Infant Babe 
 Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
 And sighed among its playthings. Once again 
 I turned towards the garden gate, and saw. 
 More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
 Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
 The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass; 
 No ridges there appeared of clear black mold. 
 No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers. 
 It seemed the better part were gnawed away 
 Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw. 
 Which had been twined about the slender stem 
 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root ; 
 The bark was nibbled round by truant Sheep. 
 — Margaret stood near, her Infant in her arms, 
 And, noting that my eye was on the tree. 
 She said, " I fear it will be dead and gone 
 Ere Robert come again." Towards the House 
 Together we returned ; and she enquired 
 If I had any hope : — but for her Babe 
 And for her little orphan Boy, she said. 
 She had no wish to live, that she must die 
 
4.4. THE WANDERER. 
 
 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
 
 Still in its place ; his Sunday garments hung 
 
 Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff 
 
 Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when. 
 
 In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
 
 She told me that her little Babe was dead, 
 
 And she was left alone. She now, released 
 
 From her maternal cares, had taken up 
 
 The.employment common through these Wilds, and gained 
 By spinning hemp a pittance for herself; 
 
 And for this end had hired a neighbour's Boy 
 To give her needful help. That very time 
 Most willingly she put her work aside, 
 And walked with me along the miry road 
 Heedless how far ; and, in such piteous sort 
 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
 That, wheresoever I went, I still would ask 
 For him whom she had lost We parted then — 
 Our final parting ; for from that time forth 
 Did many seasons pass ere I returned 
 Into this tract again. 
 
 Nine tedious years ; 
 From their first separation, nine long years, 
 
THE WANDERER. 45 
 
 She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; 
 
 A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
 
 A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my Friend, 
 
 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
 
 Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath-day, 
 
 And if a dog passed by she still would quit 
 
 The shade, and look abroad. On this old Bench 
 
 For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
 
 Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
 
 That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, 
 
 Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its grey line ; 
 
 There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
 
 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
 
 That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread 
 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
 
 A man whose garments shewed the Soldier's red. 
 
 Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb. 
 
 The little Child who sate to turn the wheel 
 
 Ceased from his task ; and she with faultering voice 
 
 Made many a fond enquiry ; and when they. 
 
 Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 
 
 Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate. 
 
^6 THE WANDERER. 
 
 That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood, 
 
 And when a stranger Horseman came the latch 
 
 Would lift, and in his face look wistfully : 
 
 Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 
 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 
 
 Sank to decay : for he was gone, whose hand. 
 
 At the first nipping of October frost. 
 
 Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 
 
 Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 
 
 Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 
 
 Until her House by frost, and thaw, and rain. 
 
 Was sapped ; and while she slept the nightly damps 
 
 Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 
 
 Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind ; 
 
 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 
 
 She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 
 
 Have parted hence ; and still that length of road, 
 
 And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared. 
 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, 
 
 In sickness she remained ; and here she died. 
 
 Last human Tenant of these ruined Walls." 
 
THE WANDERER. 47 
 
 The Old Man ceased : he saw that I was moved ; 
 From that low Bench, rising instinctively 
 I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
 To thank him for the Tale which he had told. 
 I stood, and leaning o'er the Garden wall, 
 Reviewed that Woman's sufferings ; and it seemed 
 To comfort me while with a Brother's love 
 I bless'd her — in the impotence of grief. 
 At length towards the Cottage I returned 
 Fondly, — and traced, with interest more mild, 
 That secret spirit of humanity 
 Which, mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
 Of Nature, mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 
 And silent overgrowings, still survived. 
 The Old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 
 ^* My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given. 
 The purposes of wisdom ask no more; 
 Be wise and chearful ; and no longer read 
 The forms of things with an unworthy eye. 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
 I well remember that those very plumes. 
 Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 
 
48 THE WANDERER. 
 
 By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
 As once I passed, did to my heart convey 
 So still an image of tranquillity. 
 So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
 Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind. 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
 The passing shews of Being leave behind. 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could not live 
 Where meditation was. I turned away 
 And walked along my road in happiness." 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees. 
 We sate on that low Bench : and now we felt. 
 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
 A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
 A thrush sang loud, and other melodies. 
 At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
 The Old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 
 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his Staff; 
 
THE WANDERER. 49 
 
 Together casting then a farewell look 
 Upon those silent walls, we left the Shade ; 
 And, ere the Stars were visible, had reached 
 A Village Inn, — our Evening resting-place. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST BOOK. 
 
48 THE WANDERER. 
 
 By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
 As once I passed, did to my heart convey 
 So still an image of tranquillity, 
 So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
 Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind. 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 From ruin and from change, and all the gi'ief 
 The passing shews of Being leave behind, 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could not live 
 Where meditation was. I turned away 
 And walked along my road in happiness." 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees. 
 We sate on that low Bench : and now we felt, 
 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
 A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
 A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
 At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
 The Old Man rose, and, with a sprighdy mien 
 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his Staff; 
 
THE WANDERER. 49 
 
 Together casting then a farewell look 
 Upon those silent walls, we left the Shade ; 
 And, ere the Stars were visible, had reached 
 A Village Inn, — our Evening resting-place. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST BOOK. 
 
52 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Him, sleeping or awake, the Robber spared ; 
 
 He walked — protected from the sword of war 
 
 By virtue of that sacred Instrument 
 
 His Harp, suspended at the Traveller's side ; 
 
 His dear Companion wheresoe'er he went 
 
 Opening from Land to Land an easy way 
 
 By melody, and by the charm of verse. 
 
 Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race 
 
 Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned thoughts 
 
 From his long journey ings and eventful life, 
 
 Than this obscure Itinerant (an obscure. 
 
 But a high-souled and tender-hearted Man) 
 
 Had skill to draw from many a ramble, far 
 
 And wide protracted, through the tamer ground 
 
 Of these our unimaginative days ; 
 
 Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise 
 
 Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 
 
 And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 
 
 What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite School 
 Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 
 And pathways winding on from farm to farm. 
 Looked on this Guide with reverential love ? 
 
THE SOLITARY, 53 
 
 Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
 Our journey — beneath favourable skies. 
 Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
 Unfailing : not a Hamlet could we pass. 
 Rarely a House, which did not yield to him 
 Remembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
 Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
 Accompanied those strains of apt discourse. 
 Which Nature's various objects might supply : 
 And in the silence of his face I read 
 His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts. 
 And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
 And harmless reptile coiling in the sun. 
 And gorgeous insect hovering in the air. 
 The fowl domestic, and the household dog, 
 In his capacious mind — ^he loved them all : 
 Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
 Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
 How the calm pleasures of the pasturing Herd 
 To happy contemplation soothed his walk 
 Along the field, and in the shady grove ; 
 How the poor Brute's condition, forced to run 
 Its course of sufi^ering in the public road, 
 
 E 3 
 
54 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
 With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
 And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 
 To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
 
 — Greetings and smiles we met with all day long 
 From faces that he knew ; we took our seats 
 
 By many a cottage hearth, where he received 
 The welcome of an Inmate come from far. 
 
 — Nor was he loth to enter ragged Huts, 
 Wherein his charity was blessed ; his voice 
 Heard as the voice of an experienced Friend. 
 And, sometimes, where the Poor Man held dispute 
 With his own mind, unable to subdue 
 Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
 General distress in his particular lot ; 
 
 Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
 Struggling against it, with a soul perplexed. 
 And finding in itself no steady power 
 To draw the line of comfort that divides 
 Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
 From the injustice of our brother men ; 
 To Him appeal was made as to a judge ; 
 Who, with an understanding heart, allayed 
 
THE SOLITARY. S5 
 
 The perturbation ; listened to the plea ; 
 Resolved the dubious point ; and sentence gave 
 So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
 With softened spirit — even when it condemned. 
 
 Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved 
 Now as his choice directed, now as mine ; 
 Or both, with equal readiness of will, 
 Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 
 Of accident. But when the rising sun 
 Had three times called us to renew our walk, 
 My Fellow Traveller said with earnest voice, 
 As if the thought were but a moment old. 
 That I must yield myself without reserve 
 To his disposal. Glad was I of this : 
 We started — and he led towards the hills ; 
 Up through an ample vale, with higher hills 
 Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 
 But, in the majesty of distance, now 
 Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
 Of aspect, with aerial softness clad. 
 And beautified with morning's purple beams. 
 
 E 4 
 
56 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 The Wealthy, the Luxurious, by the stress 
 Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, 
 May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
 Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
 From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ; 
 And They, if blessed with health and hearts at ease. 
 Shall lack not their enjoyment : — but how faint 
 Compared with our's ! who, pacing side by side. 
 Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
 That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
 To every grateful sound of earth and air. 
 Pausing at will ; our spirits braced, our thoughts 
 Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown. 
 And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 
 
 Mount slowly, Sun ! and may our journey lie 
 Awhile within the shadow of this hill. 
 This friendly hill, a shelter from thy beams ! 
 Such is the summer Pilgrim's frequent wish ; 
 And as that wish, with prevalence of thanks 
 For present good o'er fear of future ill, 
 Stole in among the morning's blither thoughts. 
 
THE SOLITARY. 57 
 
 *Twas chased away: for, towards the western side 
 
 Of the broad Vale, casting a casual glance, 
 
 We saw a throng of People ; — wherefore met ? 
 
 Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
 
 On the thrilled ear, did to the question yield 
 
 Prompt answer : they proclaim the annual Wake, 
 
 Which the bright season favours. — Tabor and Pipe 
 
 In purpose join to hasten and reprove 
 
 The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boons 
 
 Of merriment a party-coloured Knot, 
 
 Already formed upon the Village green. 
 
 — Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
 
 By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
 
 That gay Assemblage. Round them and above. 
 
 Glitter, with dark recesses interposed. 
 
 Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
 
 Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam 
 
 Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
 
 By the strong sun-beams smitten. Like a mast 
 
 Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
 
 Of morning, aided by exhaling dew. 
 
 With gladsome influence could re-animate 
 
 The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 
 
58 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Said I, " the music and the sprightly scene 
 Invite us ; shall we quit our road and join 
 These festive matins ?" — He replied, " Not loth 
 Here would I linger, and with you partake. 
 Not one hour merely, but till evening's close. 
 The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
 By the fleet Racers, ere the Sun be set, 
 The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed : 
 There, too, the lusty Wrestlers will contend : 
 But know we not that he, who intermits 
 The appointed task and duties of the day. 
 Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day ; 
 Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
 To flow, when purposes are lightly changed ? 
 We must proceed — a length of journey yet 
 Remains untraced." Then, pointing with his staff' 
 Towards those craggy summits, his intent 
 He thus imparted. 
 
 " In a spot that lies 
 Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
 You will receive, before the hour of noon. 
 Good recompence, I hope, for this day's toil — 
 From sight of One who lives secluded there. 
 
THE SOLITARY. 59 
 
 Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past Hfe, 
 (Not to forestal such knowledge as may be 
 More faithfully collected from himself,) 
 This brief communication shall suffice. 
 
 Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, 
 Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
 Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
 Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, 
 Upon the humblest ground of social life, 
 Doth at this day, I trust, the blossoms bear 
 Of piety and simple innocence. 
 Such grateful promises his youth displayed : 
 And, as he shewed in study forward zeal, 
 All helps were sought, all measures strained, that He, 
 By due scholastic discipline prepared, 
 Might to the Ministry be called : which done, 
 Partly through lack of better hopes — and part 
 Perhaps incited by a curious mind, 
 In early life he undertook the charge 
 Of Chaplain to a Military Troop 
 Cheered by the Highland Bagpipe, as they marched 
 
60 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 In plaided vest, — his Fellow-countrymen. 
 
 This Office filling, and, by native power 
 
 And force of native inclination, made 
 
 An intellectual Ruler in the haunts 
 
 Of social vanity — he walked the World, 
 
 Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety ; 
 
 Lax, buoyant — less a Pastor with his Flock 
 
 Than a Soldier among Soldiers — lived and roamed 
 
 Where Fortune led : — and Fortune, who oft proves 
 
 The careless wanderer's Friend, to him made known 
 
 A blooming Lady — a conspicuous Flower, 
 
 Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 
 
 Whom he had sensibility to love. 
 
 Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 
 
 For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind. 
 Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth. 
 His Office he relinquished ; and retired 
 From the world's notice to a rural Home. 
 Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past. 
 And she was in youth's prime. How full their joy, 
 How free their love ! nor did their love decay ; 
 
THE SOLITARY. 61 
 
 Nor joy abate, till, pitiable doom ! 
 In the short course of one undreaded year 
 Death blasted all. — Death suddenly overthrew 
 Two lovely Children — all that they possessed ! 
 The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
 The one Survivor stood ; he wept, he prayed 
 For his dismissal ; day and night, compelled 
 By pain to turn his thoughts towards the grave, 
 And face the regions of Eternity. 
 All uncomplaining apathy displaced 
 This anguish ; and, indifferent to delight, 
 To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
 To private interest dead, and public care. 
 So lived he ; so he might have died. 
 
 But now, 
 To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 
 The glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn. 
 That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
 That sudden light had power to pierce the gloom 
 In which his Spirit, friendless upon earth. 
 In separation dwelt, and solitude. 
 The voice of social transport reached even him ! 
 He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 
 
62 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 To the great City, an Emporium then 
 
 Of golden expectations, and receiving 
 
 Freights every day from a new world of hope. 
 
 Thither his popular talents he transferred ; 
 
 And, from the Pulpit, zealously maintained 
 
 The cause of Christ and civil liberty, 
 
 As one ; and moving to one glorious end. 
 
 Intoxicating service ! I might say 
 
 A happy service ; for he was sincere 
 
 As vanity and fondness for applause. 
 
 And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 
 
 That righteous Cause of freedom did, we know. 
 Combine, for one hostility, as friends, 
 Etherial Natures and the worst of Slaves ; 
 Was served by rival Advocates that came 
 From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 
 One courage seemed to animate them all : 
 And, from the dazzUng conquests daily gained 
 By their united efforts, there arose 
 A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
 In the transcendant wisdom of the age. 
 And its discernment ; not alone in rights, 
 
THE SOLITARY. 63 
 
 And in the origin and bounds of power, 
 
 Social and temporal ; but in laws divine, 
 
 Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 
 
 An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 
 
 Cast out, — alike of person and of thing. 
 
 Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 
 
 The strongest did not easily escape ; 
 
 And He, what wonder ! took a mortal taint. 
 
 How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 
 
 That he broke faith with those whom he had laid 
 
 In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope ! 
 
 An infidel contempt of holy writ 
 
 Stole by degrees upon his mind ; and hence 
 
 Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced ; 
 
 Vilest hjrpocrisy, the laughing, gay 
 
 Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 
 
 Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls ; 
 
 But, for disciples of the inner school. 
 
 Old freedom was old servitude, and they 
 
 The wisest, whose opinions stooped the least 
 
 To known restraints : and who most boldly drew 
 
 Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 
 
 Which, in the light of false philosophy, 
 
64 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Spread like a halo round a misty moon, 
 Widening its circle as the storms advance. 
 
 His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
 And every day and every place enjoyed 
 The unshackled Layman's natural liberty ; 
 Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 
 I do not wish to wrong him ; — though the course 
 Of private life licentiously displayed 
 Unhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
 Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
 Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
 Of prejudice subdued — he still retained, 
 'Mid such abasement, what he had received 
 From nature — an intense and glowing mind. 
 Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak 
 And mortal sickness on her face appeared, 
 He coloured objects to his own desire 
 As with a Lover's passion. Yet his moods 
 Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
 Nay keener — as his fortitude was less. 
 And he continued, when worse days were come. 
 To deal about his sparkling eloquence. 
 
THE SOLITARY. 6.5 
 
 Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 
 
 That showed Hke happiness ; but, in despite 
 
 Of all this outside bravery, within. 
 
 He neither felt encouragement nor hope. 
 
 For moral dignity, and strength of mind, 
 
 Were wanting ; and simplicity of Life ; 
 
 And reverence for himself; and, last and best, 
 
 Confiding thoughts, and love and fear of Him 
 
 Before whose sight the troubles of this world 
 
 Are vain as billows in a tossing sea. 
 
 The glory of the times fading away. 
 The splendor, which had given a festal air 
 To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
 From his own sight, — this gone, therewith he lost 
 All joy in human nature ; was consumed. 
 And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
 And fruitless indignation ; galled by pride ; 
 Made desperate by contempt of Men who throve 
 Before his sight in power or fame, and won, 
 Without desert, what he desired ; weak men. 
 Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
 — And thus beset, and finding in himself 
 
 F 
 
66 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Nor pleasure nor tranquillity, at last 
 After a wandering course of discontent 
 In foreign Lands, and inwardly oppressed 
 With malady — in part, I fear, provoked 
 By weariness of life, he fixed his Home, 
 Or, rather say, sate down by very chance. 
 Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells. 
 And wastes the sad remainder of his hours 
 In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want 
 Its own voluptuousness; — on this resolved. 
 With this content, that he will live and die 
 Forgotten, — at safe distance from a " world 
 Not moving to his mind." 
 
 These serious words 
 Closed the preparatory notices 
 With which my Fellow-traveller had beguiled 
 The way, while we advanced up that wide Vale. 
 Now, suddenly diverging, he began 
 To climb upon its western side a Ridge 
 Pathless and smooth, a long and steep ascent ; 
 As if the object of his quest had been 
 Some secret of the Mountains, Cavern, Fall 
 Of water — or some boastful Eminence, 
 
THE SOLITARY. 67 
 
 Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide. 
 We clomb without a track to guide our steps ; 
 And, on the summit, reached a heathy plain. 
 With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 
 Before us ; savage region ! and I walked 
 In weariness : when, all at once, behold ! 
 Beneath our feet, a little lowly Vale, 
 A lowly Vale, and yet uplifted high ' 
 
 Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
 Had been, from eldest time by wish of theirs. 
 So placed, — to be shut out from all the world ! 
 Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an Urn ; 
 With rocks encompassed, save that to the South 
 Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
 Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close. 
 A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields, 
 A liquid pool that glittered in the sun, 
 And one bare Dwelling ; one Abode, no more ! 
 It seemed the home of poverty and toil 
 Though not of want : the little fields, made green 
 By husbandry of many thrifty years, 
 Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland House. 
 — There crows the Cock, single in his domain : 
 
 F 2 
 
68 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 The small birds find in spring no thicket there 
 To shroud them ; only from the neighbouring Vales 
 The Cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 
 Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. 
 
 Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here ! 
 Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
 Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
 Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
 Among the mountains ; never one like this ; 
 So lonesome, and so perfectly secure : 
 Not melancholy — no, for it is green, 
 And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
 With the few needful things which life requires. 
 — In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie, 
 How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
 We have an image of the pristine earth. 
 The planet in its nakedness ; were this 
 Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat. 
 First, last, and single in the breathing world. 
 It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
 Or no where ; days unruffled by the gale 
 Of public news or private ; years that pass 
 
THE SOLITARY. 69 
 
 Forgetfully ; uncalled upon to pay 
 The common penalties of mortal life. 
 Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 
 
 On these and other kindred thoughts intent, 
 In silence by my Comrade's side I lay. 
 He also silent : when from out the heart 
 Of that profound Abyss a solemn Voice, 
 Or several Voices in one solemn sound, 
 Vl^as heard — ascending : mournful, deep, and slow 
 The cadence, as of Psalms — a funeral dirge ! 
 We listened, looking down towards the Hut, 
 But seeing no One : meanwhile from below 
 The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 
 And now distinctly could I recognize 
 These words : — " Shall in the Grave thy love be hnonson^ 
 In Death thy faithfulness ?" — " God rest his Soul," 
 The Wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence, 
 " He is departed, and finds peace at last 1" 
 
 This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 
 Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
 Of rustic Persons, from behind the hut 
 
 F 3 
 
70 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Bearing a Coffin in the midst, with which 
 
 They shaped their course along the sloping side 
 
 Of that small Valley ; singing as they moved ; 
 
 A sober company and few, the Men 
 
 Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 
 
 Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge 
 
 Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 
 
 Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake, 
 
 Methought, with apprehension that these rites 
 
 Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
 
 This day we purposed to intrude." — "I did so, 
 
 But let us hence, that we may learn the truth : 
 
 Perhaps it is not he but some One else 
 
 For whom this pious service is performed ; 
 
 Some other Tenant of the Solitude." 
 
 So, to a steep and difficult descent 
 Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, 
 Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 
 Of the mute train, upon the heathy top 
 Of that off-sloping Outlet, disappeared, 
 I, more impatient in the course I took, 
 Had landed upon easy groimd ; and there 
 
THE SOLITARY. 71 
 
 Stood waiting for my comrade. When behold 
 An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
 It was an Entry, narrow as a door ; 
 A j)assage whose brief windings opened out 
 Into a platform ; that lay, sheepfold-wise, 
 Enclosed between a single mass of rock 
 And one old moss-grown wall ; — a cool Recess, 
 And fanciful ! For, where the rock and wall 
 Met in an angle, hung a tiny roof, 
 Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been framed 
 By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall 
 And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 
 To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 
 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 
 The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; 
 But the whole plainly wrought by Children's hands ! 
 Whose simple skill had thronged the grassy floor 
 With work of frame less solid, a proud show 
 Of baby-houses, curiously arranged; 
 Nor wanting ornament of walks between, 
 With mimic trees inserted in the turf. 
 And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 
 I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
 
 F 4 
 
72 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Who, having entered, carelessly looked round, 
 
 And now would have passed on : when I exclaimed, 
 
 '' Lo ! what is here?" and stooping down, drew forth 
 
 A Book, that, in the midst of stones and moss 
 
 And wreck of party-coloured ear then- ware. 
 
 Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
 
 One of those petty structures. " Gracious Heaven !" 
 
 The Wanderer cried, " it cannot but be his, 
 
 And he is gone !" The Book, which in my hand 
 
 Had opened of itself, (for it was swoln 
 
 With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 
 
 To the injurious elements exposed 
 
 From week to week J I found to be a work 
 
 In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
 
 His famous Optimist. " Unhappy Man !" 
 
 Exclaimed my Friend : " here then has been to him 
 
 Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
 
 Within how deep a shelter ! He had fits. 
 
 Even to the last, of genuine tenderness. 
 
 And loved the haunts of Children ; here no doubt 
 
 He sometimes played with them ; and here hath sate 
 
 Far oftener by himself. This Book, I guess. 
 
 Hath been forgotten in his careless way 
 
THE SOLITARY. 7S 
 
 Left here when he was occupied in mind; 
 And by the Cottage Children has been found. 
 Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work ; 
 To what odd purpose have the Darlings turned 
 This sad memorial of their hapless Friend !" 
 
 " Me," said I, " most doth it surprize, to find 
 Such Book in such a place !" "A Book it is," 
 He answered, " to the Person suited well. 
 Though little suited to surrounding things ; 
 Nor, with the knowledge which my mind possessed, 
 Could I behold it undisturbed : 'tis strange, 
 I grant, and stranger still had been to see 
 The Man, who was its Owner, dwelling here, 
 With one poor Shepherd, far from all the world ! 
 Now, if our errand hath been thrown away 
 As from these intimations I forebode. 
 Grieved shall I be — less for my sake than your's ; 
 And least of all for Him who is no more." 
 
 By this, the Book was in the Old Man's hand ; 
 And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
 An eye of scorn. " The Lover," said he, " doomed 
 
74. THE SOLITARY. 
 
 To love when hope hath failed him — whom no depth 
 
 Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
 
 Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, 
 
 And that is joy to him. When change of times 
 
 Hath summoned Kings to scaffolds, do but give 
 
 The faithful Servant, who must hide his head 
 
 Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
 
 A kerchief sprinkled with his Master's blood, 
 
 And he too hath his comforter. How poor. 
 
 Beyond all poverty how destitute. 
 
 Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, 
 
 Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
 
 No dearer relique, and no better stay. 
 
 Than this dull product of a Scoffer's pen, 
 
 Impure conceits discharging from a heart 
 
 Hardened by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
 
 To tax you with this journey ;" — mildly said 
 
 My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped 
 
 Into the presence of the cheerful light — 
 
 " For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 
 
 From moving spectacles ; — but let us on." 
 
 So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
 
 I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
 
THE SOLITARY. 75 
 
 For full in view, approaching through the gate 
 
 That opened from the enclosure of green fields 
 
 Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
 
 Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
 
 I knew, from the appearance and the dress, 
 
 That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
 
 A tall and meagre person, in a garb 
 
 Not rustic, dull and faded like himself I 
 
 He saw us not, though distant but few steps ; 
 
 For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
 
 Which on a leaf he carried on his hand, 
 
 Strings of ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, 
 
 With intermixture of endearing words. 
 
 To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping 
 
 As if disconsolate. — " They to the Grave 
 
 Are bearing him, my little One," he said, 
 
 " To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain ; 
 
 His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven." 
 
 Glad was my Comrade now, though he at first, 
 I doubt not, had been more surprized than glad. 
 But now, recovered from the shock and calm. 
 He soberly advanced ; and to the Man 
 
76 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Gave cheerful greeting. — Vivid was the light 
 
 Which flashed at this from out the Other's eyes ; 
 
 He was all fire : the sickness from his face 
 
 Passed like a fancy that is swept away ; 
 
 Hands joined he with his Visitant, — a grasp. 
 
 An eager grasp ; and, many moments' space, 
 
 When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 
 
 And much of what had vanished was returned, 
 
 An amicable smile retained the life 
 
 Which it had unexpectedly received. 
 
 Upon his hollow cheek. " How kind," he said, 
 
 " Nor could your coming have been better timed ; 
 
 For this, you see, is in our little world 
 
 A day of sorrow. I have here a charge" — 
 
 And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
 
 The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping Child — 
 
 " A little Mourner whom it is my task 
 
 To comfort ; — but how came Ye ? — if yon track 
 
 (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 
 
 Conducted hither your most welcome feet. 
 
 Ye could not miss the Funeral Train — they yet 
 
 Have scarcely disappeared." " This blooming Child,' 
 
 Said the Old Man, " is of an age to weep 
 
THE SOLITARY. 77 
 
 At any grave or solemn spectacle, 
 
 Inly distressed, or overpowered with awe, 
 
 He knows not why ; — but he, perchance, this day, 
 
 Is shedding Orphan's tears; and you yourself 
 
 Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand of Death," 
 
 He answered, " has been here ; but could not well 
 
 Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
 
 Upon myself" — The Other left these words 
 
 Unnoticed, thus continuing. — 
 
 " From yon Crag, 
 Down whose steep sides we dropped into the Vale, 
 We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn sound 
 Heard anywhere, but in a place like this 
 'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 
 And customs of our rural ancestry 
 Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope, 
 Will last for ever. Often have I stopped 
 When on my way, I could not chuse but stop. 
 So much I felt the awfulness of Life, 
 In that one moment when the Corse is lifted 
 In silence, with a hush of decency, 
 Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 
 And confidential yearnings, to its home. 
 
78 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Its final home in earth. What Traveller — who — 
 
 (How far soe'er a Stranger) does not own 
 
 The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 
 
 A mute Procession on the houseless road. 
 
 Or passing by some single tenement 
 
 Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 
 
 The monitory voice ? But most of all 
 
 It touches, it confirms, and elevates. 
 
 Then, when the Body, soon to be consigned 
 
 Ashes to iishes, dust bequeathed to dust. 
 
 Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 
 
 Upon the shoulders of the next in love. 
 
 The nearest in affection or in blood ; 
 
 Yea, by the very Mourners who had knelt 
 
 Beside the Coffin, resting on its lid 
 
 In silent grief their unuplifted heads. 
 
 And heard meanwhile the Psalmisf s moumfiil plaint. 
 
 And that most awful scripture which declares 
 
 We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 
 
 — Have I not seen ? — Ye likewise may have seen 
 
 Son, Husband, Brothers — Brothers side by side. 
 
 And Son and Father also side by side. 
 
 Rise from that posture : — and in concert move, 
 
THE SOLITARY. 79 
 
 On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
 
 Four dear Supporters of one senseless Weight, 
 
 From which they do not shrink, and under which 
 
 They faint not, but advance towards the grave 
 
 Step after step — together, with their firm 
 
 Unhidden faces ; he that suffers most 
 
 He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps. 
 
 The most serene, with most undaunted eye ! 
 
 Oh ! blest are they who live and die like these, 
 
 Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!" 
 
 " That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
 The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
 Which did not please me, " must be deemed, I fear. 
 Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
 Into his mother earth without such pomp 
 Of grief, depart without occasion given 
 By him for such array of fortitude. 
 Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark ! 
 This simple Child will mourn his one short hour. 
 And I shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet, 
 This wanting, he would leave the sight of men. 
 If love were his sole claim upon their care,. 
 
80 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Like a ripe date which in the desart falls 
 Without a hand to gather it." At this 
 I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, 
 " Can it be thus among so small a band 
 As ye must needs be here ? in such a place 
 I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
 Of a departing cloud." — " 'Twas not for love" 
 Answered the sick man with a careless voice — 
 " That I came hither; neither have I found 
 Among Associates who have power of speech, 
 Nor in such other converse as is here. 
 Temptation so prevailing as to change 
 That mood, or undermine my first resolve." — 
 Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said 
 To my benign Companion, — " Pity 'tis 
 That fortune did not guide you to this house 
 A few days earlier ; then would you have seen 
 What stuff the Dwellers in this Solitude, 
 (That seems by Nature framed to be the seat 
 And very bosom of pure innocence) 
 Are made of; an ungracious matter this ! 
 Which for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too 
 Of past discussions with this zealous Friend 
 
THE SOLITARY. 81 
 
 And Advocate of humble life, I now 
 
 Will force upon his notice ; undeterred 
 
 By the example of his own pure course, 
 
 And that respect and deference which a soul 
 
 May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
 
 In what it values most — the love of God 
 
 And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall hear. 
 
 I talk — and ye are standing in the sun 
 
 Without refreshment !" 
 
 Saying this he led 
 Towards the Cottage; — homely was the spot; 
 And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door, 
 Had almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
 Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair. 
 Than it appeared when from the Valley's brink 
 We had looked down upon it. All within. 
 As left by that departed company. 
 Was silent; and the solitary clock 
 Ticked, as I thought, with melancholy sound. — 
 Following our Guide we clomb the cottage stairs 
 And reached a small apartment dark and low. 
 Which was no sooner entered than our Host 
 Said gaily, " This is my domaui, my cell, 
 
 G 
 
82 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 My hermitage, my cabin, what you will. — 
 
 I love it better than a snail his house. 
 
 But now Ye shall be feasted with our best." 
 
 So, with more ardour than an unripe girl 
 
 Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, 
 
 He went about his hospitable task. 
 
 My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less. 
 
 And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend 
 
 As if to thank him ; he returned that look. 
 
 Cheered plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 
 
 We had around us ! scattered was the floor. 
 
 And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf. 
 
 With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers, 
 
 And tufts of mountain moss ; and here and there 
 
 Lay, intermixed with these, mechanic tools. 
 
 And scraps of paper, — some I could perceive 
 
 Scribbled with verse : a broken angling rod 
 
 And shattered telescope, together linked 
 
 By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
 
 And instruments of music, some half-made, 
 
 Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. 
 
 — But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; 
 
 A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
 
THE SOLITARY. 83 
 
 Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
 
 A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 
 
 By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board ; 
 
 And was itself half-covered with a load 
 
 Of dainties, — oaten bread, curds, cheese, and cream, 
 
 And cakes of butter curiously embossed. 
 
 Butter that had imbibed a golden tinge, 
 
 A hue like that of yellow meadow flowers 
 
 Reflected faintly in a silent pool. 
 
 Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, 
 
 Our Table, small parade of garden fruits, 
 
 And whortle-berries from the mountain-sides. 
 
 The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, 
 
 Was now a help to his late Comforter, 
 
 And moved a willing Page, as he was bid. 
 
 Ministering to our need. 
 
 In genial mood. 
 While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
 Fronting the window of that little Cell, 
 I could not ever and anon forbear 
 To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
 That from some other Vale peered into this. 
 " Those lusty Twins on which your eyes are cast," 
 
 G 2 
 
84 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Exclaimed our Host, " if here you dwelt, would be 
 
 Your prized Companions. — Many are the notes 
 
 Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth 
 
 From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores ; 
 
 And well those lofty Brethren bear their part 
 
 In the wild concert — chiefly when the storm 
 
 Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
 
 With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, 
 
 Like smoke, along the level of the blast. 
 
 In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song 
 
 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails ; 
 
 And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, 
 
 Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
 
 The thunder's greeting : — nor have Nature's laws 
 
 Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
 
 Music of finer frame ; a harmony. 
 
 So do I call it, though it be the hand 
 
 Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the clouds, 
 
 The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
 
 Motions of moonlight, all come thither — touch, 
 
 And have an answer — thither come, and shape 
 
 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
 
 And idle spirits : — there the sun himself 
 
THE SOLITARY. 85 
 
 At the calm close of summer's longest day 
 Rests bis substantial Orl); — between those heights 
 And on the top of either pinnacle. 
 More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, 
 Sparkle the Stars as of their station proud. 
 Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
 Than the mute Agents stirring there : — alone 
 Here do I sit and watch. — " 
 
 With brightening face 
 The Wanderer heard him speaking thus, and said, 
 " Now for the Tale with which you threatened us !" 
 " In truth the threat escaped me unawares 
 And was forgotten. Let this challenge stand 
 For my excuse, if what I shall relate 
 Tire your attention. — Outcast and cut off 
 As we seem here, and must have seemed to you 
 When ye looked down upon us from the crag, 
 Islanders of a stormy Mountain sea. 
 We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 
 Upon the vulgar ordinance of the world. 
 And he, whom this our Cottage hath to-day 
 Relinquished, was dependant for his bread 
 Upon the laws of public charity. 
 
 G 3 
 
86 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 The Housewife, tempted by such slender gams 
 
 As might from that occasion be distilled, 
 
 Opened, as she before had done for me, 
 
 Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner ; 
 
 The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 
 
 Which appetite required — a blind dull nook 
 
 Such as she had — the kennel of his rest ! 
 
 This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
 
 III borne in earlier life ; but his was now 
 
 The still contentedness of seventy years. 
 
 Calm did he sit beneath the wide-spread tree 
 
 Of his old age ; and yet less caJm and meek, 
 
 Winningly meek or venerably calm. 
 
 Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 
 
 A penalty, if penalty it were. 
 
 For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 
 
 I loved the Old Man, for I pitied him ! 
 
 A task it was, I owfi, to hold discourse 
 
 With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts. 
 
 But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 
 
 Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way. 
 
 And useful to his utmost power : and there 
 
 Our Housewife knew full well what she possessed ! 
 
THE SOLITARY. 87 
 
 He was her Vassal of all labour, tilled 
 Her garden, from the pasture fetched her Kine ; 
 And, one among the orderly array 
 Of Hay-makers, beneath the burning sun 
 Maintained his place ; or heedfully pursued 
 His course, on errands bound, to other vales. 
 Leading sometimes an inexperienced Child 
 Too young for any profitable task. 
 So moved he like a Shadow that performed 
 Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 
 For what reward ! The Moon her monthly round 
 Hath not completed since our Dame, the Queen 
 Of this one cottage and this lonely dale. 
 Into my little sanctuary rushed. 
 Voice to a rueful treble humanized. 
 And features in deplorable dismay. — 
 I treat the matter lightly, but alas ! 
 It is most serious : from mid-noon the rain 
 Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 
 Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides ; 
 This had I seen and saw ; but, till she spake, 
 Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend, 
 Who at her bidding early and alone, 
 
 G 4 
 
88 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Had clomb aloft to delve the mountain turf 
 For winter fuel, to his noontide meal 
 Came not, and now perchance upon the Heights 
 Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 
 " Inhuman !" — said I, " was an Old Man's life 
 Not worth the trouble of a thought ? — alas ! 
 This notice comes too late." With joy I saw 
 Her Husband enter — from a distant Vale. 
 We sallied forth together ; found the tools 
 Which the neglected Veteran had dropped. 
 But through all quarters looked for him in vain. 
 We shouted — but no answer ! Darkness fell 
 Without remission of the blast or shower, 
 And fears for our own safety drove us home. 
 I, who weep little, did, I will confess. 
 The moment I was seated here alone, 
 Honour my little Cell with some few tears 
 Which anger or resentment could not dry. 
 All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 
 Had been collected from the neighbouring Vale, 
 With morning we renewed our quest : the wind 
 Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
 Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 
 
THE SOLITARY. 89 
 
 And long and hopelessly we sought in vain. 
 
 Till, chancing by yon lofty ridge to pass 
 
 A heap of ruin, almost without walls 
 
 And wholly without roof (in ancient time 
 
 It was a Chapel, a small Edifice 
 
 In which the Peasants of these lonely Dells 
 
 For worship met upon that central height) — 
 
 Chancing to pass this wreck of stones, we there 
 
 Espied at last the Object of our search, 
 
 Couched in a nook, and seemingly alive. 
 
 It would have moved you, had you seen the guise 
 
 In which he occupied his chosen bed, 
 
 Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
 
 Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn. 
 
 To baffle, as he might, the watery storm : 
 
 And there we found him breathing peaceably. 
 
 Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
 
 Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
 
 We spake — he made reply, but would not stir 
 
 At our entreaty ; less from want of power 
 
 Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts. 
 
 So was he lifted gently from the ground. 
 
 And with their freight the Shepherds homeward moved 
 
90 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, 
 
 A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
 
 Of the blind vapour, opened to my view 
 
 Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 
 By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 
 
 — Though I am conscious that no power of words 
 
 Can body forth, no hues of speech can paint 
 
 That gorgeous spectacle — too bright and fair 
 
 Even for remembrance ; yet the attempt may give 
 
 Collateral interest to this homely Tale. 
 
 Tlie Appearance, instantaneously disclosed. 
 
 Was of a mighty City — boldly say 
 
 A wilderness of building, sinking far 
 
 And self- with drawn into a wonderous depth, 
 
 Far sinking into splendor — without end ! 
 
 Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold. 
 
 With alabaster domes, and silver spires. 
 
 And blazing terrace upon terrace high 
 
 Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright. 
 
 In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 
 
 With battlements that on their restless fronts 
 
 Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 
 
 By earthly nature had the effect been wrought 
 
THE SOLITARY. 91 
 
 Upon the dark materials of the storm 
 
 Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 
 
 And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 
 
 The vapours had receded, taking there 
 
 Their station under a cerulean sky. 
 
 O, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 
 
 Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf. 
 
 Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky. 
 
 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed. 
 
 Molten together, and composing thus. 
 
 Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
 
 Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
 
 Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 
 
 In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 
 
 Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 
 
 Of open court, an object like a throne 
 
 Beneath a shining canopy of state 
 
 Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen 
 
 To implements of ordinary use. 
 
 But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
 
 Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
 
 In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power. 
 
 For admiration and mysterious awe. 
 
92 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Below me was the earth ; this httle Vale 
 
 Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible — 
 
 I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
 
 That which I saw was the revealed abode 
 
 Of spirits in beatitude : my heart 
 
 Swelled in my breast. — "I have been dead," 1 cried, 
 
 " And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ?" 
 
 And with that pang I prayed to be no more ! — 
 
 — But I forget our Charge, as utterly 
 
 I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed ; 
 
 The apparition faded not away. 
 
 And I descended. — Having reached the House 
 
 I found its rescued Inmate safely lodged. 
 
 And in serene possession of himself. 
 
 Beside a genial fire ; that seemed to spread 
 
 A gleam of comfort o'er his pallid face. 
 
 Great shew of joy the Housewife made, and truly 
 
 Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 
 
 And not less glad, for sake of her good name. 
 
 That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 
 
 But, though he seemed at first to have received 
 
 No harm, and uncomplaining as before 
 
 Went through his usual tasks, a silent change 
 
THE SOLITARY. 93 
 
 Soon shewed itself; he lingered three short weeks ; 
 And from the Cottage hath been borne to-day. 
 
 So ends my dolorous Tale, and glad I am 
 That it is ended." At these words he turned — 
 And, with blithe air of open fellowship, 
 Brought from the Cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
 Like one who would be merry. Seeing this 
 My grey-haired Friend said courteously — " Nay, na}^. 
 You have regaled us as a Hermit ought ; 
 Now let us forth into the sun !" — Our Host 
 Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 
BOOK THE THIRD. 
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 A humming Bee — a little tinkling Rill — 
 
 A pair of Falcons, wheeling on the wing, 
 
 In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
 
 Of a tall rock, their airy Citadel — 
 
 By each and all of these the pensive ear 
 
 Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, 
 
 When through the Cottage-threshold we had passed, 
 
 And, deep within that lonesome Valley, stood 
 
 Once more, beneath the concave of the blue 
 
 And cloudless sky. — Anon ! exclaimed our Host, 
 
 Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 
 
96 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 The shade of discontent which on his brow 
 
 Had gathered, — " Ye have left my cell, — but see 
 
 How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 
 
 And by her help ye are my Prisoners still. 
 
 But which way shall I lead you ? — how contrive. 
 
 In Spot so parsimoniously endowed, 
 
 That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap 
 
 Some recompence of knowledge or delight ?" 
 
 So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 
 
 And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired Friend 
 
 Said — " Shall we take this pathway for our guide ? — ' 
 
 Upwards it winds, as if, in summer heats. 
 
 Its line had first been fashioned by the flock 
 
 A place of refuge seeking at the root 
 
 Of yon black yew-tree ; whose protruded boughs 
 
 Darken the silver bosom of the crag. 
 
 From which it draws its meagre sustenance. 
 
 There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
 
 Or let us trace this Streamlet to its source ; 
 
 Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound. 
 
 And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
 
 Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs. 
 
 The mountain Infant to the sun comes forth. 
 
DESPONDENCY. 97 
 
 Like human Life from darkness." — At the word 
 We followed where he led : - — a sudden turn 
 Through a strait passage of encumbered ground, 
 Proved that such hope was vain : — for now we stood 
 Shut out from prospect of the open Vale, 
 And saw the water, that composed this Rill, 
 Descending, disembodied, and diffused 
 O'er the smooth surface of an ample Crag, 
 Lofty, and steep, and naked as a Tower. 
 All further progress here was barred ; — And who. 
 Thought I, if master of a vacant hour. 
 Here would not linger, willingly detained ? 
 Whether to such wild objects he were led 
 When copious rains have magnified the stream 
 Into a loud and white-robed Waterfall, 
 Or introduced at this more quiet time. 
 
 Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground. 
 The hidden nook discovered to our view 
 A Mass of rock, resembling, as it lay 
 Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
 A stranded Ship, with keel upturned, — that rests 
 Fearless of winds and waves. Three several Stones 
 
98 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
 
 To monumental pillars : and, from these 
 
 Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen. 
 
 That, with united shoulders bore aloft 
 
 A Fragment, like an Altar, flat and smooth. 
 
 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared, 
 
 Conspicuously stationed, one fair Plant, 
 
 A tall and shining Holly, which had found 
 
 A hospitable chink, and stood upright, 
 
 As if inserted by some human hand. 
 
 In mockery, to wither in the sun, 
 
 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze. 
 
 The first that entered. But no breeze did now 
 
 Find entrance ; — high, or low, appeared no trace 
 
 Of motion, save the Water that descended,- 
 
 Diffused adown that Barrier of steep rock. 
 
 And softly creeping, like a breath of air. 
 
 Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen. 
 
 To brush the still breast of a chrystal Lake. 
 
 " Behold a Cabinet for Sages built. 
 Which Kings might envy !" — Praise to this effect 
 Broke from the happy Old Man's reverend lip ; 
 
 I 
 
DESPONDENCY. 99 
 
 Who to the Solitary turned, and said, 
 " In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, 
 You have decried, in no unseemly terms 
 Of modesty, that wealth which is your own. 
 Among these Rocks and Stones, methinks, I see 
 More than the heedless impress that belongs 
 To lonely Nature's casual work : they bear 
 A semblance strange of power intelligent. 
 And of design not wholly worn away. 
 Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 
 How gracefully that slender Shrub looks forth 
 From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own. 
 Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
 I cannot but incline to a belief 
 That in these shows a chronicle survives 
 Of purposes akin to those of Man, 
 But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails. 
 — Voiceless the Stream descends into the gulph 
 With timid lapse ; — and lo ! while in this Strait 
 I stand — the chasm of sky above my head 
 Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 
 For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, 
 Or to pass through, but rather an Abyss 
 
 H 2 
 
100 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 In which the everlasting Stars abide ; 
 
 And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might tempt 
 
 The curious eye to look for them by day. 
 
 — Hail Contemplation ! from the stately towers, 
 
 Reared by the industrious hand of human Art 
 
 To lift thee high above the misty air, 
 
 And turbulence of murmuring cities vast ; 
 
 From academic groves, that have for thee 
 
 Been planted, hither come and find a Lodge 
 
 To which thou may est resort for holier peace, — 
 
 From whose calm centre Thou, through height or depth 
 
 Mayest penetrate, wherever Truth shall lead ; 
 
 Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 
 
 Of Time and conscious Nature disappear, 
 
 Lost in unsearchable Eternity !" 
 
 A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
 We scanned the various features of the scene : 
 And soon the Tenant of that lonely Vale 
 With courteous voice thus spake — 
 
 " I should have gi'ieved 
 Hereafter, should perhaps have blamed myself, 
 If from my poor Retirement ye had gone 
 
 I 
 
DESPONDENCY. 101 
 
 Leaving this Nook unvisited : but, in sooth. 
 Your unexpected presence had so roused 
 My spirits, that they were bent on enterprize ; 
 And, like an ardent Hunter, I forgot. 
 Or, shall I say ? — disdained, the game that lurked 
 At my own door. The shapes before our eyes. 
 And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed 
 The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance, 
 Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
 And hence, this upright Shaft of unhewn stone. 
 From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
 By sounding Titles, hath acquired the name 
 Of Pompey's Pillar ; that I gravely style 
 My Theban Obelisk ; and, there, behold 
 A Druid Cromlech ! — thus I entertain 
 The antiquarian humour, and am pleased 
 To skim along the surfaces of things. 
 Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
 But, if the spirit be oppressed by sense 
 Of instability, revolt, decay, 
 
 And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature 
 And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 
 To quicken, and to aggravate, to feed 
 
 H 3 
 
102 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 
 
 Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss 
 
 Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
 
 Whose hoary Diadem of pendant rocks 
 
 Confines the shrill- voiced whirlwind, round and round 
 
 Eddying within its vast circumference, 
 
 On Sarum's naked plain ; — than Pyramid 
 
 Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved ; 
 
 Or Syria's marble Ruins towering high 
 
 Above the sandy Desart, in the light 
 
 Of sun or moon. — Forgive me, if I say 
 
 That an appearance, which hath raised your minds 
 
 To an exalted pitch, (the self-same cause 
 
 Different effect producing) is for me 
 
 Fraught rather with depression than delight, 
 
 Though shame it were, could I not look around me, 
 
 By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
 
 Yet happier, in my judgment, even than you. 
 
 With your bright transports, fairly may be deemed. 
 
 Is He (if such have ever entered here) 
 
 The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear alike 
 
 From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts, 
 
 Casts on these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
 
DESPONDENCY. 103 
 
 Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
 For some rare Floweret of the hills, or Plant 
 Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 
 Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won : 
 Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed Hound 
 By soul-engrossing instinct driven along- 
 Through wood or open field, the harmless Man 
 Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! 
 Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 
 Less to be envied (you may trace him oft 
 By scars which his activity has left 
 
 Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven ! 
 This covert nook reports not of his hand) 
 He, who with pocket hammer smites the edge 
 Of every luckless rock or stone that stands 
 Before his sight, by weather-stains disguised, 
 Or crusted o'er with vegetation thin, 
 Nature's first growth, detaching by the stroke 
 A chip, or splinter, — to resolve his doubts; 
 And, with that ready answer satisfied. 
 Doth to the substance give some barbarous name. 
 Then hurries on ; or from the fragments picks 
 His specimen, if haply interveined 
 
 H 4? 
 
104 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 With sparkling mineral, or should chrystal cube 
 Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself enriched, 
 Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before ! 
 Entrusted safely — each to his pursuit. 
 This earnest Pair may range from hill to hill, 
 And, if it please them, speed from clime to clime ; 
 The mind is full — no pain is in their sport." 
 
 " Then," said I, interposing, " One is near. 
 Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
 Place worthier still of envy. May I name. 
 Without offence, that fair-faced Cottage-boy ? 
 Dame Nature's Pupil of the lowest Form, 
 Youngest Apprentice in the School of Art ! 
 Him, as we entered from the open Glen, 
 You might have noticed, busily engaged, 
 Heart, soul, and hands, — in mending the defects 
 Left in the fabric of a leaky dam, 
 Framed for enabling this penurious stream 
 To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 
 For his delight — the happiest he of all !" 
 
 " Far happiest," answered the desponding Man, 
 
DESPONDENCY. 105 
 
 " If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
 
 Ah ! what avails Imagination high 
 
 Or Question deep ? what profits all that Earth, 
 
 Or Heaven's blue Vault, is suffered to put forth 
 
 Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul 
 
 To quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
 
 Far as she finds a yielding element 
 
 In past or future ; far as she can go 
 
 Through time or space ; if neither in the one, 
 
 Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
 
 That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things, 
 
 Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds, 
 
 Words of assurance can be heard ; if no where 
 
 A habitation, for consummate good. 
 
 Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
 
 Can be attained, a better sanctuary 
 
 From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave ?" 
 
 " Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said, 
 " The voice, which we so lately overheard, 
 To that same Child, addressing tenderly 
 The Consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
 ' His body is at rest, his soul in heaven.^ 
 
106 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 These were your words ; and, verily, methiiiks 
 Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
 Than when we soar." — 
 
 The Other, not displeased. 
 Promptly replied — " My notion is the same. 
 And I, without reluctance, could decline 
 All act of inquisition whence we rise, 
 And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become. 
 Here are we, in a bright and breathing World ! 
 Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
 Of worthier explanation, say at once 
 With the American (a thought which suits 
 The place where now we stand) that certain Men 
 Leapt out together from a rocky Cave ; 
 And these were the first Parents of Mankind ! 
 Or, if a different image be recalled 
 By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 
 Of insects — chirping out their careless lives 
 On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf, 
 Chuse, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
 As sound ; with that blithe race who wore ere-while 
 Their golden Grasshoppers, in sign that they 
 Had sprung from out the soil whereon they dwelt 
 
DESPONDENCY. 107 
 
 But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
 
 On serious minds ; for doubtless, in one sense, 
 
 The theme is serious ; then, as Hindoos draw 
 
 Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount, 
 
 Even so deduce the Stream of human Life 
 
 From seats of power divine ; and hope, or trust. 
 
 That our Existence winds its stately course 
 
 Beneath the Sun, like Ganges, to make part 
 
 Of a living Ocean ; or, if such may seem 
 
 Its tendency, to be engulphed and lost, 
 
 Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
 
 And utter darkness : thought which may be faced, 
 
 Though comfortless ! — Not of myself I speak ; 
 
 Such acquiescence neither doth imply. 
 
 In me, a meekly-bending spirit — soothed 
 
 By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
 
 By philosophic discipline prepared 
 
 For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
 
 Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
 
 Such palms I boast not ; — no ! to me, who find. 
 
 Reviewing my past way, much to condemn. 
 
 Little to praise, and nothing to regret 
 
 (Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 
 
108 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 That scarcely seem to have belonged to me) 
 If I must take my choice between the pair 
 That rule alternately the weary hours, 
 Night is than day more acceptable ; — sleep 
 Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
 A better state than waking ; death than sleep ; 
 Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
 Though under covert of the wormy ground ! 
 
 Yet be it said, in justice to myself. 
 That in more genial times, when I was free 
 To explore the destiny of human kind ; 
 Not as an intellectual game pursued 
 With curious subtilty, thereby to cheat 
 Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
 Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
 In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed 
 I did not rank with those (too dull or nice. 
 For to my judgment such they then appeared, 
 Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 
 Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
 An object whereunto their souls are tied 
 In discontented wedlock ; nor did e*er, 
 
DESPONDENCY. 109 
 
 From me, those dark, impervious shades, that hang 
 
 Upon the region whither we are bound. 
 
 Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
 
 Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 
 
 On wings, angelic Spirits, I could muse 
 
 O'er what from eldest time we have been told 
 
 Of your bright forms and glorious faculties. 
 
 And with the imagination be content. 
 
 Not wishing more ; repining not to tread 
 
 The little sinuous path of earthly care. 
 
 By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed. 
 
 — " Blow winds of Autumn ! — let your chilling breath 
 
 " Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 
 
 " The shady forest of its green attire, — 
 
 " And let the bursting Clouds to fury rouse 
 
 " The gentle Brooks ! — Your desolating sway," 
 
 Thus I exclaimed, " no sadness sheds on me, 
 
 " And no disorder in your rage I find. 
 
 " What dignity, what beauty, in this change 
 
 " From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 
 
 " Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 
 
 " How rich in animation and delight, 
 
 " How bountiful these elements — compared 
 
no DESPONDENCY. 
 
 " With aught, as more desirable and fair, 
 
 *' Devised by Fancy for the Golden Age ; 
 
 '' Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 
 
 " In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 
 
 " Through the long year in constant quiet bound, 
 
 *' Night hushed as night, and day serene as day !" 
 
 — But why this tedious record ? — Age, we know. 
 
 Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 
 
 To anticipate the privilege of Age. 
 
 From far ye come ; and surely with a hope. 
 
 Of better entertainment — let us hence !" 
 
 Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
 To be diverted from our present theme, 
 I said, " My thoughts, agreeing. Sir, with yours. 
 Would push this censure farther ; — for, if smiles 
 Of scornful pity be the just reward 
 Of Poesy, thus courteously employed 
 In framing models to improve the scheme 
 Of Man's existence, and recast the world. 
 Why should not grave Philosophy be stiled. 
 Herself, a Dreamer of a kindred stock, 
 A Dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 
 
DESPONDENCY. Ill 
 
 Yes," said I, " Shall the immunities to which 
 
 She doth lay claim, the precepts she bestows, 
 
 Establish sounder titles of esteem 
 
 For Her, who (all too timid and reserved 
 
 For onset, for resistance too inert, 
 
 Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame) 
 
 Did place, in flowery gardens, curtained round 
 
 With world-excluding groves, the Brotherhood 
 
 Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
 
 The ends of being would secure and win 
 
 The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 
 
 To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
 
 Tranquillity to all things. Or is She," 
 
 I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power, 
 
 Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
 
 The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
 
 Of admiration, and all sense of joy ?" 
 
 His Countenance gave notice that my zeal 
 Accorded little with his present mind ; 
 I ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gentle Sir, 
 Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare to slight 
 The end of those, who did, by system, rank, 
 
112 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 As the prime object of a wise Man's aim. 
 
 Security from shock of accident, 
 
 Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful days 
 
 For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good. 
 
 And only reasonable felicity. 
 
 What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 
 
 Through a long course of later ages, drove 
 
 The Hermit to his Cell in forest wide ; 
 
 Or what detained liim, till his closing eyes 
 
 Took their last farewell of the sun and stars, 
 
 Fast anchored in the desart ? — Not alone 
 
 Dread of the persecuting sword — remorse, 
 
 Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged 
 
 And unavengeable, defeated pride, 
 
 Prosperity subverted, maddening want. 
 
 Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned. 
 
 Love with despair, or gi'ief in agony : — 
 
 Not always from intolerable pangs 
 
 He fled ; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed 
 
 For independent happiness ; craving peace, 
 
 The central feeling of all happiness. 
 
 Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
 
 A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce, 
 
DESPONDENCY. 113 
 
 But for its absolute self; a life of peace, 
 Stability without regret or fear ; 
 That hath been, is, and shall be evermore ! 
 Such the reward he sought ; and wore out Life, 
 There, where on few external things his heart 
 Was set, and those his own ; or, if not his, 
 Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law. 
 
 What other yearning was the master tie 
 Of the monastic Brotherhood ; upon Rock 
 Aerial, or in green secluded Vale, 
 One after one, collected from afar, 
 An undissolving Fellowship ? — What but this, 
 The universal instinct of repose, 
 The longing for confirmed tranquillity. 
 Inward and outward ; humble, yet sublime : — 
 The life where hope and memory are as one ; 
 Earth quiet and unchanged ; the human Soul 
 Consistent in self-rule ; and heaven revealed 
 To meditation, in that quietness ! - 
 Such was their scheme : — thrice happy he who gained 
 The end proposed ! And, — though the same were missed 
 By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none, — 
 
114 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 They, for the attempt, and for the pains employed, 
 Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
 From the unquahfied disdain, that once 
 Would have been cast upon them, by my Voice 
 Delivering its decisions from the seat 
 Of forward Youth : — that scruples not to solve 
 Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
 Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
 To overweening faith ; and is inflamed, 
 By courage, to demand from real life 
 The test of act and suffering — to provoke 
 Hostility, how dreadful when it comes, 
 Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 
 
 A Child of earth, I rested, in that stage 
 Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, 
 Upon earth's native energies ; forgetting 
 That mine was a condition which required 
 Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 
 Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
 Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
 I might have even been tempted to despise. 
 But that which was serene was also bright ; 
 
DESPONDENCY. 115 
 
 Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing, 
 With joy, and — oh ! that memory should survive 
 To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's boon, 
 Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
 Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign ; 
 Abused, as all possessions are abused 
 That are not prized according to their worth. 
 And yet, what worth ? what good is given to Men, 
 More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 
 What joy more lasting than a vernal flower ? 
 None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
 In solitude, and mutually addressed 
 From each to all, for wisdom's sake : — This truth 
 The Priest announces from his holy seat ; 
 And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove, 
 The Poet fits it to his pensive Lyre. 
 Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained, 
 Sharp contradictions hourly shall arise 
 To cross the way ; and we, perchance, by doom 
 Of this same life, shall be compelled to grieve 
 That the prosperities of love and joy 
 Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
 So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
 
 I 2 
 
116 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Oh ! tremble Ye to whom hath been assigned 
 
 A com'se of days composing happy months, 
 
 And they as happy years ; the present still 
 
 So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 
 
 Of a congenial future, that the wheels 
 
 Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 
 
 For Mutability is Nature's bane ; 
 
 And slighted Hope will be avenged ; and, when 
 
 Ye need her favours, Y^e shall find her not ; 
 
 But, in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony !" 
 
 This was the bitter language of the heart. 
 But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice, 
 Though discomposed and vehement, were such 
 As skill and graceful Nature might suggest 
 To a Proficient of the tragic scene 
 Standing before the multitude, beset 
 With sorrowful events; and we, who heard 
 And saw, were moved. Desirous to divert. 
 Or stem the current of the Speaker's thoughts. 
 We signified a wish to leave that Place 
 Of stillness and close privacy, which seemed 
 A nook for self-examination framed, 
 
DESPONDENCY. 117 
 
 Or, for confession, in the sinner's need; 
 Hidden from all Men's view. To our attempt 
 He yielded not ; but, pointing to a slope 
 Of mossy turf, defended from the sun ; 
 And, on that couch inviting us to rest, 
 Towards that tender-hearted Man he turned 
 A serious eye, and thus his speech renewed. 
 
 " You never saw, your eyes did never look 
 On the briffht Form of Her whom once I loved. 
 
 o 
 
 Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
 A sound unknown to you ; else, honored Friend ! 
 Your heart had borne a pitiable share 
 Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss. 
 And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought 
 That I remember, and can weep no more. — 
 Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
 Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
 Of self-reproach familiarly assatled ; 
 I would not yet be of such wintry bareness, 
 But that some leaf of your regard should hang 
 Upon my naked branches : — lively thoughts 
 Give birth, full often, to unguarded words ; 
 
 I 3 
 
118 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 
 Too much of frailty hath ah^eady dropped ; 
 But that too much demands still more. 
 
 You know. 
 Revered Compatriot ; ~ and to you, kind Sir, 
 (Not to be deemed a Stranger as you come 
 Following the guidance of these welcome feet 
 To our secluded Vale) it may be told. 
 That my demerits did not sue in vain 
 To One, on whose mild radiance many gazed 
 .With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride 
 In the devotedness of youthful Love, 
 Preferring me to Parents, and the choir 
 Of gay companions, to the natal roof. 
 And ail known places and familiar sights, 
 (Resigned with sadness gently weighing down 
 Her trembling expectations, but no more 
 Than did to her due honour, and to me 
 Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
 In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
 Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 
 To a low Cottage in a sunny Bay, 
 Where the salt sea innocuously breaks, 
 
DESPONDENCY. 119 
 
 And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 
 On Devon's leafy shores ; — a sheltered Hold, 
 In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
 To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 
 Approach the embowered Abode — our chosen Seat — 
 See, rooted in the earth, its kindly bed, 
 The un endangered Myrtle, decked with flowers. 
 Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
 While, in the flowering Myrtle's neighbourhood, 
 Not overlooked but courting no regard 
 Those native plants, the Holly and the Yew, 
 Gave modest intimation to the mind 
 Of willingness with which they would unite 
 With the green Myrtle, to endear the hours 
 Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 
 — Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs, 
 Track leading into track, how marked, how worn 
 Into bright verdure, among fern and gorse 
 Winding away its never-ending line. 
 On their smooth surface, evidence was none : 
 But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
 A range of unappropriated earth. 
 Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large ; 
 I 4 
 
120 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Whence, unmolested Wanderers, we beheld 
 
 The shining Giver of the Day diffuse 
 
 His brightness, o'er a tract of sea and land 
 
 Gay as our spirits, free as our desires. 
 
 As our enjoyments boundless. — From these Heights 
 
 We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan Combs ; 
 
 Where arbours of impenetrable shade. 
 
 And mossy seats detained us side by side. 
 
 With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 
 
 " That all the grove and all the day was ours." 
 
 But, in due season. Nature interfered. 
 And called my Partner to resign her share 
 In the pure freedom of that wedded life. 
 Enjoyed by us in common. — To my hope. 
 To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became 
 The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; 
 And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
 There, could I meditate on follies past ; 
 And, like a weary Voyager escaped 
 From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
 A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt. 
 And self-indulgence — - without shame pursued. 
 
DESPONDENCY. 121 
 
 There, undisturbed, could think of, and could thank 
 
 Her — whose submissive spirit was to me 
 
 Rule and restraint — my Guardian — shall I say 
 
 That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 
 
 Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; 
 
 Safe from temptation, and from danger far ? 
 
 Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed 
 
 To an Authority enthroned above 
 
 The reach of sight ; from whom, as from their source 
 
 Proceed all visible ministers of good 
 
 That walk the earth — • Father of heaven and earth. 
 
 Father and king, and judge, adored and feared ! 
 
 These acts of mind, and memory, and heart. 
 
 And spirit, — interrupted and relieved 
 
 By observations transient as the glance 
 
 Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form 
 
 Cleaving with power inherent and intense. 
 
 As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 
 
 On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
 
 Draws imperceptibly its nourishment, — 
 
 Endeared my wanderings ; and the Mother's kiss, 
 
 And Infant's smile, awaited my return. 
 
122 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 In privacy we dwelt — a wedded pair 
 Companions daily, often all day long ; 
 Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
 Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
 Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, 
 The Twain within our happy cottage born. 
 Inmates, and heirs of our united love ; 
 Graced mutually by difference of sex, 
 By the endearing names of nature bound, 
 And with no wider interval of time 
 Between their several births than served for One 
 To establish something of a leader's sway ; 
 Yet left them joined by sympathy in age ; 
 Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
 On these two pillars rested as in air 
 Our solitude. 
 
 It soothes me to perceive. 
 Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
 Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle Friends, 
 As times of quiet and unbroken peace 
 Though, for a Nation, times of blessedness. 
 Give back faint echoes from the Historian's l)age ; 
 So, in the imperfect sounds of tliis discourse, 
 
DESPONDENCY. 123 
 
 Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 
 Which those most bhssful days reverberate. 
 What special record can, or need, be given 
 To rules and habits, whereby much was done, 
 But all within the sphere of little things. 
 Of humble, though, to us, important cares, 
 And precious interests ? Smoothly did our life 
 Advance, not swerving from the path prescribed ; 
 Her annual, her diurnal round alike 
 Maintained with faithful care. And you divine 
 The worst effects which our condition saw 
 If you imagine changes slowly wrought. 
 And in their progress imperceptible. 
 Not wished for, sometimes noticed with a sigh, 
 (Whatever of good or lovely they might bring) 
 Sighs of regret, for the familiar good. 
 And loveliness endeared — which they removed. 
 
 Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
 Established seemingly a right to hold 
 That happiness ; and use and habit gave 
 To what an alien spirit had acquired 
 A patrimonial sanctity. And thus. 
 
124 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 
 
 I lived and breathed ; most grateful, if to enjoy 
 
 Without repining or desire for more. 
 
 For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 
 
 (Only except some impulses of pride 
 
 With no determined object, though upheld 
 
 By theories with suitable support) 
 
 Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 
 
 Be proof of gratitude for what we have ; 
 
 Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at once. 
 
 From some dark seat of fatal Power was urged 
 
 A claim that shattered all. — Our blooming Girl, 
 
 Caught in the gripe of Death, with such brief time 
 
 To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
 
 Her cheek to change its colour, was conveyed 
 
 From us, to regions inaccessible ; 
 
 Where height, or depth, admits not the approach 
 
 Of living Man, though longing to pursue. 
 
 — With even as brief a warning — and how soon. 
 
 With what short interval of time between, 
 
 I tremble yet to think of — our last prop. 
 
 Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
 
 The Brother followed ; and was seen no more ! 
 
DESPONDENCY. 125 
 
 Calm as a frozen Lake when ruthless Winds 
 Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky, 
 The Mother now remained ; as if in her. 
 Who, to the lowest region of the soul. 
 Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed. 
 This second visitation had no power 
 To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
 And to establish thankfulness of heart 
 In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
 The eminence on which her spirit stood, 
 Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
 The space that severed us ! But, as the sight 
 Communicates with Heaven's etherial orbs 
 Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
 That consolation may descend from far ; 
 (And, that is intercourse, and union, too,) 
 While, overcome with speechless gratitude. 
 And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
 On her — at once superior to my woes 
 And Partner of my loss. — O heavy change ! 
 Dimness o'er this clear Luminary crept 
 Insensibly ; — the immortal and divine 
 Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure Glory, 
 
126 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
 
 Wretched Ambition drops astounded, fell 
 
 Into a gulph obscure of silent grief. 
 
 And keen heart-anguish — of itself ashamed, 
 
 Yet obstinately cherishing itself: 
 
 And, so consumed. She melted from my arms ; 
 
 And left me, on this earth, disconsolate. 
 
 What followed cannot be reviewed in thought : 
 Much less, retraced in words. If She, of life 
 Blameless ; so intimate with love and joy, 
 And all the tender motions of the Soul, 
 Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand ! 
 Infirm, dependant, and now destitute ? 
 I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
 That which is veiled from waking thought ; conjured 
 Eternity, as men constrain a Ghost 
 To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
 Imploringly ; — looked up, and asked the Heavens 
 If Angels traversed their cerulean floors, 
 If fixed or wandering Star could tidings yield 
 Of the departed Spirit — what Abode 
 It occupies — what consciousness retains 
 
DESPONDENCY. 127 
 
 Of former loves and interests. Then my Soul 
 
 Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 
 
 Time's fetters are composed ; and Life was put 
 
 To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
 
 By pain of heart — now checked — and now impelled — 
 
 The intellectual Power, through words and things. 
 
 Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
 
 And from those transports, and these toils abstruse. 
 
 Some trace am I enabled to retain 
 
 Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 
 
 Only by records in myself not found. 
 
 From that abstraction I was rouzed, — and how ? 
 Even as a thoughtful Shepherd by a flash 
 Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 
 Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread Bastile, 
 With all the chambers in its horrid Towers, 
 Fell to the ground : — by violence o'erthrown 
 Of indignation ; and with shouts that drowned 
 The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 
 A golden Palace rose, or seemed to rise. 
 The appointed Seat of equitable Law 
 And mild paternal Sway. The potent shock 
 
128 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 I felt : the transformation I perceived, 
 
 As marvellously seized as in that moment 
 
 When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 
 
 Glory — beyond all glory ever seen. 
 
 Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, 
 
 Dazzling the soul ! Meanwhile, prophetic harps 
 
 In every grove were ringing, " War shall cease ; 
 
 " Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured? 
 
 " Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 
 
 " The Tree of Liberty." — My heart rebounded ; 
 
 My melancholy Voice the chorus joined ; 
 
 — "Be joyful all ye Nations, in all Lands, 
 
 " Ye that are capable of joy be glad ! 
 
 " Henceforth, whatever is wanting to yourselves 
 
 " In others ye shall promptly find ; — and all 
 
 " Be rich by mutual and reflected wealth." 
 
 Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
 Society became my glittering Bride, 
 And airy hopes my Children. — From the depths 
 Of natural passion, seemingly escaped. 
 My soul diffused itself in wide embrace 
 Of institutions, and the forms of things ; 
 
DESPONDENCY. 129 
 
 As they exist, in mutable array, 
 
 Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins 
 
 There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 
 
 The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 
 
 Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
 
 Of my exhausted heart. If busy Men 
 
 In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
 
 Of amity, whose living threads should stretch 
 
 Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, 
 
 There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
 
 And acclamation, crowds in open air 
 
 Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice 
 
 There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 
 
 I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves, 
 
 Where mild Enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 
 
 Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
 
 With their behef, I sang Saturnian Rule 
 
 Returned, — a progeny of golden years 
 
 Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
 
 — With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem : 
 
 I felt the invitation ; and resumed 
 
 A long-suspended office in the House 
 
 Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 
 
 K 
 
130 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Of ancient Inspiration serving me, 
 I promised also, — with undaunted trust 
 Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 
 The admiration winning of the crowd ; 
 The help desiring of the pure devout. 
 
 Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed ! 
 But History, Time's slavish Scribe, w^ill tell 
 How rapidly the Zealots of the cause 
 Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeared ; 
 Some, tired of honest service ; these, outdone. 
 Disgusted, therefore, or appalled, by aims 
 Of fiercer Zealots — so Confusion reigned, 
 And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, 
 As Brutus did to Virtue, " Liberty, 
 " I worshipped Thee, and find thee but a Shade !" 
 
 Such recantation had for me no charm. 
 Nor would I bend to it ; who should have grieved 
 At aught, however fair, which bore the mien 
 Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
 Why then conceal, that, when the simple good 
 In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
 
DESPONDENCY. 131 
 
 Other support, not scrupulous whence it came, 
 And, by what compromise it stood, not nice ? 
 Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched. 
 And qualities determined. — Ruling such, 
 And with such herding, I maintained a strife 
 Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
 But, in the process, I began to feel 
 That, if the emancipation of the world 
 Were missed, I should at least secure my own, 
 And be in part compensated. For rights. 
 Widely — inveterately usurped upon, 
 I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 
 Whate'er Abstraction furnished for my needs 
 Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim, 
 And propagate, by liberty of life. 
 Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced. 
 Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course, 
 For its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 
 Which I had trod in happiness and peace, 
 Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 
 That, in a struggling and distempered world, 
 Beheld a cherished image of itself. 
 Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
 K 2 
 
132 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Is still the sport ! Here Nature was my guide, 
 The Nature of the dissolute ; but Thee, 
 
 fostering Nature ! I rejected, smiled 
 At others* tears in pity ; and in scorn 
 
 At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew 
 From my unguarded heart. — The tranquil shores 
 Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps, 
 
 1 might have been entangled among deeds. 
 Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
 Despise, as senseless : for I strangely relished 
 The exasperated spirit of that Land, 
 
 Which turned an angry beak against the down 
 Of its own breast ; as if it hoped, thereby. 
 To disencumber its impatient wings. 
 
 — But all was quieted by iron bonds 
 Of mihtary sway. The shifting aims. 
 The moral interests, the creative might, 
 The varied functions and high attributes 
 Of civil Action, yielded to a Power 
 Formal, and odious, and contemptible. 
 
 — In Britain, I'uled a panic dread of change ; 
 The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 
 And, from the impulse of a just disdain. 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 133 
 
 Once more did I retire into myself. 
 There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
 To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, 
 Remote from Europe ; from her blasted hopes ; 
 Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 
 
 Fresh blew the wind, when o*er the Atlantic Main 
 The Ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew : 
 And who among them but an Exile, freed 
 From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
 Among the busily-employed, not more 
 With obligation charged, with service taxed. 
 Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
 Upon the tall mast, streaming ! But, ye Powers 
 Of soul and sense — mysteriously allied, 
 O, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
 Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
 To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
 For, like a Plague, will Memory break out. 
 And, in the blank and solitude of things. 
 Upon his Spirit, with a fever's strength. 
 Will Conscience prey. — Feebly must They have felt 
 Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 
 K 3 
 
134. DESPONDENCY, 
 
 The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
 Were turned on me — the face of her I loved ; 
 The Wife and Mother, pitifully fixing 
 Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
 Where now that boasted liberty ? No welcome 
 From unknown Objects I received ; and those. 
 Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
 Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
 Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
 Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
 That Volume — as a compass for the soul — 
 Revered among the Nations. I implored 
 Its guidance ; but the infallible support 
 Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 
 To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds. 
 Perplexed with currents, of his weakness sick. 
 Of vain endeavours tired, and by his own. 
 And by his Nature's ignorance, dismayed ! 
 
 Long-wished-for sight, the Western World appeared ; 
 And, when the Ship was moored, I leapt ashore 
 Indignantly — resolved to be a Man, 
 Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 135 
 
 No longer in subjection to the past, 
 With abject mind — from a tyrannic Lord 
 Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured. 
 So like a Fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
 Some boundary, which his Followers may not cross 
 In prosecution of their deadly chace. 
 Respiring I looked round. — How bright the Sun, 
 How promising the Breeze ! Can aught produced 
 In the old World compare, thought I, for power 
 And majesty with this gigantic Stream, 
 Sprung from the Desert ? And behold, a City 
 Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
 To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
 As He desires that they should be, whom winds 
 And waves have wafted to this distant shore, 
 In the condition of a damaged seed, 
 Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 
 Here may I roam at large ; — my business is, 
 Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel ; 
 And, therefore, not to act — convinced that all 
 Which bears the name of action, howsoever 
 Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful. 
 And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say, 
 K 4 
 
136 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
 
 Appeared, of high pretensions — unreproved 
 
 But by the obstreperous voice of higher still ; 
 
 Big Passions strutting on a petty stage ; 
 
 Which a detached Spectator may regard 
 
 Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
 
 Quick change of objects ; and, to laugh alone, 
 
 In woods and wilds, or any lonely place. 
 
 At a composing distance from the haunts 
 
 Of strife and folly, — though it be a treat 
 
 As choice as musing Leisure can bestow ; 
 
 Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
 
 To keep the secret of a poignant scorn. 
 
 May suit an airy Demon ; but, of all 
 
 Unsocial courses, 'tis the one least fit 
 
 For the gross spirit of Mankind, — the one 
 
 That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns 
 
 Into vexation. — Let us, then, I said. 
 
 Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge 
 
 Of its own passions ; and to Regions haste, 
 
 "Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe, 
 
 Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
 
 Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 137 
 
 Primeval Nature*s Child. A Creature weak 
 
 In combination (wherefore else driven back 
 
 So far, and of his old inheritance 
 
 So easily deprived ?) but, for that cause, 
 
 More dignified, and stronger in himself, 
 
 Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
 
 True, the Intelligence of social Art 
 
 Hath overpowered his Forefathers, and soon 
 
 Will sweep the remnant of his line away; 
 
 But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
 
 Than her destructive energies, attend 
 
 His Independence, when along the side 
 
 Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream 
 
 Which spreads into>5UCcessive seas, he walks ; 
 
 Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life. 
 
 And his innate capacities of soul. 
 
 There imaged : or, when having gained the top 
 
 Of some commanding Eminence, which yet 
 
 Intruder ne'er beheld, . he thence surveys 
 
 Regions of wood and wide Savannah, vast 
 
 Expanse of unappropriated earth. 
 
 With mind that sheds a light on what he sees ; 
 
138 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Free as the Sun, and lonely as the Sun, 
 Pouring above his head its radiance down 
 Upon a living, and rejoicing World ! 
 
 So, westward, toward the unviolated Woods 
 I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide. 
 Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 
 And while the melancholy Muccawiss 
 (The sportive Bird's companion in the Grove) 
 Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
 I sympathized at leisure with the sound ; 
 But that pure Archetype of human greatness, 
 I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared 
 A Creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure; 
 Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
 But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 
 — Enough is told ! Here am I — Ye have heard 
 What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
 What from my Fellow-beings I require. 
 And cannot find ; what I myself have lost, 
 Nor can regain ; how languidly I look 
 Upon this visible fabric of the World, 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 13& 
 
 May be divined — perhaps it hath been said : — 
 But spare your pity, if there be in me 
 Aught that deserves respect : for I exist — 
 Within myself — not comfortless. — The tenor 
 Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 
 Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain Brook 
 In some still passage of its course, and seen, 
 Within the depths of its capacious breast, 
 Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky ; 
 And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam. 
 And conglobated bubbles undissolved. 
 Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse. 
 Betray to sight the motion of the stream, 
 Else imperceptible ; meanwhile, is heard 
 Perchance, a roar or murmur ; and the sound 
 Though soothing, and the little floating isles 
 Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 
 With the same pensive office ; and make known 
 Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 
 Precipitations, and untoward straits, 
 The earth-born wanderer hath passed ; and quickly. 
 That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
 
140 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 Must be again encountered. — Such a stream 
 Is human Life ; and so the Spirit fares 
 In the best quiet to its course allowed ; 
 And such is mine, — save only for a hope 
 That my particular current soon will reach 
 The unfathomable gulph, where all is still !'* 
 
 END OF THE THIRD BOOK. 
 
BOOK THE FOURTH. 
 
 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Here closed the Tenant of that lonely Vale 
 His mournful Narrative — commenced in pain, 
 In pain commenced, and ended without peace : 
 Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with strains 
 Of native feeling, grateful to our minds, 
 And doubtless yielding some relief to his. 
 While we sate listening with compassion due. 
 Such pity yet surviving, with firm voice. 
 That did not falter though the heart was moved, 
 The Wanderer said — 
 
 " One adequate support 
 
142 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 For the calamities of mortal life 
 Exists, one only ; — an assured belief 
 That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
 Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 Of infinite benevolence and power, 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to Good. 
 — The darts of anguish fix not where the seat 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
 By acquiescence in the Will Supreme 
 For Time and for Eternity ; by faith. 
 Faith absolute in God, including hope. 
 And the defence that lies in boundless love 
 Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
 Impatiently, ill- done, or left undone. 
 To the dishonour of his holy Name. 
 Soul of our souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
 Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
 Restore their languid spirits, and recal 
 Their lost affections unto Thee, and thine !" 
 
 Then, as we issued from that covert Nook, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 143 
 
 He thus continued — lifting up his eyes 
 
 To Heaven. — " How beautiful this dome of sky, 
 
 And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
 
 At thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 
 
 Human and rational, report of Thee 
 
 Even less than these ? — Be mute who will, who can, 
 
 Yet I will praise thee with empassioned voice : 
 
 My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd, 
 
 Cannot forget thee here ; where Thou hast built, 
 
 For thy own glory, in the wilderness I 
 
 Me didst thou constitute a Priest of thine. 
 
 In such a Temple as we now behold 
 
 Reared for thy presence : therefore, am I bound 
 
 To worship, here, and everywhere — as One 
 
 Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, 
 
 From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 
 
 From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
 
 And from debasement rescued. — By thy grace 
 
 The particle divine remained unquenched ; 
 
 And, mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil. 
 
 Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers. 
 
 From Paradise transplanted. Wintry age 
 
 Impends; the frost will gather round my heart; 
 
144 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 And, if they wither, I am worse than dead ! 
 
 — Come Labour, when the worn-out frame requires 
 
 Perpetual sabbath ; come disease and want ; 
 
 And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 
 
 But leave me unabated trust in Thee — 
 
 And let thy favour, to the end of life, 
 
 Inspire me with ability to seek 
 
 Repose and hope among eternal things — 
 
 Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich, 
 
 And will possess my portion in content ! 
 
 And what are thmgs Eternal ? — Powers depart," 
 The grey-haired Wanderer steadfastly replied. 
 Answering the question which himself had asked, 
 " Possessions vanish, and opinions change. 
 And Passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
 But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken. 
 And subject neither to eclipse or wane, 
 Duty exists ; — immutably survive. 
 For our support, the measures and the forms. 
 Which an abstract Intelligence supplies; 
 Whose kingdom is, where Time and Space are not : 
 Of other converse, which mind, soul, and heart, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 U5 
 
 Do, with united urgency, require, 
 
 What more, that may not perish ? Thou, dread Source, 
 
 Prime, self-existing Cause and End of all. 
 
 That, in the scale of Being, fill their place. 
 
 Above our human region, or below, 
 
 Set and sustained ; — Thou — Who didst wrap the cloud 
 
 Of Infancy around us, that ThyselfJ 
 
 Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
 
 Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed — 
 
 Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep. 
 
 Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
 
 And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
 
 Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense. 
 
 And reason's steadfast rule — Thou, Thou alone 
 
 Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
 
 Which thou includest, as the Sea her Waves : 
 
 For adoration thou endurest ; endure 
 
 For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
 
 For apprehension those transcendent truths 
 
 Of the pure Intellect, that stand as laws, 
 
 (Submission constituting strength and power) 
 
 Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
 
 This Universe shall pass away — a frame 
 
146 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, 
 
 A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. 
 
 Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 
 
 No more shall stray where Meditation leads, 
 
 By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild. 
 
 Loved haunts like these, the unimprisoned Mind 
 
 May yet have scope to range among her own. 
 
 Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
 
 If the dear faculty of sight should fail. 
 
 Still, it may be allowed me to remember 
 
 What visionary powers of eye and soul 
 
 In youth were mine; when, stationed on the top 
 
 Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 
 
 The Sun rise up, from distant climes returned 
 
 Darkness to chase, and sleep, and bring the day 
 
 His bounteous gift ! or saw him, towards the Deep 
 
 Sink — with a retinue of flaming Clouds 
 
 Attended ; then, my Spirit was entranced 
 
 With joy exalted to beatitude ; 
 
 The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 
 
 And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light. 
 
 With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 
 
 Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 14.7 
 
 And, since their date, my Soul hath undergone 
 Change manifold, for better, or for worse : 
 Yet cease I not to struggle, and to aspire 
 Heavenward; and chide the part of me that flags. 
 Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity. 
 On human Nature, from above, imposed. 
 'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
 Earth to despise ; but, to converse with Heaven — 
 This is not easy ; — to relinquish all 
 We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, 
 And stand in freedom loosened from this world ; 
 I deem not arduous : — but must needs confess 
 That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 
 Conceptions equal to the Soul's desires; 
 And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
 Heights which the Soul is competent to gain. 
 — Man is of dust : etherial hopes are his, 
 Whichj when they should sustain themselves aloft, 
 Want due consistence ; like a Pillar of smoke, 
 That with majestic energy from earth 
 Rises; but, having reached the thinner air, 
 Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
 From this infirmity of mortal kind 
 
 L 2 
 
148 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; — at least, 
 
 If Grief be something hallowed and ordained, 
 
 If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 
 
 Through this, 'tis able to maintain its hold, 
 
 In that excess which Conscience disapproves. 
 
 For who could sink and settle to that point 
 
 Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 
 
 In framing estimates of loss and gain. 
 
 As long and perseveringly to mourn 
 
 For any Object of his love, removed 
 
 From this unstable world, if he could fix 
 
 A satisfying view upon that state 
 
 Of pure, imperishable blessedness. 
 
 Which Reason promises, and holy Writ 
 
 Ensures to all Believers? — Yet mistrust 
 
 Is of such incapacity, methinks, 
 
 No natural branch; despondency far less. 
 
 — And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped 
 
 Even to the dust; apparently, through weight 
 
 Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
 
 An agonizing sorrow to transmute, 
 
 Infer not hence a hope from those withheld 
 
 When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. U9 
 
 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
 With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 
 Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 
 Oh ! no, full oft the innocent Sufferer sees 
 Too clearly: feels too vividly; and longs 
 To realize the Vision, with intense 
 And overconstant yearning — there — there lies 
 The excess, by which the balance is destroyed. 
 Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh. 
 This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs. 
 Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 
 For any passion of the soul that leads 
 To extacy; and, all the crooked paths 
 Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 
 Along the line of limitless desires. 
 I, speaking now from such disorder free, 
 Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled peace, 
 I cannot doubt that They whom you deplore 
 Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 
 From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 
 Hope below this, consists not with belief 
 In mercy, carried infinite degrees 
 Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 
 
 L 3 
 
150 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Hope below this, consists not with belief 
 
 In perfect Wisdom, guiding mightiest Power, 
 
 That finds no limits but its own pure Will. 
 
 Here then we rest : not fearing to be left 
 In undisturbed possession of our creed 
 For aught that human reasoning can achieve, 
 To unsettle or perplex us : yet with pain 
 Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 
 Tliat, though immoveably convinced, we want 
 Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
 As Soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 
 Of heart, the Sailor fights with roaring seas. 
 Alas ! the endowment of immortal Power 
 Is matched unequally with custom, time. 
 And domineering faculties of sense 
 In all ; in most with superadded foes. 
 Idle temptations — open vanities 
 Of dissipation ; countless, still-renewed, 
 Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world ; 
 And, in the private regions of the mind. 
 Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 
 Immoderate wishes, puiing discontent. 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 151 
 
 Distress and care. What then remains ? — To seek 
 Those helps, for his occasions ever near, 
 Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, renewed 
 On the first motion of a holy thought ; 
 Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prayer, 
 A Stream, which, from the fountain of the heart, 
 Issuing however feebly, no where flows 
 Without access of unexpected strength. 
 But, above all, the victory is most sure 
 For Him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 
 To yield entire submission to the law 
 Of Conscience ; Conscience reverenced and obeyed, 
 As God's most intimate Presence in the soul. 
 And his most perfect Image in the world. 
 — Endeavour thus to live ; these rules regard ; 
 These helps solicit; and a steadfast seat 
 Shall then be yours among the happy few 
 Who dwell on earth yet breathe empyreal air. 
 Sons of the morning. For your nobler Part, 
 Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains, 
 Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away ; 
 With only such degree of sadness left 
 
 L 4 
 
152 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 As may support longings of pure desire ; 
 And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
 In the sublime attractions of the Grave." 
 
 While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
 Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
 His judgments, near that lonely House v^^e paced 
 A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
 By Nature's care from vi^reck of scattered stones, 
 And from the encroachment of encircling heath : 
 Small space ! but, for reiterated steps,' 
 Smooth and commodious ; as a stately deck 
 Which to and fro the Mariner is used 
 To tread for pastime, talking with his Mates, 
 Or haply thinking of far-distant Friends, 
 While the Ship glides before a steady breeze. 
 Stillness prevailed around us : and the Voice, 
 That spake, was capable to lift the soul 
 Towards regions yet more tranquil. But, methought, 
 That He, whose fixed despondency had given 
 Impulse and motive to that strong discourse. 
 Was less upraised in spirit than abashed ; 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 153 
 
 Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
 
 Who feels, that to exhort, is to reproach. 
 
 Yet not to be diverted from his aim. 
 
 The Sage continued. — " For that other loss, 
 
 The loss of confidence in social Man, 
 
 By the unexpected transports of our Age 
 
 Carried so high, that every thought — which looked 
 
 Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind — 
 
 To mapy seemed superfluous ; as, no cause 
 
 For such exalted confidence could e'er 
 
 Exist ; so, none is now for such despair : 
 
 The two extremes are equally remote 
 
 From Truth and Reason ; — do not, then, confound 
 
 One with the other, but reject them both ; 
 
 And choose the middle point, whereon to build 
 
 Sound expectations. This doth he advise 
 
 Who shared at first the illusion ; but was soon 
 
 Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
 
 Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fields ; 
 
 Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking 
 
 To the inattentive Children of the World, 
 
 " Vain-glorious Generation ! what new powers 
 
 " On you have been conferred ? what gifts, withheld 
 
154* DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 " From your Progenitors, have Ye received, 
 
 " Fit recompence of new desert ? what claim 
 
 *' Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
 
 " For you should undergo a sudden change ; 
 
 *' And the weak functions of one busy day, 
 
 " Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 
 
 " What all the slowly moving Years of Time, 
 
 " With their united force, have left undone ? 
 
 " By Nature's gradual processes be taught; 
 
 " By Story b^ confounded ! Ye aspire 
 
 " Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit, 
 
 " Which, to your over- weening spirits, yields 
 
 " Hope of a flight celestial, w^ill produce 
 
 '' Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 
 
 " Shall not the less, though late, be justified." 
 
 " Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, " gave 
 
 That visionary Voice ; and, at this day. 
 
 When a Tartarian darkness overspreads 
 
 The groaning nations ; when the Impious rule, 
 
 By will or by established ordinance. 
 
 Their own dire agents, and constrain the Good 
 
 To acts which they abhor ; though 1 bewail 
 
 This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 155 
 
 Prevents me not from owning, that the law, 
 By which Mankind now suffers, is most just. 
 For by superior energies ; more strict 
 Affiance in each other ; faith more firm 
 In their unhallowed principles ; the Bad 
 Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak. 
 The vacillating, inconsistent Good. 
 Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait — in hope 
 To see the moment, when the righteous Cause 
 Shall gain Defenders zealous and devout 
 As They who have opposed her ; in which Virtue 
 Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
 That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 
 By impulse of her own etherial zeal. 
 That Spirit only can redeem Mankind ; 
 And when that sacred Spirit shall appear 
 Then shall our triumph be complete as their's. 
 Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the Wise 
 Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 
 Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
 They act, or they recede, observe, and feel ; 
 " Knowing" — (to adopt the energetic words 
 Which a time-hallowed Poet hath employed) 
 
1J56 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 " Knowing the heart of Man is set to be 
 The centre of this World, about the which 
 Those revolutions of disturbances 
 Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
 Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
 As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 
 And that unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself^ haw poor a thing is Man /" * 
 
 Happy is He who lives to understand ! 
 Not human Nature only, but explores 
 All Natures, — to the end that he may find 
 The law that governs each ; and where begins 
 The union, the partition where, that makes 
 Kind and degree, among all visible Beings ; 
 The constitutions, powers, and faculties. 
 Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond, — 
 And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 
 To every Class its station and its office, 
 Through all the mighty Commonwealth of things ; 
 Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man. 
 Such Converse, if directed by a meek, 
 
 * Daniel. 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 157 
 
 Sincere, and humble Spirit, teaches love ; 
 For knowledge is delight ; and such delight 
 Breeds love ; yet, suited as it rather is 
 To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
 It teaches less to love, than to adore ; 
 If that be not indeed the highest Love !" 
 
 " Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
 '* The dignity of Life is not impaired 
 By aught that innocently satisfies 
 The humbler cravings of the heart ; and He 
 Is a still happier Man, who, for those heights 
 Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
 And such benign affections cultivates 
 Among the inferior Kinds ; not merely those 
 That he may call his own, and which depend. 
 As individual objects of regard. 
 Upon his care, — from whom he also looks 
 For signs and tokens of a mutual bond, — 
 But others, far beyond this narrow sphere. 
 Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
 Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
 And solitude, that they do favour most. 
 
158 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Most frequently call forth, and best sustain 
 These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
 The obstreperous City ; on the barren Seas 
 Are not unfelt, — and much might recommend, 
 How much they might inspirit and endear, 
 The loneliness of this sublime Retreat !" 
 
 " Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
 Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
 " If, with the froward will and groveling soul 
 Of Man offended, liberty is here, 
 And invitation every hour renewed. 
 To mark their- placid state, who never heard 
 Of a command which they have power to break. 
 Or rule which they are tempted to transgress ; 
 These, with a soothed or elevated heart, 
 May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 
 Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
 Complacence there : — but wherefore this to You ? 
 I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 
 The Redbreast feeds in winter from your hand ; 
 A box perchance is from your casement hung 
 For the small Wren to build in ; — not in vain, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 159 
 
 The barriers disregarding that surround 
 
 This deep Abiding-place, before your sight 
 
 Mounts on the breeze the Butterfly — and soars, 
 
 Small Creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers 
 
 Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
 
 In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
 
 Towards her native firmament of heaven, 
 
 When the fresh Eagle, in the month of May, 
 
 Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing, 
 
 Tliis shaded valley leaves, — and leaves the dark 
 
 Empurpled hills, — conspicuously renewing 
 
 A proud communication with the sun 
 
 Low sunk beneath the horizon ! — List ! — I heard. 
 
 From yon huge breast of rock, a solemn bleat ; 
 
 Sent forth as if it were the Mountain's voice. 
 
 As if the visible Mountain made the cry. 
 
 Again !" — The effect upon the soul was such 
 
 As he expressed ; for, from the mountain's heart 
 
 The solemn bleat appeared to come ; there was 
 
 No other — and the region all around 
 
 Stood silent, empty of all shape of life. 
 
 — It was a Lamb — left somewhere to itself, 
 
 The plaintive Spirit of the Solitude ! — 
 
160 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 
 Through consciousness that silence in such place 
 Was best, — the most affecting eloquence. 
 But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves, 
 And, in soft tone of speech, he thus resumed. 
 
 " Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
 Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 
 Too easily, despise or overlook 
 The vassalage that binds her to the earth. 
 Her sad dependance upon time, and all 
 The trepidations of mortality. 
 What place so destitute and void — but there 
 The little Flovv^er her vanity shall check ; 
 The trailing Worm reprove her thoughtless pride ? 
 
 These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds. 
 Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
 The Mole contented with her darksome walk 
 In the cold ground ; and to the Emmet gives 
 Her foresight ; and the intelligence that makes 
 The tiny Creatures strong by social league ; 
 Supports the generations, multiplies 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 161 
 
 Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
 
 Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — 
 
 Their labour — covered, as a Lake with waves ; 
 
 Thousands of Cities, in the desart place 
 
 Built up of life, and food, and means of life ! 
 
 Nor wanting here, to entertain the thought, 
 
 Creatures, that in communities exist. 
 
 Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 
 
 Or through dependance upon mutual aid, 
 
 Than by participation of delight 
 
 And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 
 
 What other spirit can it be, that prompts 
 
 The gilded summer Flies to mix and weave 
 
 Their sports together in the solar beam. 
 
 Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 
 
 More obviously, the self-same influence rules 
 
 The feathered kinds ; the Fieldfare's pensive flocks. 
 
 The cawing Rooks, and Sea-mews from afar, 
 
 Hovering above these inland Solitudes, 
 
 Unscattered by the wind, at whose loud call 
 
 Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 
 
 Unfelt among the sedentary Fowl 
 
 That seek yon Pool, and there prolong their stay 
 
 In silent congress ; or together roused 
 
 M 
 
162 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Take flight ; while with their clang the air resounds. 
 
 And, over all, in that etherial arch, 
 
 Is the mute company of changeful clouds ; 
 
 — Bright apparition suddenly put forth 
 
 The Rainbow, smiling on the faded storm ; 
 
 The mild assemblage of the starry heavens; 
 
 And the great Sun, earth's universal Lord ! 
 
 How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
 Who seeks not ; and to him, who hath not asked, 
 Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath-days 
 Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 
 Of mere humanity. You clomb those Heights ; 
 And what a marvellous and heavenly Shew 
 Was to your sight revealed ! the Swains moved on, 
 And heeded not ; you lingered, and perceived. 
 There is a luxury in self-dispraise ; 
 And inward self-disparagement affords 
 To meditative Spleen a grateful feast. 
 Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert. 
 You judge unthankfully ; distempered nerves 
 Infect the thoughts: the languor of the Frame 
 Depresses the Soul's vigour. Quit your Couch — 
 Cleave not so fondly to your moody Cell ; 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 163 
 
 Nor let the hallowed Powers, that shed from heaven 
 
 Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 
 
 Look down upon your taper, through a watch 
 
 Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 
 
 In this deep Hollow ; like a sullen star 
 
 Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 
 
 Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 
 
 That run not parallel to Nature's course. 
 
 Rise with the Lark ! your Matins shall obtain 
 
 Grace, be their composition what it may. 
 
 If but with her's performed ; climb once again, 
 
 Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 
 
 Upon their tops, — adventurous as a Bee 
 
 That from your garden thither soars, to feed 
 
 On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock 
 
 Be your frequented Watch-tower ; roll the stone 
 
 In thunder down the mountains : with all your might 
 
 Chase the wild Goat ; and, if the bold red Deer 
 
 Fly to these harbours, driven by hound and horn 
 
 Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit : 
 
 So, wearied to your Hut shall you return. 
 
 And sink at evening into sound repose." 
 
 The Solitary lifted towards the hills 
 M 2 
 
164 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 An animated eye ; and thoughts were mine 
 Which this ejaculation clothed in words — 
 " Oh ! what a joy it were, in vigorous health. 
 To have a Body (this our vital Frame 
 With shrinking sensibility endued. 
 And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) 
 And to the elements surrender it 
 As if it were a Spirit ! — How divine. 
 The liberty, for frail, for mortal man 
 To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
 And mountainous retirements, only trod 
 By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 
 To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
 That keeps the raven quiet in her nest. 
 Be as a Presence or a Motion — one 
 Among the many there ; and, while the Mists 
 Flying, and rainy Vapours, call out Shapes 
 And Phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
 As fast as a Musician scatters sounds 
 Out of an instrument ; and, while the Streams - 
 (As at a first creation and in haste 
 To exercise their untried faculties) 
 Descending from the region of the clouds. 
 And starting from the hollows of the earth 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 165 
 
 More multitudinous every moment, rend 
 Their way before them — what a joy to roam 
 An Equal among mightiest Energies ; 
 And haply sometimes with articulate voice, 
 Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
 By him that utters it, exclaim aloud 
 Be this continued so from day to day. 
 Nor let it have an end from month to month !" 
 
 " Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
 The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
 Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
 To such desires, and grasped at such delight. 
 Shall feel the stirrings of them late and long ; 
 In spite of all the weakness that life brings. 
 Its cares and sorrows ; he, though taught to own 
 The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
 Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
 Loving the spots which once he gloried in. 
 
 Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's Hills, 
 The Streams far distant of your native Glen ; 
 Yet is their form and Image here expressed 
 Asr by a duplicate, at least set forth 
 
 M 3 
 
166 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
 
 Wherever fancy leads, by day, by night, 
 
 Are various engines working, not the same 
 
 As those by which your soul in youth was moved, 
 
 But by the great Artificer endued 
 
 With no inferior power. You dwell alone ; 
 
 Y'^ou walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
 
 Yet doth Remembrance, like a sovereign Prince, 
 
 For you a stately gallery maintain 
 
 Of gay or tragic pictures. Y^ou have seen, 
 
 Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 
 
 With no incurious eye ; and books are your's, 
 
 Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
 
 Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
 
 Than that accumulated store of gold 
 
 And orient gems, which, for a day of need, 
 
 The Sultan hides witliin ancestral tombs. 
 
 These hoards of truth you can unlock at will : 
 
 And music waits upon your skilful touch, — 
 
 Sounds which the wandering Shepherd from these Heights 
 
 Hears, and forgets his purpose ; — furnished thus 
 
 How can you droop, if willing to be raised ? 
 
 A piteous lot it were to flee from Man — 
 Yet not rejoice in Nature. He — whose hours 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 167 
 
 Are by domestic Pleasures uncaressed 
 
 And unenlivened ; who exists whole years 
 
 Apart from benefits received or done 
 
 'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 
 
 Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 
 
 Of the world's interests — such a One hath need 
 
 Of a quick fancy and an active heart. 
 
 That, for the day's consumption, books may yield 
 
 A not unwholesome food, and earth and air 
 
 Supply his morbid humour with delight. 
 
 — Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease 
 
 And easy contemplation, — gay parterres, 
 
 And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
 
 And shady groves, for recreation framed : 
 
 These may he range, if willing to partake 
 
 Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
 
 May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
 
 And course of service Truth requires from those 
 
 Who tend her Altars, wait upon her Throne, 
 
 And guard her Fortresses. Who thinks, and feels, 
 
 And recognises ever and anon 
 
 The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul, 
 
 Why need such man go desperately astray, 
 
 M 4 
 
168 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 And nurse " the dreadful appetite of death ?" 
 If tired with Systems — each in its degree 
 Substantial — and all crumbling in their turn, 
 Let him build Systems of his own, and smile 
 At the fond work — demolished with a touch ; 
 If unreligious, let him be at once. 
 Among ten thousand Innocents, enrolled 
 A Pupil in the many-chambered school. 
 Where Superstition weaves her airy dreams. 
 
 Life's Autumn past, I stand on Winter's verge. 
 And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
 Yet rather would I instantly decline 
 To the traditionary sympathies 
 Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
 A fearful apprehension from the owl 
 Or death-watch, — and as readily rejoice. 
 If two auspicious magpies crossed my way ; 
 This rather would I do than see and hear 
 The repetitions wearisome of sense. 
 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place ; 
 Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
 On outward things, with formal inference ends : 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 169 
 
 Or if the Mind turn inward 'tis perplexed. 
 
 Lost in a gloom of uninspired research ; 
 
 Meanwhile, the Heart within the Heart, the seat 
 
 Where Peace and happy Consciousness should dwell. 
 
 On its own axis restlessly revolves. 
 
 Yet nowhere finds the cheering light of truth. 
 
 Upon the breast of new-created Earth 
 Man walked ; and when and wheresoever he moved, 
 A J one or mated, Solitude was not. 
 He heard, upon the wind, the articulate Voice 
 Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared. 
 Crowning the glorious hills of Paradise ; 
 Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 
 Enkindled by the sun. He sate — and talked 
 With winged Messengers ; who daily brought 
 To his small Island in the etherial deep 
 Tidings of joy and love. — From these pure Heights 
 (Whether of actual vision, sensible 
 To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
 Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 
 Communications spiritually maintained, 
 And Intuitions moral and divine) 
 
170 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Fell Human-kind — to banishment condemned 
 
 That flowing years repealed not : and distress 
 
 And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped the doom 
 
 Of destitution ; — Solitude was not. 
 
 — Jehovah — shapeless Power above all Powers, 
 
 Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
 
 By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 
 
 Or cloud of darkness, localized in heaven; 
 
 On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark ; 
 
 Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 
 
 Between the Cherubim — on the chosen Race 
 
 Showered miracles, and ceased not to dispense 
 
 Judgments, that filled the Land from age to age 
 
 With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 
 
 And with amazement smote ; — thereby to assert 
 
 His scorned, or unacknowledged Sovereignty. 
 
 And when the One, ineffable of name. 
 
 In nature indivisible, withdrew 
 
 From mortal adoration or regard. 
 
 Not then was Deity engulphed, nor Man, 
 
 The rational Creature, left, to feel the weight 
 
 Of his own reason, without sense or thought 
 
 Of higher reason and a purer will, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 171 
 
 To benefit and bless, through mightier power : 
 
 — Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 
 
 Altar and Image and the inclusive walls 
 
 And roofs of Temples built by human hands — 
 
 The loftiest heights ascending, from their tops, 
 
 With myrtle- wreathed Tiara on his brows, 
 
 Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars, 
 
 And to the winds and Mother Elements, 
 
 And the whole Circle of the Heavens, for him 
 
 A sensitive Existence, and a God, 
 
 With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise : 
 
 Or, less reluctantly to bonds of Sense 
 
 Yielding his Soul, the Babylonian framed 
 
 For influence undefined a personal Shape ; 
 
 And, from the Plain, with toil immense, upreared 
 
 Tower eight times planted on the top of Tower ; 
 
 That Belus, nightly to his splendid Couch 
 
 Descending, there might rest ; and, from that Height 
 
 Pure and serene, the Godhead overlook 
 
 Winding Euphrates, and the City vast 
 
 Of his devoted Worshippers, far-stretched, 
 
 With grove, and field, and garden, interspersed ; 
 
172 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Their Town, and foodful Region for support 
 Against the pressure of beleaguring war. 
 
 Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, 
 Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
 Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude. 
 Looked on the Polar Star, as on a Guide 
 And Guardian of their course, that never closed 
 His steadfast eye. The Planetary Five 
 With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
 Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocks, 
 Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move 
 Carrying through Ether, in perpetual round, 
 Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 
 And, by their aspects, signifying works 
 Of dim futurity, to Man revealed. 
 — The Imaginative Faculty was Lord 
 Of observations natural ; and, thus 
 Led on, those Shepherds made report of Stars 
 In set rotation passing to and fro, 
 Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
 And its invisible counterpart, adorned 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 173 
 
 With answering Constellations, under earth 
 Removed from all approach of living sight. 
 But present to the Dead ; who, so they deemed, 
 Like those celestial Messengers, beheld 
 All accidents, and Judges were of all. 
 
 The lively Grecian, in a Land of hills, 
 Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, 
 Under a cope of variegated sky. 
 Could find commodious place for every God, 
 Promptly received, as prodigally brought. 
 From the surrounding Countries — at the choice 
 Of all Adventurers. With unrivalled skill, 
 As nicest observation furnished hints 
 For studious fancy, did his hand bestow 
 On fluent Operations a fixed Shape ; 
 Metal or Stone, idolatrously served. 
 And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
 Of Art, this palpable array of Sense, 
 On every side encountered ; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions, chaunted in the streets 
 By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
 Of doubt and bold denials hourly urged 
 
174 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Amid the wrangling Schools — a spirit hung, 
 
 Beautiful Region ! o'er thy Towns and Farms, 
 
 Statues and Temples, and memorial Tombs ; 
 
 And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
 
 Of immortality, in Nature's course. 
 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 
 As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed 
 
 And armed Warrior ; and in every grove 
 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed. 
 
 When piety more awful had relaxed. 
 
 — " Take, running River, take these Locks of mine" — 
 
 Thus would the Votary say — " this severed hair 
 
 " My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 
 " Thankful for my beloved Child's return. 
 
 " Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 
 
 *' Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the chrystal lymph 
 
 " With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 
 
 *' And moisten all day long these flowery fields." 
 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 
 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
 
 Of Life continuous. Being unimpaired ; 
 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 
 There shall be, — seen, and heard, and felt, and known. 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 175^ 
 
 And recognized, — existence unexposed 
 
 To the blind walk of mortal accident ; 
 
 From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
 
 While Man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 
 
 And countless generations of Mankind 
 
 Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod. 
 
 We live by admiration, hope, and love ; 
 And even as these are well and wisely fixed, 
 In dignity of being we ascend. 
 But what is error? — " Answer he who can !" 
 The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed, 
 " Love, Hope, and Admiration — are they not 
 Mad Fancy's favourite Vassals ? Does not Life 
 Use them, full oft, as Pioneers to ruin. 
 Guides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
 Imagination's light when Reason's fails. 
 The unguarded taper where the guarded faints ? 
 — Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
 WTiat error is ; and, of our errors, which 
 Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
 Of power, where are they ? Who shall regulate, 
 With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ?" 
 
176 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 " Methinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
 " That for this arduous office You possess 
 Some rare advantages. Your early days 
 A grateful recollection must supply 
 Of much exalted good that may attend 
 Upon the very humblest state. — Your voice 
 Hath in my hearing often testified 
 That poor Men's Children, they, and they alone, 
 By their condition taught, can understand 
 The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
 For daily bread. A consciousness is your's 
 How feelingly religion may be learned 
 In smoky Cabins, from a Mother's tongue — 
 Heard while the Dwelling vibrates to the dhi 
 Of the contiguous Torrent, gathering strength 
 At every moment — and, with strength, increase 
 Of fury ; or while Snow is at the door, 
 Assaulting and defending, and the Wind, 
 A sightless Labourer, whistles at his work — 
 Fearful, but resignation tempers fear. 
 And piety is sweet to Infant minds. 
 — The Shepherd Lad, who in the sunshine carves, 
 On the green turf, a dial — to divide 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 177' 
 
 The silent hours ; and who to that report 
 Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt 
 His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
 With less intelligence for moral things 
 Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
 •Within himself, a measure and a rule, 
 Which to the Sun of Truth he can apply, 
 That shines for him, and shines for all Mankind. 
 Experience, daily fixing his regards 
 On Nature's wants, he knows how few they are. 
 And where they lie, how answered and appeased. 
 This knowledge ample recompence affords 
 For manifold privations ; he refers 
 His notions to this standard; on this rock 
 Rests his desires ; and hence, in after life, 
 Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. 
 Imagination — not permitted here 
 To waste her powers, as in the Worldling's mind, 
 On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares. 
 And trivial ostentation — is left free 
 And puissant to range the solemn walks 
 Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
 That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 
 
 N 
 
178 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side 
 
 Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, 
 
 Or in the cultured field, a Man like this 
 
 (Take from him what you will upon the score 
 
 Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
 
 For noble purposes of mind : his heart 
 
 Beats to the heroic song of ancient days ; 
 
 His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 
 
 And those Illusions, which excite the scorn 
 
 Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 
 
 Are they not mainly outward Ministers 
 
 Of inward Conscience ? with whose service charged 
 
 They come and go, appear and disappear ; 
 
 Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
 
 Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief. 
 
 Or pride of heart abating : and, whene'er 
 
 For less important ends those Phantoms move, 
 
 Who would forbid them, if their presence serve, 
 
 Among wild mountains and unpeopled heaths, 
 
 Filling a space else vacant, to exalt 
 
 The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers ? 
 
 Once more to distant Ages of the world 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 179 
 
 Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
 The flice which rural Solitude might wear 
 To the unenlightened Swains of pagan Greece. 
 — In that fair Clime, the lonely Herdsman, stretched 
 On the soft grass through half a summer's day, 
 With music lulled his indolent repose : 
 And, in some fit of weariness, if he, 
 When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
 A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
 Which his poor skill could make, his Fancy fetched, 
 Even from the blazing Chariot of the Sun, 
 A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute, 
 And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 
 The nightly Hunter, lifting up his eyes 
 Towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart 
 Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 
 That timely light, to share his joyous sport : 
 And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 
 Across the lawn and through the darksome grove, 
 (Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
 By echo multiplied from rock or cave,) 
 Swept in the storm of chase, as Moon and Stars 
 Glance rapidly along the clouded heavens, 
 N 2 
 
180 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 When winds are blowing strong. The Traveller slaked 
 His thirst from Rill or gushing Fount, and thanked 
 The Naiad. — Sunbeams, upon distant Hills 
 Gliding apace, with Shadows in their train. 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 The Zephyrs, fanning as they passed, their wings, 
 Lacked not, for love, fair Objects, whom they wooed 
 With gentle whisper. Withered Boughs grotesque. 
 Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age. 
 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
 And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns 
 Of the live Deer, or Goat's depending beard ; 
 These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
 Of gamesome Deities ; or Pan himself. 
 The simple Shepherd's awe-inspiring God !" 
 
 No apter Strain could have been chosen : I marked 
 Its kindly influence, on the yielding brow 
 Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 
 While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, 
 Like one whose untired ear a murnmring stream 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 181 
 
 Detains ; but tempted now to interpose 
 He with a smile exclaimed — 
 
 '* 'Tis well you speak 
 At a safe distance from our native Land, 
 And from the Mansions where our youth was taught. 
 The true Descendants of those godly Men 
 Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, 
 Shrine, Altar, Image, and the massy Piles 
 That harboured them, — the Souls retaining yet 
 The churlish features of that after Race 
 Who fled to caves, and woods, and naked rocks, 
 In deadly scorn of superstitious rites. 
 Or what their scruples construed to be such — 
 How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 
 Of fine propensities ? that tends, if urged 
 Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
 The weeds of Romish Phantasy, in vain 
 Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our Wells 
 To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne ; 
 And from long banishment recal Saint Giles, 
 To watch again with tutelary love 
 O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags ! 
 A blessed restoration to behold 
 
 N 3 
 
182 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 The Patron, on the shoulders of his Priests, 
 Once more parading through her crowded streets ; 
 Now simply guarded by the sober Powers 
 Of Science, and Philosophy, and Sense !" 
 
 This answerfollowed. — "You have turned my thoughts 
 Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
 Against Idolatry with warlike mind, 
 And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
 In caves, and woods, and under dismal rocks, 
 Deprived of shelter, covering, fire, and food ; 
 Why ? — for this very reason that they felt. 
 And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved 
 A spiritual Presence, oft-times misconceived ; 
 But still a high dependance, a divine 
 Bounty and government, that filled their hearts 
 With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love ; 
 And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise, 
 With which the desarts rang. Though favoured less. 
 Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree. 
 Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 
 Beyond their own poor Natures and above 
 They looked ; were humbly thankful for the good 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 183 
 
 Which the warm Sun solicited — and Earth 
 Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their moral sense 
 They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 
 And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave. 
 
 Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed, 
 Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 
 From Sense and Reason less than These obtained, 
 Though far misled ? Shall Men for whom our Age 
 Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared. 
 To explore the world without and world within. 
 Be joyless as the blind ? Ambitious Souls — 
 Whom Earth, at this late season, hath produced 
 To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
 The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
 And They who rather dive than soar, whose pains 
 Have solved the elements, or analysed 
 The thinking principle — shall They in fact 
 Prove a degraded Race ? and what avails 
 Renown, if their presumption make them such ? 
 Oh ! there is laughter at their work in Heaven ! 
 Enquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 
 Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 
 
 N 4 
 
184. DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 That we should pry far off yet be unraised ; 
 
 That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 
 
 Viewing all objects unremittingly 
 
 In disconnection dead and spiritless ; 
 
 And still dividing, and dividing still. 
 
 Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
 
 With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
 
 May yet become more little ; waging thus 
 
 An impious warfare with the very life 
 
 Of our own Souls ! — And if indeed there be 
 
 An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
 
 Our dark foundations rest, could Ke design. 
 
 Or will his rites and services permit. 
 
 That this magnificent effect of Power, 
 
 The Earth we tread, the Sky which we behold 
 
 By day, and all the pomp which night reveals, 
 
 That these — and that superior Mystery 
 
 Our vital Frame, so fearfully devised, 
 
 And the dread Soul within it — ■ should exist 
 
 Only to be examined, pondered, searched. 
 
 Probed, vexed, and criticised ? — Accuse me not 
 
 Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am, 
 
 If, having walked with Nature threescore years. 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 185^ 
 
 And offered, far as frailty would allow, 
 
 My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
 
 I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 
 
 Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
 
 Revolts, offended at the ways of Men 
 
 Swayed by such motives, to such end employed ; 
 
 Philosophers, who, when the human Soul 
 
 Is of a thousand faculties composed. 
 
 And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
 
 This Soul, and the transcendent Universe, 
 
 No more than as a Mirror that reflects 
 
 To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
 
 That One, poor, finite Object, in the Abyss 
 
 Of infinite Being, twinklhig restlessly ! 
 
 Nor higher place can be assigned to Him 
 And his Compeers — the laughing Sage of France. — 
 Crowned was He, if my Memory doth not err, 
 With laurel planted upon hoary hairs. 
 In sign of conquest by his Wit atchieved, 
 And benefits his Wisdom had conferred. 
 His tottering Body was oppressed with flowers ; 
 Far less becoming ornaments than those 
 
186 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 With which Spring often decks a mouldering Tree ! 
 
 Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain Old Man, 
 
 And a most frivolous People. Him I mean 
 
 Who framed, to ridicule confiding Faith, 
 
 This sorry Legend ; which by chance we found 
 
 Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem. 
 
 Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking thus. 
 
 With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 
 
 We had espied the Book, he drew it forth ; 
 
 And courteously, as if the act removed. 
 
 At once, all traces from the good Man's heart 
 
 Of unbenign aversion or contempt, 
 
 Restored it to its owner. " Gentle Friend," 
 
 Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 
 
 " You have known better Lights and Guides than these- 
 
 Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
 
 A noble Mind to practise on herself. 
 
 And tempt Opinion to support the wrongs 
 
 Of Passion : whatsoe'er is felt or feared. 
 
 From higher judgment-seats make no appeal 
 
 To lower : can you question that the Soul 
 
 Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
 
 To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED, 187 
 
 By each new upstart Notion ? In the ports 
 
 Of levity no refuge can be found, 
 
 No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
 
 He, who by wilful disesteem of life, 
 
 And proud insensibility to hope 
 
 Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
 
 That her mild nature can be terrible ; 
 
 That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
 
 To avenge their own insulted Majesty. 
 
 — O blest seclusion ! when the Mind admits 
 
 The law of duty ; and thereby can live. 
 
 Through each vicissitude of loss and gain. 
 
 Linked in entire complacence with her choice ; 
 
 When Youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down. 
 
 And Manhood's vain anxiety dismissed; 
 
 When Wisdom shews her seasonable fruit, 
 
 Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
 
 In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops 
 
 To drink with gratitude the chrystal stream 
 
 Of unreproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 
 
 To muse, — and be saluted by the air 
 
 Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 
 
 From out the crumbling ruins of fallen Pride 
 
188 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 And chambers of Transgression, now forlorn. 
 O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights ! 
 Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive 
 To reconcile his Manhood to a couch. 
 Soft as may seem ; but, under that disguise. 
 Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past. 
 For fixed annoyance ; and full oft beset 
 With floating dreams, disconsohite and black. 
 The vapoury phantoms of futurity ? 
 
 Within the soul a Faculty abides, 
 That with interpositions, which would hide 
 And darken, so can deal, that they become 
 Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
 Her native brightness. As the ample Moon, 
 In the deep stillness of a summer even 
 Rising behind a thick and lofty Grove, 
 Burns like an unconsuming fire of light, 
 In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
 Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
 Into a substance glorious as her own. 
 Yea with her own incorporated, by power 
 Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 189 
 
 In Man*s celestial Spirit; Virtue thus 
 
 Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 
 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire. 
 
 From the incumbrances of mortal life, 
 
 From error, disappointment, — nay from guilt; 
 
 And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills. 
 
 From palpable oppressions of Despair." 
 
 The Solitary by these words was touched 
 With manifest emotion, and exclaimed, 
 '' But how beofin ? and whence? — The Mind is free; 
 Resolve — the haughty Moralist would say, 
 This single act is all that we demand. 
 Alas ! such v/isdom bids a Creature fly 
 Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
 His natural wings ! — To Friendship let him turn 
 For succour ; but perhaps he sits alone 
 On stormy waters, in a little Boat 
 That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
 Religion tells of amity sublime 
 Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
 Who sees all suffering, comprehends all wants, 
 All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs ; 
 
190 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 But is that bounty absolute ? — His gifts, 
 
 Are they not still, in some degree, rewards 
 
 For acts of service ? Can his Love extend 
 
 To hearts that own not Him ? Will showers of grace. 
 
 When in the sky no promise may be seen, 
 
 Fall to refresh a parched and withered land ? 
 
 Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 
 
 At the Redeemer's feet ?" 
 
 In rueful tone, 
 W^ith some impatience in his mien, he spake ; 
 And tliis reply was given. — 
 
 " As Men from Men 
 Do, in the constitution of their Souls, 
 Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
 And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
 One deeper than another, self-condemned. 
 Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame. 
 So, manifold and various are the ways 
 Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
 Of all infirmity, and tending all 
 To the same point, — attainable by all ; 
 Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
 — For Him, to whom I speak, an easy road 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 191 
 
 Lies open : we have heard from You a voice 
 
 At every moment softened in its course 
 
 By tenderness of heart; have seen your Eye, 
 
 Even like an Altar lit by fire from Heaven, 
 
 Kindle before us. — Your discourse this day, 
 
 That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow 
 
 In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
 
 Of death and night, has caught at every turn 
 
 The colours of the Sun. Access for you 
 
 Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
 
 Which the Imaginative Will upholds 
 
 In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
 
 By the inferior Faculty that moulds. 
 
 With her minute and speculative pains. 
 
 Opinion, ever changing ! — I have seen 
 
 A curious Child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipped Shell ; 
 
 To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 
 Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
 
 Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from within 
 
 Were heard, — sonorous cadences ! whereby 
 
 To his belief, the Monitor expressed 
 
192 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Mysterious union with its native Sea. 
 
 Even such a Shell the Universe itself 
 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 
 I doubt not, when to You it doth impart 
 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 
 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
 
 Adore, and worship, when you know it not ; 
 
 Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
 
 Devout above the meaning of your will. 
 
 — Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 
 
 The estate of Man would be indeed forlorn 
 
 If false conclusions of the reasoning Power 
 
 Made the Eye blind, and closed the passages 
 
 Through which the Ear converses with the heart. 
 
 Has not the Soul, the Being of your Life 
 
 Received a shock of awful consciousness, 
 
 In some calm season, when these lofty Rocks 
 
 At night's approach bring down the unclouded Sky 
 
 To rest upon their circumambient walls ; 
 
 A Temple framing of dimensions vast, 
 
 And yet not too enormous for the sound 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 193 ' 
 
 Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 
 Sublime of instrumental harmony. 
 To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 
 Did never break the stillness that prevails 
 Here, if the solemn Nightingale be mute. 
 And the soft Woodlark here did never chaunt 
 Her vespers. Nature fails not to provide 
 Impulse and utterance. The whispering Air 
 Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, 
 And blind recesses of the caverned rocks ; 
 The little Rills, and Waters numberless, 
 Inaudible by day-light, blend their notes 
 With the loud Streams : and often, at the hour 
 When issue forth the first pale Stars, is heard, 
 Within the circuit of this Fabric huge. 
 One Voice — the solitary Raven, flying 
 Athwart the concave of the dark-blue dome. 
 Unseen, perchance above the power of sight — 
 An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
 Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 
 The wanderer accompanies her flight 
 Through the calm region, fades upon the ear. 
 Diminishing by distance till it seems 
 
194 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 To expire, yet from the Abyss is caught again, 
 And yet again recovered ! 
 
 But descending 
 From these Imaginative Heights, that yield 
 Far-stretching views into Eternity, 
 Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 
 Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 
 Even here, where her amenities are sown 
 With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 
 To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields. 
 Where on the labours of the happy Throng 
 She smiles, including in her wide embrace 
 City, and Town, and Tower, — and Sea with Ships 
 Sprinkled, — be our Companion while we track 
 Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
 While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 
 And pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
 Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 
 In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 
 Where living Things, and Things inanimate, 
 Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, 
 And speak to social Reason's inner sense. 
 With inarticulate language. 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 195 
 
 — For the Man, 
 Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms 
 Of Nature, who with understanding heart, 
 Doth know and love, such Objects as excite 
 No morbid passions, no disquietude, 
 No vengeance, and no hatred, needs must feel 
 The joy of that pure principle of Love 
 So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
 Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
 But seek for objects of a kindred love 
 In Fellow-natures, and a kindred joy. 
 Accordingly, he by degrees, perceives 
 His feelings of aversion softened down ; 
 A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 
 His sanity of reason not impaired, 
 Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear. 
 From a clear Fountain flowing, he looks round 
 And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks : 
 Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
 He only knows by name ; and, if he hear 
 From other mouths, the language which they speak, 
 He is compassionate ; and has no thought. 
 No feeling which can overcome his love. 
 o 2 
 
196 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 And further ; by contemplating these Forms 
 In the relations which they bear to Man, 
 He shall discern, how, through the various means 
 Which silently they yield, are multiplied 
 The spiritual Presences of absent Things, 
 Convoked by knowledge ; and for his delight 
 Still ready to obey the gentle call. 
 Trust me, that for the Instructed, time will come 
 When they shall meet no object but may teacli 
 Some acceptable lesson to their minds 
 Of human suffering, or of human joy. 
 For them shall all things speak of Man, they read 
 Their duties in all forms ; and general laws, 
 And local accidents, shall tend alike 
 To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 
 The ability to spread the blessings wide 
 Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
 Not failing, perseverance from their steps 
 Departing not, they shall at length obtain 
 The glorious habit by which Sense is made 
 Subservient still to moral purposes, 
 Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 
 The naked S})irit, ceasing to deplore 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 197 
 
 The burthen of existence. Science then 
 Shall be a precious Visitant ; and then, 
 And only then, be worthy of her name. 
 For then her Heart shall kindle ; her dull Eye, 
 Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
 Chained to its object in brute slavery ; 
 But taught with patient interest to watch 
 The processes of things, ajid serve the cause 
 Of order and distinctness, not for this 
 Shall it forget that its most noble use. 
 Its most illustrious province, must be found 
 In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
 Not treacherous, to the Mind's excursive Power. 
 — So build we up the Being that we are ; 
 Thus deeply drinking-in the Soul of Things 
 We shall be wise perforce ; and while inspired 
 By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 
 Unswerving shall we move, as if impelled 
 By strict necessity, along the path 
 Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
 Whate'er we feel, by agency direct 
 Or indirect shall tend to feed and nurse 
 o 3 
 
198 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats 
 
 Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 
 
 Of love divine, our intellectual Soul." 
 
 Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue, 
 Poured forth with fervour in continuous stream ; 
 Such as, remote 'mid savage wilderness. 
 An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 
 Into the hearing of the assembled Tribes, 
 In open circle seated round, and hushed 
 As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
 Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he speak : 
 The words he uttered shall not pass away ; 
 For they sank into me — the bounteous gift 
 Of One whom time and nature had made wise, 
 Gracing his language with authority 
 Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
 Of One accustomed to desires that feed 
 On fruitage gathered from the Tree of Life, 
 To hopes on knowledge and experience built ; 
 Of One in whom persuasion and belief 
 Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 199 
 
 A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
 Though bound to Earth by ties of pity and love, 
 From all injurious servitude was free. 
 
 The Sun, before his place of rest were reached, 
 Had yet to travel far, but unto us, 
 To us who stood low in that hollow Dell 
 He had become invisible, — a pomp 
 Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
 Upon the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
 With ample shadows, seemingly no less 
 Than those resplendent lights his rich bequest, 
 A dispensation of his evening power. 
 — Adown the path which from the Glen had led 
 The funeral Train, the Shepherd and his Mate 
 Were seen descending ; — forth in transport ran 
 Our little Page ; the rustic Pair approach ; 
 And in the Matron's aspect may be read 
 A plain assurance that the words which told 
 How that neglected Pensioner was sent. 
 Before his time, into a quiet grave. 
 Had done to her humanity no wrong. 
 But we are kindly welcomed ; promptly served 
 o 4 
 
200 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
 Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
 A grateful Couch was spread for our repose ; 
 Where, in the guise of Mountaineers, we slept, 
 Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound 
 Of far-off Torrents charming the still night. 
 And to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts 
 Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. 
 
BOOK THE FIFTH. 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Farewell deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 
 
 And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 
 
 And guardian rocks ! — With unreverted eyes 
 
 I cannot pass thy bounds, attractive Seat ! 
 
 To the still influx of the morning light 
 
 Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled 
 
 From human observation, as if yet 
 
 Primaeval Forests wrapped thee round with dark 
 
 Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell 
 
 Majestic Circuit, beautiful Abyss, 
 
 By Nature destined from the birth of things 
 
 For quietness profound ! 
 
202 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Upon the side 
 Of that green Slope, the outlet of the Vale, 
 Lingering behind my Comrades, thus I breathed 
 A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
 Like the fixed centre of a troubled World. 
 And now, pursuing leisurely my way, 
 How vain, thought I, it is by change of place 
 To seek that comfort which the mind denies ; 
 Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned 
 Wisely ; and by such tenor do we hold 
 Frail Life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
 Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
 Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
 To steal from active duties, and embrace 
 Obscurity, and calm forgetfulness. 
 — Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times. 
 Should be allowed a privilege to have 
 Her Anchorites, like Piety of old; 
 Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstamed 
 By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
 Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
 Living to God and Nature, and content 
 With that communion. Consecrated be 
 
THE PASTOR. 203 
 
 The Spots where such abide ! But happier still 
 
 The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends 
 
 That meditation and research may guide 
 
 His privacy to principles and powers 
 
 Discovered, or invented ; or set forth 
 
 Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth. 
 
 In lucid order ; so that, when his course 
 
 Is run, some faithful Eulogist may say. 
 
 He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 
 
 His unobtrusive merit ; but his life. 
 
 Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
 
 That shall survive his name and memory. 
 
 Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
 Accompanied these musings ; — fervent thanks 
 For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
 A choice that from the passions of the world 
 Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat. 
 Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
 Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
 Cheering my days, and with industrious thought. 
 With the ever-welcome company of books 
 
204 THE PASTOR. 
 
 By virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, 
 And with the blessings of domestic love. 
 
 Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 
 Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel 
 Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
 My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
 Halting together on a rocky knoll. 
 From which the road descended rapidly 
 To the green meadows of another Vale. 
 
 Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
 In sign of farewell. " Nay," the Old Man said, 
 " The fragrant Air its coolness still retains ; 
 The Herds and Flocks are yet abroad to crop 
 The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now. 
 We must not part at this inviting hour." 
 To that injunction, earnestly expressed, 
 He yielded, though reluctant ; for his Mind 
 Instinctively disposed him to retire 
 To his own Covert ; as a billow, heaved 
 Upon the beach, rolls back into the Sea. 
 
THE PASTOR. 205 
 
 — So we descend ; and winding round a rock 
 Attain a point that shewed the Valley — stretched 
 In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
 Upon a rising ground a grey Church-tower, 
 Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 
 And, tow'rds a chrystal Mere, that lay beyond 
 Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed 
 A copious Stream with boldly-winding course ; 
 Here traceable, there hidden — there aofain 
 To sight restored, and glittering in the Sun. 
 On the Stream's bank, and every where, appeared 
 Fair Dwellings, single or in social knots ; 
 Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 
 On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 
 Now in its morning purity arrayed. 
 
 " As, 'mid some happy Valley of the Alps," 
 Said I, " once happy, ere tyrannic Power 
 Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
 Destroyed their unoffending Commonwealth, 
 A popular equality doth seem 
 Here to prevail ; and yet a House of State 
 Stands yonder, one beneath whose roof, methinks, 
 
206 THE PASTOR. 
 
 A rural Lord might dwell." " No feudal pomp," 
 
 Replied our Friend, a Chronicler who stood 
 
 Where'er he moved upon familiar ground, 
 
 " Nor feudal power is there ; but there abides, 
 
 In his allotted Home, a genuine Priest, 
 
 The Shepherd of his Flock ; or, as a King 
 
 Is stiled, when most affectionately praised. 
 
 The Father of his People. Such is he. 
 
 And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice 
 
 Under his spiritual sway, collected round him 
 
 In this sequestered Realm. He hath vouchsafed 
 
 To me some portion of his kind regard ; 
 
 And something also of his inner mind 
 
 Hath he imparted — but 1 speak of him 
 
 As he is known to all. The calm delights 
 
 Of unambitious piety he chose. 
 
 And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
 
 Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 
 
 This good to reap, these pleasures to secure, 
 
 Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
 
 From academic bowers. He loved the spot. 
 
 Who does not love his native soil ? he prized 
 
 The ancient rural character, composed 
 
THE PASTOR. 207 
 
 Of simple manners, feelings misuppressed 
 
 And undisguised, and strong and serious thought; 
 
 A character reflected in himself, 
 
 With such embellishment as well beseems 
 
 His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 
 
 Is lengthened out by many a winding reach. 
 
 Not visible to us ; and one of these 
 
 A turretted manorial Hall adorns ; 
 
 In which the good Man's Ancestors have dwelt 
 
 From age to age, the Patrons of this Cure. 
 
 To them, and to his decorating hand, 
 
 The Vicar's Dwelling, and the whole Domain, 
 
 Owes that presiding aspect which might well 
 
 Attract your notice; statelier than could else 
 
 Have been bestowed, in course of common chance, 
 
 On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 
 
 This said, oft halting we pursued our way ; 
 Nor reached the Village Church-yard till the sun, 
 Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 
 Above the summits of the highest hiUs, 
 And round our path darted oppressive beams. 
 
208 THE PASTOR. 
 
 As chanced, the Portals of the sacred Pile 
 Stood open, and we entered. On my frame, 
 At such transition from the fervid air, 
 A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike 
 The heart, in concert with that temperate awe 
 And natural reverence, which the Place inspired. 
 Not framed to nice proportions was the Pile, 
 But large and massy ; for duration built. 
 With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
 By naked rafters intricately crossed. 
 Like leafless underboughs, in some thick grove. 
 All withered by the depth of shade above. 
 Admonitory Texts inscribed the walls. 
 Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed, — 
 Each also crowned with winged heads — a pair 
 Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
 Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise. 
 Was occupied by oaken benches, ranged 
 In seemly rows ; the chancel only shewed 
 Some inoffensive marks of earthly state 
 And vain distinction. A capacious pew 
 Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined ; 
 And marble Monuments were here displayed 
 
THE PASTOR. 209 
 
 Upon the walls ; and on the floor beneath 
 Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven. 
 And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small 
 And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 
 — The tribute by these various records claimed. 
 Without reluctance did we pay ; and read 
 The ordinary chronicle of birth, 
 Office, alliance, and promotion — < all 
 Ending in dust ; of upright Magistrates, 
 Grave Doctors strenuous for the Mother Church, 
 And uncorrupted Senators, alike 
 To King and People true. A brazen plate, 
 Not easily decyphered, told of One 
 Whose course of earthly honour was begun 
 In quality of page among the Train 
 Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas 
 His royal state to shew, and prove his strength 
 In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
 Another Tablet registered the death, 
 And praised the gallant bearing of a Knight 
 Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 
 Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed ; 
 And, to the silent language giving voice, 
 
 p 
 
210 THE PASTOR. 
 
 I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
 
 He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine War 
 
 And rightful Government subverted, found 
 
 One only solace, that he had espoused 
 
 A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
 
 For her benign perfections : and for this 
 
 Yet more endeared to him, that in her state 
 
 Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard, 
 
 She with a numerous Issue filled his House, 
 
 Who throve, like Plants, uninjured by the Storm 
 
 That laid their Country waste. No need to speak 
 
 Of less particular notices assigned 
 
 To Youth or Maiden gone before their time. 
 
 And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old ; 
 
 Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 
 
 In modest panegyric. " These dim lines. 
 
 What would they tell?" said I, — but, from the task 
 
 Of puzzling out that faded Narrative, 
 
 With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
 
 Called me ; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 
 
 1 saw the Tenant of the lonely Vale 
 
 Standing apart ; with curved arm reclined 
 
 On the baptismal Font ; his pallid face 
 
THE PASTOR. 211 
 
 Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
 In some abstraction ; — gracefully he stood, 
 The semblance bearing of a sculptured Form 
 That leans upon a monumental Urn 
 In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 
 
 Him from that posture did the Sexton rouze ; 
 Who entered, humming carelessly a tune. 
 Continuation haply of the notes 
 That had beguiled the work from which he came, 
 With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung, 
 To be deposited, for future need, 
 In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
 Withdrew ; and straight we followed, — to a spot 
 Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 
 A broad Oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
 From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
 Small space of that green church-yard with a light 
 And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
 My ancient Friend and I together took 
 Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake, 
 Standing before us. " Did you note the mien 
 Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl, 
 
 p 2 
 
212 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Death's Hireling, who scoops out his Neighbour's grave, 
 
 Or wraps an old Acquaintance up in clay. 
 
 As unconcerned as when he plants a tree ? 
 
 I was abruptly summoned by his voice 
 
 From some affecting images and thoughts, 
 
 And from the company of serious words. 
 
 Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 
 
 Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
 
 For future states of Being ; and the wings 
 
 Of speculation, joyfully outspread, 
 
 Hovered above our destiny on earth ; 
 
 But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul 
 
 In sober contrast with reality, 
 
 And Man's substantial life. If this mute earth 
 
 Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 
 
 Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
 
 Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 
 
 We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame, 
 
 To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 
 
 That which is done accords with what is known 
 
 To reason, and by conscience is enjoined ; 
 
 How idly, how perversely, Life's whole course, 
 
 To this conclusion, deviates from the line. 
 
THE PASTOR. 213 
 
 Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
 
 At its aspiring outset. Mark tlie Babe 
 
 Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 
 
 One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, 
 
 Though yet irrational of Soul to grasp 
 
 With tiny fingers, to let fall a tear. 
 
 And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 
 
 To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem, 
 
 The outward functions of intelligent Man ; 
 
 A grave Proficient in amusive feats 
 
 Of puppetry, that fi-om the lap declare 
 
 His expectations, and announce his claims 
 
 To that inheritance which millions rue 
 
 That they were ever born to ! In due time 
 
 A day of solemn ceremonial comes; 
 
 When they, who for this Minor hold in trust 
 
 Rights that transcend the unblest heritage 
 
 Of mere Humanity, present their Charge, 
 
 For this occasion daintily adorned. 
 
 At the baptismal Font. And when the pure 
 
 And consecrating element hath cleansed 
 
 The original stain, the Child is there received 
 
 Into the second Ark, Christ's Church, with trust 
 p 3 
 
214. THE PASTOR. 
 
 That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float 
 
 Over the billows of this troublesome world 
 
 To the fair land of everlasting Life. 
 
 Corrupt affections, covetous desires, 
 
 Are all renounced ; high as the thought of man 
 
 Can carry virtue, virtue is professed ; 
 
 A dedication made, a promise given 
 
 For due provision to controul and guide, 
 
 And unremitting progress to ensure 
 
 In holiness and truth." 
 
 " You cannot blame," 
 Here interposing fervently I said, 
 *' Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
 Bedded for good and evil in a gulph 
 Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment scorn 
 Those services, whereby attempt is made 
 To lift the Creature towards that eminence 
 On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
 He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
 At least he feels 'tis given him to descry ; 
 Not without aspirations, evermore 
 Returning, and injunctions from within 
 Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trust 
 
THE PASTOR. 215 
 
 That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost, 
 May be, through pains and persevering hope. 
 Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown. 
 Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained." 
 
 " I blame them not," he calmly answered — " no ; 
 The outward ritual and established forms 
 With which Communities of Men invest 
 These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows 
 To which the lips give public utterance 
 Are both a natural process ; and by me 
 Shall pass uncensured ; though the issue prove. 
 Bringing from age to age its own reproach, 
 Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, oh ! 
 If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable. 
 As the lost Angel by a human voice 
 Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 
 Far better not to move at all than move 
 By impulse sent from such illusive Power, 
 That finds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps 
 And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
 That tempts, emboldens — doth a whDe sustain. 
 And then betrays ; accuses and inflicts 
 p 4? 
 
216 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
 The inevitable circle : better far 
 Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace, 
 By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed ! 
 
 Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted name 
 Religion ! with thy statelier retinue. 
 Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible world 
 Choose for your Emblems whatsoe'er ye find 
 Of safest guidance and of firmest trust, — 
 The Torch, the Star, the Anchor ; nor except 
 The Cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
 The Generations of Mankind have knelt 
 Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
 And through that conflict seeking rest — of you, 
 High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask, 
 Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky 
 In faint reflection of infinitude 
 Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet 
 A subterraneous magazine of bones 
 In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid. 
 Where are your triumphs ? your dominion where ? 
 And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 
 
THE PASTOR. 2lf 
 
 — Not for a happy Land do 1 enquire. 
 Island or Grove, that hides a blessed few 
 Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
 To your serene authorities conform ; 
 But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 
 
 Have ye withdrawn from Passion's crooked ways, 
 
 Inspired, and thoroughly fortified ? — If the Heart 
 
 Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
 
 By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, 
 
 Who shall be named — in the resplendent line 
 
 Of Sages, Martyrs, Confessors — the Man 
 
 Whom the best might of Conscience, Truth, and Hope, 
 
 For one day's little compass, has preserved 
 
 From painful and discreditable shocks 
 
 Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
 
 Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 
 
 To some unsanctioned fear ?'* 
 
 "If this be so. 
 And Man," said I, "be in his noblest shape 
 Thus pitiably infirm ; then. He who made. 
 And who shall judge the Creature, will forgive. 
 
 — Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
 Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced. 
 
218 THE PASTOR. 
 
 For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thoughts 
 
 Rise to the notice of a serious Mind 
 
 By natural exhalation. With the Dead 
 
 In their repose, the Living in their mirth, 
 
 Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
 
 Of smooth and solemnized complacencies. 
 
 By which, on Christian Lands, from age to age 
 
 Profession mocks Performance. Earth is sick, 
 
 And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
 
 Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 
 
 Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
 
 And social neighbourhood ; look we to ourselves ; 
 
 A light of duty shines on every day 
 
 For all ; and yet how few are warmed or cheered ! 
 
 How few who. mingle with their fellow-men 
 
 And still remain self-governed, and apart. 
 
 Like this our honoured friend ; and thence acquire 
 
 Right to expect his vigorous decline. 
 
 That promises to the end a blest old age !" 
 
 " Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 
 The Solitary, << In the life of Man, 
 If to the poetry of common speech 
 
THE PASTOR. 219 
 
 Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
 
 A true reflection of the cirding year, 
 
 With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there, 
 
 In spite of many a rough untoward blast, 
 
 Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers ; 
 
 Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day, 
 
 That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
 
 And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit. 
 
 Where is she imaged ? in what favoured clime 
 
 Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence ? 
 
 — Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse 
 
 In Man's autumnal season is set forth 
 
 With a resemblance not to be denied. 
 
 And that contents him ; bowers that hear no more 
 
 The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
 
 Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
 
 And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves. 
 
 Foretelling total Winter, blank and cold. 
 
 How gay the Habitations that adorn 
 This fertile Valley ! Not a House but seems 
 To give assurance of content within ; 
 Embosomed happiness, and placid love ; 
 
220 THE PASTOR. 
 
 As if the sunshine of the day were met 
 
 With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
 
 Who walk this favoured ground. But chance-regards, 
 
 And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 
 
 These, if these only, acting in despite 
 
 Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
 
 On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
 
 To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
 
 And noiseless Commonwealth. The simple race 
 
 Of Mountaineers, by Nature's self removed 
 
 From foul temptations, and by constant care 
 
 Of a good Shepherd tended, as themselves 
 
 Do tend their flocks, These share Man's general lot 
 
 With little mitigation. They escape, 
 
 Perchance, guilt's heavier woes ; and do not feel 
 
 The tedium of fantastic idleness ; 
 
 Yet life, as with the multitude, with them. 
 
 Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ; 
 
 That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
 
 Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, 
 
 And pleasant interests — for the sequel leaving 
 
 Old things repeated with diminished grace ; 
 
 And all the laboured novelties, at best 
 
THE PASTOR. 221 
 
 Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
 
 Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." 
 
 While in this serious mood we held discourse, 
 The reverend Pastor tow'rds the Church-yard gate 
 Approached ; and, with a mild respectful air 
 Of native cordiality, our Friend 
 Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 
 Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 
 Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess 
 That He, who now upon the mossy wall 
 Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 
 Could have transferred him to his lonely House 
 Within the circuit of those guardian rocks. 
 — For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased : 
 Nature had framed them both, and both were marked 
 By circumstance with intermixture fine 
 Of contrast and resemblance. To an Oak 
 Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten Oak, 
 Fresh in the strength and majesty of age. 
 One might be likened : flourishing appeared. 
 Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 
 
222 THE PASTOR. 
 
 The Other — hke a stately Sycamore, 
 
 That spreads, in gentler pomp, its honied shade. 
 
 A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
 The Pastor learned that his approach had given 
 A welcome interruption to discourse 
 Grave, and in truth full often sad. — " Is Man 
 A Child of hope ? Do generations press 
 On generations, without progress made ? 
 Halts the Individual, ere his hairs be grey, 
 Perforce ? Are we a Creature in whom good 
 Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the Will 
 Acknowledge Reason's law ? A living Power 
 Is Virtue, or no better than a name. 
 Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
 So that the only substance which remains, 
 (For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 
 Among so many shadows, are the pains 
 And penalties of miserable life, 
 Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust ! 
 — Our cogitations this way have been drawn. 
 These are the points," the Wanderer said, " on which 
 
THE PASTOR. 223 
 
 Our Inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir ! the light 
 Of your experience, to dispel this gloom. 
 By your persuasive wisdom shall the Heart 
 That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered." 
 
 *' Our Nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 
 '' Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive. 
 With undistempered and unclouded spirit. 
 The object as it is ; but, for ourselves. 
 That speculative height we may not reach. 
 The good and evil are our own ; and we 
 Are that which we would contemplate from far. 
 Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
 Is difficult to gain and hard to keep — 
 As Virtue's self; like Virtue is beset 
 "With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 
 Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate. 
 Blind were we without these : through these alone 
 Are capable to notice or discern 
 Or to record ; we judge, but cannot be 
 Indiffisrent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast. 
 Reason, best Reason, is to imperfect Man 
 An effi^rt only, and a noble aim ; 
 
224 THE PASTOR. 
 
 A crown, an attribute of sovereign power, 
 Still to be courted — never to be won ! 
 — Look forth, or each man dive into himself; 
 What sees he but a Creature too perturbed, 
 That is transported to excess ; that yearns, 
 Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 
 Hopes rashly in disgust, as rash recoils ; 
 Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair ? 
 Thus truth is missed, and comprehension fails ; 
 And darkness and delusion round our path 
 Spread, from disease, whose subtile injury lurks 
 Within the very faculty of sight. 
 
 Yet for the general purposes of faith 
 In Providence, for solace and support, 
 We may not doubt that who can best subject 
 The will to Reason's law, and strictliest Uve 
 And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
 The clearest apprehension of those truths, 
 Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
 Is too infirm to reach. But — waiving this. 
 And our regards confining within bounds 
 Of less exalted consciousness — through which 
 
THE PASTOR. 225 
 
 The very multitude are free to range — 
 We safely may affirm that human life 
 Is either fair or tempting, a soft scene 
 Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
 Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view ; 
 Even as the same is looked at, or approached. 
 Permit me," said the Priest continuing, " here 
 To use an illustration of my thought, 
 Drawn from the very spot on which we stand. 
 — In changeful April, when, as he is wont, 
 Winter has reassumed a short lived sway 
 And whitened all the surface of the fields, 
 If — from the sullen region of the North, 
 Towards the circuit of this holy ground. 
 Your walk conducts you, ere the vigorous sun, 
 High climbing, hath attained his noon-tide height — 
 These Mounds, transversely lying side by side 
 From east to west, before you will appear 
 A dreary plain of unillumined show, 
 With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom 
 Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back ; 
 On the same circuit of this church-yard ground 
 Look, from the quarter whence the Lord of light, 
 
 2 
 
226 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Of life, of love, and gladness, doth dispense 
 His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall, 
 Upon the southern side of every grave 
 Have gently exercised a melting power, 
 Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 
 All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, 
 Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the snow, 
 Vanished or hidden ; and the whole Domain, 
 To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
 A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
 — This Contrast, not unsuitable to Life, 
 Is to that other state more apposite. 
 Death, and its two-fold aspect ; wintry — one. 
 Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out ; 
 The other, which the ray divine hath touched, 
 Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." 
 
 " We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus 
 With a complacent animation spake, 
 " And, in your judgment, Sir ! the Mmd's repose 
 On evidence is not to be ensured 
 By act of naked Reason. Moral truth 
 Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
 
I 
 
 THE PASTOR. 227 
 
 And which, once built, retains a steadfast shape 
 And undisturbed proportions ; but a thing 
 Subject, you deem, to vital accidents ; 
 And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives. 
 Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head 
 Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 
 I re-salute these sentiments, confirmed 
 By your authority. But how acquire 
 The inward principle, that gives effect 
 To outward argument ; the passive will 
 Meek to admit ; the active energy, 
 Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
 To keep and cherish ? How shall Man unite 
 A self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
 And earth-despising dignity of soul ? 
 Wise in that union, and without it blind !" 
 
 " The way," said I, " to court, if not obtain 
 The ingenuous Mind, apt to be set aright ; 
 This, in the lonely Dell discoursing, you 
 Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
 From visible nature or the inner self 
 Power may be trained, and renovation brought 
 Q 2 
 
228 THE PASTOR. 
 
 To those who need the gift. But, after all. 
 Is aught so certain as that Man is doomed 
 To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
 The natural roof of that dark house in which 
 His soul is pent ! How little can be knx)wn — 
 This is the wise man's sigh ; how far we err — 
 This is the good man's not unfrequent pang ! 
 And they perhaps err least, the lowly Class 
 Whom a benign necessity compels 
 To follow Reason's least ambitious course ; 
 Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt 
 And unincited by a wish to look 
 Into high objects farther than they may, 
 Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, 
 The narrow avenue of daily toil 
 For daily bread /* 
 
 " Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 
 The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy plough, 
 And patient spade, and shepherd's simple crook. 
 And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
 Body and mind in one captivity; 
 And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
 With honour ; which, encasing, by the power 
 
THE PASTOR. 229 
 
 Of long companionship, the Artist's hand, 
 Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 
 From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
 
 — Inglorious implements of craft and toil, 
 Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
 By slow solicitation, Earth to yield 
 
 Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
 With wise reluctance, you would I extol 
 Not for gross good alone which ye produce, 
 But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
 Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in those 
 Who to your dull society are born, 
 And with their humble birth-right rest content. 
 
 — Would I had ne'er renounced it !" 
 
 A slight flush 
 Of moral anger previously had tinged 
 The Old Man's cheek ; but, at this closing turn 
 Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
 " That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
 So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
 No visible recompense. For our relief 
 You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
 " Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
 
 2 3 
 
230 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Your further help ? The mhie of real life 
 Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 
 Of virgin ore, that gold which we by pains 
 Fruitless as those of aery Alchemists 
 Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 
 Around us a Domain where You have long 
 Held spiritual sway, have guided and consoled, 
 And watched the outward course and inner heart. 
 Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts ; 
 For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what Man 
 He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 
 What qualities of mind She bears, who comes, 
 For morn and evening service, with her pail. 
 To that green pasture ; place before our sight 
 The Family who dwell within yon House 
 Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 
 Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. 
 Or rather, as we stand on holy earth. 
 And have the Dead around us, take from them 
 Your instances ; for they are both best known. 
 And by frail Man most equitably judged. 
 Epitomise the life; pronounce. You can, 
 Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
 
THE PASTOR. 231 
 
 Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, 
 Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet. 
 So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 
 And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
 To prize the breath we share with human kind ; 
 And look upon the dust of Man with awe." 
 
 The Priest replied. — "An office you hnpose 
 For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
 Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 
 Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
 That They whom Death has hidden from our sight 
 Are worthiest of the Mind's regard ; with these 
 The future cannot contradict the past : 
 Mortality's last exercise and proof 
 Is undergone ; the transit made that shews 
 The very soul, revealed as it departs. 
 Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
 Ere we descend into these silent vaults. 
 One Picture from the living. — 
 
 You behold, 
 High on the breast of yon dark mountain -^ dark 
 With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
 2 4f 
 
232 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Bright as a sun-beam sleeping till a shower 
 
 Brush it away, or cloud pass over it; 
 
 And such it might be deemed — a sleeping sun-beam ; 
 
 But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground. 
 
 Cut ofF, an island in the dusky waste ; 
 
 And that attractive brightness is its own. 
 
 The lofty Site, by nature framed to tempt 
 
 Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
 
 The Tiller's hand, a Hermit might have chosen, 
 
 For opportunity presented, thence 
 
 Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 
 
 And ocean, and look down upon the works, 
 
 The habitations, and the ways of men. 
 
 Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
 
 That ever Hermit dipped his maple dish 
 
 In the sweet-spring that lurks mid yon green fields ; 
 
 And no such visionary views belong 
 
 To those who occupy and till the ground, 
 
 And on the bosom of the mountain dwell — 
 
 A wedded Pair, in childless solitude. 
 
 — A House of stones collected on the spot, 
 
 By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 
 
 Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
 
THE PASTOR. 233 
 
 Of birch-trees waves above the chimney top : 
 
 In shape, in size, and colour, an abode 
 
 Such as in unsafe times of Border war 
 
 Might have been wished for and contrived — to elude 
 
 The eye of roving Plunderer, for their need 
 
 Suffices ; and unshaken bears the assault 
 
 Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west, 
 
 In anger blowing from the distant sea. 
 
 — Alone within her solitary Hut ; 
 
 There, or within the compass of her fields. 
 
 At any moment may the Dame be found, 
 
 True as the Stock-dove to her shallow nest 
 
 And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles 
 By intermingled work of house and field 
 
 The summer's day, and winter's ; with success 
 
 Not equal, but sufficient to maintain. 
 Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content. 
 Until the expected hour at which her Mate 
 From the far-distant Quarry's vault returns ; 
 And by his converse crowns a silent day 
 With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind, 
 In scale of culture, few among my Flock 
 Hold lower rank than this sequestered Pair. 
 
234 THE PASTOR. 
 
 But humbleness of heart descends from Heaven ; 
 And that best gift of Heaven hath fallen on them ; 
 Abundant recompence for every want. 
 — Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these ! 
 Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 
 The voice of wisdom whispering scripture texts 
 For the mind's government, or temper's peace ; 
 And recommending, for their mutual need. 
 Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity !" 
 
 " Much was I pleased," the grey-haired Wanderer said, 
 " When to those shining fields our notice first 
 You turned ; and yet more pleased have from your lips 
 Gathered this fair report of those who dwell 
 In that Retirement; whither, by such course 
 Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 
 A lone way-faring Man, I once was brought. 
 Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell 
 A\Tiile I was traversing yon mountain-pass 
 And night succeeded with unusual gloom ; 
 So that my feet and hands at length became 
 Guides better than mine eyes — until a light 
 High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 
 
THE PASTOR. 235 
 
 For human habitation ; but I longed 
 
 To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
 
 I looked with steadiness as Sailors look 
 
 On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, 
 
 And saw the light — now fixed — and shifting now — 
 
 Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
 
 Of never-varying motion, to and fro. 
 
 It is no night-fire of the naked hills. 
 
 Said I, some friendly covert must be near. 
 
 With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
 
 I turn, and reach at last the guiding Light ; 
 
 Joy to myself ! but to the heart of Her 
 
 Who there was standing on the open hill, 
 
 (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) 
 
 Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
 
 Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I came, 
 
 And by what help had gained those distant fields. 
 
 Drawn firom her Cottage, on that open height, 
 
 Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood. 
 
 Or paced the ground — to guide her Husband home, 
 
 By that unwearied signal, kenned afar ; 
 
 An anxious duty ! which the lofty Site, 
 
 Far from all public road or beaten way. 
 
236 THE PASTOR, 
 
 And traversed only by a few faint paths. 
 
 Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
 
 (Such chance is rare) detains him till the night 
 
 Falls black upon the hills. " But come," she said, 
 
 ** Come let me lead you to our poor Abode. 
 
 Behind those rocks it stands, as if it shunned. 
 
 In churlishness, the eye of all mankind; 
 
 But the few Guests who seek the door receive 
 
 Most hearty welcome." — Entering I beheld 
 
 A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 
 
 Sate down ; and to her office, with leave asked. 
 
 The Dame returned. — Before that glowing pile 
 
 Of mountain turf required the Builder's hand- 
 
 Its wasted splendour to repair, the door 
 
 Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks. 
 
 Her helpmate following. Hospitable fare, 
 
 Frank conversation, made the evening's treat. 
 
 Need a bewildered Traveller wish for more ? 
 
 But more was given ; the eye, the mind, the heart, 
 
 Found exercise in noting, as we sate 
 
 By the bright fire, the good Man's face — composed 
 
 Of features elegant ; an open brow 
 
 Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek 
 
THE PASTOR. 237 
 
 Suffused with something of a feminine hue ; 
 Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ; 
 But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
 Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
 A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
 Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, 
 But honoured once, these features and that mien 
 May have descended, though I see them here. 
 In such a Man, so gentle and subdued. 
 Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
 A race illustrious for heroic deeds. 
 Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
 This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
 By sundry recollections of such fall 
 From high to low, ascent from low to high. 
 As books record, and even the careless mind 
 Cannot but notice among men and things) 
 Went with me to the place of my repose. 
 
 Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 
 I yet had risen too late to interchange 
 A morning salutation with my Host, 
 Gone forth already to the far-off seat 
 
238 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Of his day's work. " Three dark mid-winter months 
 
 " Pass," said the Matron, " and I never see, 
 
 " Save when the Sabbath brings its kind release, 
 
 *' My Help-mate's face by light of day. He quits 
 
 " His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 
 
 '' And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the bread 
 
 " For which we pray ; and for the wants provide 
 
 " Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
 
 " Companions have I many ; many Friends, 
 
 " Dependants, Comforters — my Wheel, my Fire, 
 
 " All day the House-clock ticking in mine ear, 
 
 " The cackling Hen, the tender Chicken brood, 
 
 " And the wild Birds that gather round my porch. 
 
 " This honest Sheep-dog's countenance I read ; 
 
 " With him can talk ; nor seldom waste a word 
 
 " On Creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
 
 " And if the blustering Wind that drives the clouds 
 
 " Care not for me, he lingers round my door, 
 
 " And makes me pastime when our tempers suit ; 
 
 *' — But, above all, my Thoughts are my support." 
 
 The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 
 
 To exclaim — " O happy ! yielding to the law 
 
 Of these privations, richer in the main ! 
 
THE PASTOR. 239 
 
 While thankless thousands are oppressed and clogged 
 By ease and leisure — by the very wealth 
 And pride of opportunity made poor ; 
 While tens of thousands falter in their path, 
 And sink, through utter want of cheering light ; 
 For you the hours of labour do not flag ; 
 For you each Evening hath its shining Star, 
 And every Sabbath-day its golden Sun." 
 
 " Yes !" said the Solitary with a smile 
 That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 
 " The untutored Bird may found, and so construct. 
 And with such soft materials line her nest, 
 Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake. 
 That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard. 
 Powers, not unjustly likened to those gifts 
 Of happy instinct which the woodland Bird 
 Shares with her species. Nature's grace sometimes 
 Upon the Individual doth confer. 
 Among the higher creatures born and trained 
 To use of reason. And, I own, that tired 
 Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 
 With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, 
 
240 THE PASTOR. 
 
 And from the private struggles of mankiiul 
 
 Hoping for less than I could wish to hope, 
 
 Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
 
 I love to hear of Those, who, not contending 
 
 Nor summoned to contend for Virtue's prize, 
 
 Miss not the humbler good at which they aim ; 
 
 Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
 
 The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 
 
 Into their contraries the petty plagues 
 
 And hindrances with which they stand beset. 
 
 — In early youth, among my native hills, 
 
 I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 
 
 A few small Crofts of stone-encumbered ground ; 
 
 Masses of every shape and size, that lay 
 
 Scattered about beneath the mouldering walls 
 
 Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart, 
 
 In quarters unobnoxious to such chance. 
 
 As if the moon had showered them down in spite ; 
 
 But he repined not. Though the plough was scared 
 
 By these obstructions, " round the shady stones 
 
 A fertilizing moisture," said the Swain, 
 
 " Gathers ; and is preserved ; and feeding dews 
 
 " And damps, through all the droughty Summer day, 
 
THE PASTOR. 24.1 
 
 " From out their substance issuing, maintain 
 
 " Herbage that never fails ; no grass springs up 
 
 ** So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine !" 
 
 See, in this well conditioned Soul, a Third 
 
 To match with your good Couple that put forth 
 
 Their homely graces on the mountain side. 
 
 But thinly sown these Natures ; rare, at least, 
 
 The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 
 
 That yields such kindly product. He — whose bed 
 
 Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 
 
 Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell 
 
 Here to lie down in lasting quiet — he. 
 
 If living now, could otherwise report 
 
 Of rustic loneliness : that grey-haired Orphan — 
 
 So call him, for humanity to him 
 
 No parent was — could feelingly have told, 
 
 In life, in death, what Solitude can breed 
 
 Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 
 
 Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 
 
 — But your compliance. Sir ! with our request 
 
 My words too long have hindered." 
 
 Undeterred, 
 Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
 
242 THE PASTOR. 
 
 In no ungracious opposition, given 
 To the confiding spirit of his own 
 Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said, 
 Around him looking, " Where shall I begin? 
 Who shall be first selected from my Flock 
 Gathered together in their peaceftil fold ?" 
 He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
 To the pure Heaven, he cast them down again 
 Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake. 
 
 «< To a mysteriously-consorted Pair 
 
 This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
 
 And to the best Affections that proceed 
 
 From their conjunction. Consecrate to faith 
 
 In Him who bled for man upon the Cross ; 
 
 Hallowed to Revelation ; and no less 
 
 To Reason's mandates ; and the hopes divine 
 
 Of pure Imagination ; — above all, 
 
 To Charity, and Love, that have provided, 
 
 Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
 
 And receptacle, open to the good 
 
 And evil, to thejust andthe unjust; 
 
 In which they find an equal resting-place : 
 
 Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 
 
I 
 
 THE PASTOR. 243 
 
 And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, 
 Whether their course be turbulent or smooth, 
 Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
 Within the bosom of yon chrystal Lake, 
 And end their journey in the same repose ! 
 
 And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know, 
 While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, 
 That All beneath us by the wings are covered 
 Of motherly Humanity, outspread 
 And gathering all within their tender shade. 
 Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field. 
 In stillness left when slaughter is no more. 
 With this compared, is a strange spectacle ! 
 A rueful sight the wild shore strewn with wrecks 
 And trod by people in afflicted quest 
 Of friends and kindred, whom the angry Sea 
 Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who would think 
 That all the scattered subjects which compose 
 Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
 Of all her climes ; these wretched ~ these depraved, 
 To virtue lost, insensible of peace. 
 From the delights of charity cut off, 
 
 R 2 
 
244 THE PASTOR. 
 
 To pity dead — the Oppressor and the Oppressed ; 
 
 Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
 
 And slaves who will consent to be destroyed ; 
 
 Were of one species with the sheltered few, 
 
 Who, with a dutiful and tender hand. 
 
 Did lodge, in an appropriated spot, 
 
 This file of Infants ; some tliat never breathed 
 
 The vital air ; and others, who, allowed 
 
 That privilege, did yet expire too soon, 
 
 Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
 
 Administration of the holy rite 
 
 That lovingly consigns the Babe to the arms 
 
 Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 
 
 These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 
 
 And the besprinkled Nursling, unrequired 
 
 Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
 
 That feeds him ; and the tottering Little-one 
 
 Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 
 
 Of Infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 
 
 The thinking, thoughtless School-boy ; the bold Youth 
 
 Of soul impetuous, and the bashful Maid 
 
 Smitten while all the promises of life 
 
 Are opening round her; those of middle age, 
 
THE PASTOR. 245 
 
 Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 
 Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem, 
 And more secure, by very weight of all 
 That, for support, rests on them ; the decayed 
 And burthensome ; and, lastly, that poor few 
 Whose light of reason is with age extinct; 
 The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last. 
 The earliest summoned and the longest spared, 
 Are here deposited, with tribute paid 
 Various ; but unto each some tribute paid ; 
 As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 
 Society were touched with kind concern, 
 And gentle " Nature grieved that One should die ;" 
 Or, if the change demanded no regret, 
 Observed the liberating stroke — and blessed. 
 — And whence that tribute ? wherefore these reirards ? 
 Not from the naked Heart alone of Man 
 (Though framed to high distinction upon earth 
 As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears. 
 His own peculiar utterance for distress 
 Or gladness) No," the philosophic Priest 
 Continued, " 'tis not in the vital seat 
 Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
 R 3 
 
 ^ 
 
246 THE PASTOR. 
 
 From the pure Soul, the Soul sublime and pure ; 
 
 With her two faculties of Eye and Ear, 
 
 The one by which a Creature, whom his sins 
 
 Have rendered prone, can upward look to heaven ; 
 
 The other that empowers him to perceive 
 
 The voice of Deity, on height and plain 
 
 Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Word, 
 
 To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims. 
 
 Not without such assistance could the use 
 
 Of these benign observances prevail. 
 
 Thus are they born, thus fostered, and maintained ; 
 
 And by the care prospective of our wise 
 
 Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks, 
 
 The fluctuation and decay of things. 
 
 Embodied and established these high Truths 
 
 In solemn Institutions : — Men convinced 
 
 That Life is Love and Immortality, 
 
 The Being one, and one the Element. 
 
 There lies the channel, and original bed. 
 
 From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped 
 
 For Man's Affections — else betrayed and lost, 
 
 And swallowed up 'mid desarts infinite ! 
 
 — This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
 
THE PASTOR. 247 
 
 Of prescient Reason ; all conclusions else 
 Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
 The faith partaking of those holy times, 
 Life, I repeat, is energy of Love 
 Divine or human ; exercised in pain. 
 In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained. 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass. 
 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." 
 
 END OF THE FIFTH BOOK. 
 
 R 4 
 
BOOK THE SIXTH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Hail to the Crown by Freedom shaped — to gtrd 
 
 An Enghsh Sovereign's brow ! and to the Throne 
 
 Whereon he sits ! Whose deep Foundations lie 
 
 In veneration and the People's love ; 
 
 Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
 
 — Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
 
 With this a salutation as devout. 
 
 Made to the spiritual Fabric of her Church ; 
 
 Founded in truth ; by blood of Martjnrdom 
 
 Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
 
^50 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 In beauty of Holiness, with ordered pomp, 
 Decent, and unreproved. The voice, that greets 
 The majesty of both, shall pray for both ; 
 That, mutually protected and sustained, 
 They may endure as long as sea surrounds 
 This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 
 
 — And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains ! 
 Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers, 
 And spires whose " silent finger points to Heaven ;" 
 Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
 
 Of ancient Minster, lifted above the cloud 
 Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
 To intercept the sun's glad beams — may ne'er 
 That true succession fail of EngUsh Hearts, 
 That can perceive, not less than heretofore 
 Our Ancestors did feelingly perceive. 
 What in those holy Structures ye possess 
 Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
 Of pious sentiment diffused afar, 
 And human charity, and social love. 
 
 — Thus never shall the indignities of Time 
 Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
 Nor shall the Elements be free to hurt 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 251 
 
 Their fair proportions ; nor the bhnder rage 
 Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
 And, if the desolating hand of war 
 Spare them, they shall continue to bestow — 
 Upon the thronged abodes of busy Men 
 (Depraved, and ever prone to fill their minds 
 Exclusively with transitory things) 
 An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
 Of sweet civility — on rustic wilds. 
 
 — The Poet, fostering for his native land 
 Such hope, entreats that Servants may abound 
 Of those pure Altars worthy ; Ministers 
 Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
 Superior, insusceptible of pride. 
 
 And by ambition's longings undisturbed ; 
 Men, whose delight is where their duty leads 
 Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 
 Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 
 Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the siglit 
 Of blessed Angels, pitying human cares. 
 
 — And, as on earth it is the doom of Truth 
 To be perpetually attacked by foes 
 
 Open or covert, be that Priesthood btill, 
 
262 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 For her defence, replenished with a Band 
 
 Of strenuous Champions, in scholastic arts 
 
 Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 
 
 Of the revolving World's disturbances 
 
 Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert ! 
 
 To meet such trial) from their spiritual Sires 
 
 Degenerate ; who, constrained to wield the sword 
 
 Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
 
 With hostile din, and combating in sight 
 
 Of angry umpires, partial and unjust ; 
 
 And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire, 
 
 So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
 
 Nor for their bodies would accept release. 
 
 But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed. 
 
 With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, 
 
 The faith which they by diligence had earned, 
 
 And through illuminating grace received. 
 
 For their dear Country^men, and all mankind. 
 
 O high example, constancy divine ! 
 
 Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 
 And from the sanctity of elder times 
 Not deviating, — a Priest, the like of whom, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 253 
 
 If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
 Would o'er the bosom of a joyful Land 
 Spread true Religion, and her genuine fruits) 
 Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
 Fraught with the relics of mortality. 
 Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
 To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
 The head and mighty paramount of truths ; 
 Immortal life, in never-fading worlds. 
 For mortal Creatures, conquered and secured. 
 
 That basis laid, those principles of faith 
 Announced, as a preparatory act 
 Of reverence to the spirit of the place; 
 The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground, 
 Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe, 
 But with a mild and social chearfulness , 
 Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 
 
 " At morn or eve, in your retired Domain, 
 Perchance you not unfrequently have marked 
 A Visitor — intent upon the task 
 Of prying, low and high, for herbs and flowers: 
 
254 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Too delicate employ, as would appear, 
 For One, who, though of drooping mien, had yet, 
 From Nature's kindliness, received a frame 
 Robust as ever rural labour bred." 
 
 The Solitary answered : " Such a Form 
 Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
 Each other's path ; but, as the Intruder seemed 
 Fondly to prize the silence which he kept. 
 And I as willingly did cherish mine, 
 We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard, 
 From my good Host, that he was crazed in brain 
 By unrequited love ; and scaled the rocks, 
 Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 
 In hope to find some virtuous herb, of power 
 To cure his malady !" 
 
 The Vicar smiled, 
 ** Alas ! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
 His habitation will be here : for him 
 That open grave is destined." 
 
 " Died he then 
 Of pain and grief," the Solitary asked, 
 " Believe it not — oh ! never could that be !" 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. '■ISB 
 
 " He loved," the vicar answered, " deeply loved, 
 Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and pined 
 When he had told his love, and sued in vain, 
 — Rejected - yea repelled — and, if with scorn 
 Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but 
 A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears. 
 That he could brook, and glory in ; — but when 
 The tidings came that she whom he had wooed 
 Was wedded to another, and his heart 
 Was forced to rend away its only hope. 
 Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth 
 An Object worthier of regard than he. 
 In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
 Lost was she, lost ; nor could the sufferer say 
 That in the act of preference he had been 
 Unjustly dealt with ; but the Maid was gone ! 
 She, whose dear name with unregarded sighs 
 He long had blessed, whose Image was preserved — 
 Shrined in his breast with fond idolatry. 
 Had vanished from his prospects and desires ; 
 Not by translation to the heavenly Choir 
 Who have put off their mortal spoils — ah no ! 
 She lives another's wishes to complete, 
 
256 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 " Joy be their lot, and happiness," he cried, 
 " His lot and hers, as misery is mine !" 
 
 Such was that strong concussion ; but the Man 
 Who trembled, trunk and limbs, Hke some huge Oak 
 By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
 The stedfast quiet natural to a Mind 
 .Of composition gentle and sedate, 
 And in its movements circumspect and slow. 
 Of rustic Parents bred. He had been trained, 
 (So prompted their aspiring wish) to skill 
 In numbers and the sedentary art 
 Of penmanship, — with pride professed, and taught 
 By his endeavours in the mountain dales. 
 Now, those sad tidings weighing on his heart, 
 To books, and papers, and the studious desk, 
 He stoutly readdressed himself — resolved 
 To quell his pain, and enter on the path 
 Of old pursuits with keener appetite 
 And closer industry. Of what ensued, 
 Within his soul, no outward sign appeared 
 Till a betraying sickliness was seen 
 To tinge his cheek ; and through his fi*ame it crept 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 25? 
 
 With slow mutation uiicoiicealable ; 
 
 Such universal change as autumn makes 
 
 In the fair body of a leafy grove 
 
 Discoloured, then divested. 'Tis affirmed 
 
 By Poets skilled in nature's secret ways 
 
 That Love will not submit to be controlled 
 
 By mastery : — and the good Man lacked not Friends 
 
 Who strove to instil this truth hi to his mind, 
 
 A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 
 
 " Go to the hills," said one, " remit awhile 
 
 " This baneful diligence : — at early morn 
 
 " Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods; 
 
 " And, leaving it to others to foretell, 
 
 " By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 
 
 " Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 
 
 " Do you, for your own benefit, construct 
 
 " A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 
 
 '* Where health abides, and chearfulness, and peace." 
 
 The attempt was made; — 'tis needless to report 
 
 How hopelessly : — but Innocence is strong, 
 
 And an entire simplicity of mind 
 
 A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven, 
 
 That opens, for such Sufferers, relief 
 
258 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Within their souls, a fount of grace divine; 
 And doth commend their weakness and disease 
 To Nature's care, assisted in her office 
 By all the Elements that round her wait 
 To generate, to preserve, and to restore ; 
 And by her beautiful array of Forms 
 Shedding sweet hifluence from above, or pure 
 Delight exhaling from the ground they tread." 
 
 " Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed 
 The Wanderer, " I infer that he was healed 
 By perseverance in the course prescribed." 
 
 " You do not err : the powers, which had been lost 
 By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
 The fluttering nerves composed ; the beating heart 
 In rest established ; and the jarring thoughts 
 To harmony restored. — But yon dark mold 
 Will cover him; in height of strength — to earth 
 Hastily smitten, by a fever's force. 
 Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
 Time to look back with tenderness on her 
 Whom he had loved in passion, — and to send 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 259 
 
 Some farewell words ; and, with those words, a prayer 
 
 That, from his dying hand, she would accept, 
 
 Of his possessions, that which most he prized ; 
 
 A Book, upon the surface of whose leaves 
 
 Some chosen plants, disposed with nicest care, 
 
 In undecaying beauty were preserved. 
 
 Mute register, to him, of time and place, 
 
 And various fluctuations in the breast ; 
 
 To her, a monument of faithful Love 
 
 Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 
 
 Close to his destined habitation, lies 
 One whose endeavours did at length achieve 
 A victory less worthy of regard, 
 Though marvellous in its kind. A Place exists 
 High in these mountains, that allured a Band 
 Of keen Adventurers to unite their pains, 
 In search of treasure there by Nature formed, 
 And there concealed : but they who tried were foiled, 
 And all desisted, all, save he alone ; 
 Who taking counsel of his own clear thoughts. 
 And trusting only to his own weak hands. 
 Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
 
 s 2 
 
260 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 
 
 Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found 
 
 No recompence, derided ; and, at length, 
 
 By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 
 
 By others dreaded as the luckless Thrall 
 
 Of subterraneous Spirits, feeding hope 
 
 By various mockery of sight and sound ; 
 
 Hope, after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 
 
 — But when the Lord of seasons had matured 
 
 The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, 
 
 The mountain's entrails offered to the view 
 
 Of the Old Man, and to his trembling grasp, 
 
 His bright, his long-deferred, his dear reward. 
 
 Not with more transport did Columbus greet 
 
 A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 
 
 A very Hero till his point was gained. 
 
 Proved all unable to support the weight 
 
 Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked 
 
 With an unsettled liberty of thought. 
 
 Of schemes and wishes ; in the day-light walked 
 
 Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 
 
 Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 
 
 And truly might be said to die of joy ! 
 
» 
 
 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 261' 
 
 — He vanished ; but conspicuous to this day 
 The Path remains that linked his Cottagre-door 
 To the Mine's mouth ; a long, and slanting track, 
 Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 
 Worn by his daily visits to and from 
 The darksome centre of a constant hope. 
 This Vestige, neither force of beating rain, 
 Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 
 Shall cause to fade, 'till ages pass away ; 
 And it is named, in memory of the event, 
 The Path of Perseverance." 
 
 " Thou, from whom 
 Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, *•' oh ! 
 Do Thou direct it ! — to the Virtuous grant 
 The penetrative eye which can perceive 
 In this blind world the guiding vein of hope, 
 That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 
 " Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ;" 
 Grant to the Wise his firmness of resolve !" 
 
 " That prayer were not superfluous," said the Priest, 
 " Amid the noblest relics, proudest Dust, 
 That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds, 
 
 s 3 
 
262 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Within the bosom of her awful Pile, 
 
 Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh, 
 
 Which wafts that prayer to Heaven, is due to all, 
 
 Wherever laid, who living fell below 
 
 Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of pain 
 
 If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
 
 How would you pity Her who yonder rests ; 
 
 Him, farther off; the Pair, who here are laid ; 
 
 But, above all, that mixture of Earth's Mold 
 
 Whom sight of this green Hillock to my mind 
 
 Recalls. — He Uved not till his locks were nipped 
 
 By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
 
 Before his temples, prematurely forced 
 
 To mix the manly brown with silver grey, 
 
 Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
 
 Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 
 
 The natural crown which sage Experience wears. 
 
 -^ Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
 
 And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
 
 Or could perform ; a zealous actor — hired 
 
 Into the troop of mirth, a soldier — sworn 
 
 Into the lists of giddy enterprize — 
 
 Such was he ; yet, as if within his frame 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 283 
 
 Two several Souls alternately had lodged, 
 
 Two sets of manners, could the youth put on ; 
 
 And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
 
 That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage, 
 
 Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still 
 
 As the mute Swan that floats adown the stream, 
 
 Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake. 
 
 Anchors her placid beauty. Not a Leaf, 
 
 That flutters on the bough, more light than He ; 
 
 And not a Flower, that droops in the green shade, » 
 
 More willingly reserved ! If Ye inquire 
 
 How such consummate elegance was bred 
 
 Amid these wilds ; a Composition framed 
 
 Of qualities so adverse — to diffuse. 
 
 Where'er he moved, diversified delight ; 
 
 A simple answer may suffice, even this, 
 
 'Twas Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes, 
 
 For the reproof of human vanity. 
 
 Art to outstrip m her pecuhar walk. 
 
 Hence, for this Favourite, lavishly endowed 
 
 With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, 
 
 While both, embellishing each other, stood 
 
 Yet farther recommended by the charm 
 
 S 4< 
 
264 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Of fine demeanor, and by dance and song, 
 
 And skill in letters, every fancy shaped 
 
 Fair expectations ; nor, when to the World's 
 
 Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there 
 
 Were he and his attainments overlooked, 
 
 Or scantily rewarded ; but all hopes, 
 
 Cherished for him, he suffered to depart. 
 
 Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimicked Land 
 
 Before the Sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 
 
 That sparkling decked the morning grass ; or aught 
 
 That was attractive — and hath ceased to be ! 
 
 — Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites 
 
 Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed. 
 
 Who, by humiliation undeterred. 
 
 Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
 
 Within his Father's gates. — Whence came He? — clothed 
 
 In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 
 
 Necessity, the stationaiy Host 
 
 Of vagrant Poverty ; from rifted barns 
 
 Where no one dwells but the wide-staring Owl 
 
 And the Owl's Prey ; none permanently house 
 
 But many harbour ; from these Haunts, to which 
 
 He had descended from the proud Saloon, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 265 
 
 He came, the Ghost of beauty and of health, 
 
 The Wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 
 
 In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
 
 His suit to Fortune; and she smiled again 
 
 Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose. 
 
 Thrice sunk as willingly. P'or He, whose nerves 
 
 Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice 
 
 Softly accompanied the tuneful harp. 
 
 By the nice finger of fair Ladies, touched 
 
 In glittering Halls, was able to derive 
 
 Not less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
 
 Who happier for the moment ? — Who more blithe 
 
 Than this fallen Spirit; in those dreary Holds 
 
 His Talents lending to exalt the freaks 
 
 Of merry-making Beggars, — • now, provoked 
 
 To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
 
 By his malicious wit; then, all enchained 
 
 With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
 
 In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed. 
 
 As by the very presence of the Fiend 
 
 Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 
 
 For knavish purposes ! The City, too, 
 
 (With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 
 
266 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 
 
 As there to linger, there to eat his bread. 
 
 Hired Minstrel of voluptuous blandishment; 
 
 Charming the air with skill of hand or voice. 
 
 Listen who would, be wrought upon who might, 
 
 Sincerely wretched Hearts, or falsely gay. 
 
 — Truths I record to many known, for such 
 
 The not unfrequent tenor of liis boast 
 
 In ears that relished the report ; — but all 
 
 Was from his Parents happily concealed ; 
 
 Who saw enough for blame and pitying love. 
 
 They also were permitted to receive 
 
 His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 
 
 No more to open on that irksome world 
 
 Where he had long existed in the state 
 
 Of a young Fowl beneath one Mother hatched. 
 
 Though from another sprung — of different kind : 
 
 Where he had lived, and could not cease to live, 
 
 Distracted in propensity ; content 
 
 With neither element of good or ill ; 
 
 And yet in both rejoicing ; man unblest ; 
 
 Of contradictions infinite the slave, 
 
 Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 
 
 One with Himself, and one with those who sleep." 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 267 
 
 " 'Tis strange," observed the iSolitary, " strange 
 It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
 That in a Land where Charity provides 
 For all who can no longer feed themselves, 
 A Man like this should choose to bring his shame 
 To the parental door ; and with his sighs 
 Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
 In happy infancy. He could not pine, 
 Whencee'er rejected howsoe'er forlorn. 
 Through lack of converse, no, he must have found 
 Abundant exercise for thought and speech 
 In his dividual Being, self-reviewed, 
 Self-catechized, self-punished. — Some there are 
 Who, drawing near their final Home, and much 
 And daily longing that the same were reached. 
 Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
 Of kindred mold. — Such haply here are laid ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of our Hills, 
 Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast 
 Round his Domain, desirous not alone 
 To keep his own, but also to exclude 
 All other progeny, doth sometimes lure. 
 
268 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Even by this studied depth of privacy, 
 
 The unhappy Alien hoping to obtain 
 
 Concealment, or seduced by wish to find 
 
 In place from outward molestation free. 
 
 Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
 
 Could I discourse ; but as their stay was brief 
 
 So their departure only left behind 
 
 Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace 
 
 Survives, for worthy mention, of a Pair 
 
 Who, from the pressure of their several fates. 
 
 Meeting as Strangers, in a petty Town 
 
 Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
 
 Of this far-winding Vale, remained as Friends 
 
 True to their choice ; and gave their bones in trust 
 
 To this loved Cemetery, here to lodge 
 
 With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
 
 Far from the Family- vault. — A Chieftain One 
 
 By right of birth ; within whose spotless breast 
 
 The fire of ancient Caledonia burned. 
 
 He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed 
 
 The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
 
 Of arms, the crown which Bigotry had lost. 
 
 Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their head, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 269 
 
 With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent 
 
 Culloden's fatal overthrow. — Escaped 
 
 From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 
 
 He fled ; and when the lenient hand of Time 
 
 Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained, 
 
 For his obscured condition, an obscure 
 
 Retreat, within this nook of English ground. 
 
 — The Other, born in Britain's southern tract. 
 
 Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
 
 His gentler sentiments of love and hate, 
 
 There, where they placed them who in conscience prized 
 
 The new succession, as a line of Kings 
 
 Whose oath had virtue to protect the Land 
 
 Against the dire assaults of Papacy 
 
 And arbitrary Rule. But launch thy Bark 
 
 On the distempered flood of public life, 
 
 And cause for most rare triumph will be thine 
 
 If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
 
 The Stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon 
 
 Or late, a perilous Master. He, who oft. 
 
 Under the battlements and stately trees 
 
 That round his Mansion cast a sober gloom. 
 
 Had moralized on this, and other truths 
 
270 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied, 
 
 Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
 
 Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness. 
 
 When he had crushed a plentiful estate 
 
 By ruinous Contest, to obtain a Seat 
 
 In Britain's Senate. Fruitless was the attempt : 
 
 And while the uproar of that desperate strife 
 
 Continued yet to vibrate on his ear. 
 
 The vanquished Whig, beneath a howcnsccd name, 
 
 (For the mere sound and echo of his own 
 
 Haunted hun with sensations of disgust 
 
 Which he was glad to lose) slunk from the World 
 
 To the deep shade of these un travelled Wilds; 
 
 In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed 
 
 An undisturbed Abode. — Here, then, they met. 
 
 Two doughty Champions ; flaming Jacobite 
 
 And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 
 
 That losses and vexations, less severe 
 
 Than those which they had severally sustained. 
 
 Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
 
 For his ungrateful cause ; no, — I have heard 
 
 My reverend Father tell that, mid the calm 
 
 Of that small Town encountering thus, they filled, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 271 
 
 Daily, its Bowling-green with harmless strife ; 
 Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the Church ; 
 And vexed the Market-place. But in the breasts 
 Of these Opponents gradually was wrought, 
 With little change of general sentiment. 
 Such change towards each other, that their days 
 By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 
 And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 
 Those very bickerings made them love it more. 
 
 A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks 
 This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come 
 Treading their path in sympathy and linked 
 In social converse, or by some short space 
 Discreetly parted to preserve the peace. 
 One Spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 
 Over both minds, when they awhile had marked 
 The visible quiet of this holy ground 
 And breathed its soothing air ; — the Spirit of hope 
 And saintly magnanimity; that, spurning 
 The field of selfish difference and dispute. 
 And every care which transitory things. 
 Earth, and the kingdoms of the earth, create, 
 
272 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 
 
 Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred, 
 
 Which else the Christian Virtue might have claimed. 
 
 — There live who yet remember here to have seen 
 
 Their courtly Figures, — seated on the stump 
 
 Of an old Yew, their favourite-resting-place. 
 
 But, as the Remnant of the long-lived Tree 
 
 Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
 
 They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
 
 Upon its site, a Dial, which should stand 
 
 For public use ; and also might survive 
 
 As their own private monument; for this 
 
 Was the particular spot, in which they wished, 
 
 (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 
 
 That, undivided, their Remains should lie. 
 
 So, where the mouldered Tree had stood, was raised 
 
 Yon Structure, framing, with the ascent of steps 
 
 That to the decorated Pillar lead, 
 
 A work of art, more sumptuous, as might seem, 
 
 Than suits this Place ; yet built in no proud scorn 
 
 Of rustic homeliness ; they only aimed 
 
 To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
 
 Around the margin of the Plate, whereon 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 27^ 
 
 The Shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, 
 
 Winds an inscriptive Legend" — At these words 
 
 Thither we turned ; and, gathered, as we read, 
 
 The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched. 
 
 " Time flies ; it is his melancholy task 
 
 " To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, 
 
 " And re-produce the troubles he destroys. 
 
 " But, while his blindness thus is occupied, 
 
 " Discerning Mortal ! do thou serve the will 
 
 " Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, 
 
 " Which the World wants, shall be for Thee confirmed." 
 
 " Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse,** 
 Exclaimed the Sceptic, " and the strain of thought 
 Accords with Nature's language ; — the soft voice 
 Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
 Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
 If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
 Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant. 
 Even upon mine, the more are we required 
 To feel for those, among our fellow men. 
 Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
 
 T 
 
274 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Are yet made desperate by " too quick a sense 
 
 Of constant infelicity" — cut off 
 
 From peace like Exiles on some barren rock, 
 
 Their lifers appointed prison ; not more free 
 
 Than Centinels, between two armies, set. 
 
 With nothing better, in the chill night air. 
 
 Than their own thoughts to comfort them. — Say why 
 
 That ancient story of Prometheus chained ? 
 
 The Vulture — the inexhaustible repast 
 
 Drawn from his vitals ? Say what meant the woes 
 
 By Tantalus entailed upon his race, 
 
 And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? 
 
 Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, 
 
 Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
 
 Of long-past times ; nor obsolete in ours. 
 
 — Exchange the Shepherd's frock of native grey 
 For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
 The crook into a sceptre : — give the pomp 
 
 Of circumstance, and here the tragic Muse 
 Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
 
 — Amid the groves, beneath the shadowy hills 
 The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 275 
 
 The internal pangs are ready ; the dread strife 
 Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 
 
 '' Though," said the Priest in answer, " these be terms 
 Which a divine philosophy rejects. 
 We, whose established and unfailing trust 
 Is in controuling Providence, admit 
 That, through all stations, human life abounds 
 With mysteries, — for, if Faith were left untried. 
 How could the might — that lurks within her — then 
 Be shewn ? her glorious excellence — that ranks 
 Among the first of Powers and Virtues — proved ? 
 Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
 That sympathy which you for others ask ; 
 And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 
 Beyond the limits of these humble graves, 
 Of strange disasters ; but I pass them by, 
 Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace. 
 — Still less, far less am I inclined to treat 
 Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 
 By the deformities of brutish vice : 
 For, though from these materials might be framed 
 T 2 
 
276 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Harsh portraiture, in which a vulgar face 
 
 And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
 
 And unaiFecting manners might at once 
 
 Be recognized by all" — " Ah ! do not think," 
 
 The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 
 
 ** Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, 
 
 (Gain shall I call it ? — gain of what ? — for whom ?) 
 
 Should breathe a word tending to violate 
 
 Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for 
 
 In slight of that forbearance and reserve 
 
 Which common human-heartedness inspires, 
 
 And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, 
 
 Upon this sacred ground, if no where else." 
 
 " True," said the Solitary, « be it far 
 From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
 Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
 This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this 
 Wisdom enjoins ; but, if the thing we seek 
 Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
 How, from his lofty throne, the Sun can fling 
 Colours as bright on exhalations bred 
 By weedy pool or pestilential swamp. 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 277 
 
 As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
 Or the pellucid Lake." 
 
 " Small risk," said I, 
 " Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
 Temptation here is none to exceed the truth ; 
 No evidence appears that they, who rest 
 Within this ground, were covetous of praise, 
 Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
 Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green ; 
 Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge : 
 A heaving surface — almost wholly free 
 From interruption of sepulchral stones. 
 And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 
 And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust 
 The lingering gleam of their departed Lives 
 To oral records and the silent heart ; 
 Depository faithful, and more kind 
 Than fondest Epitaphs : for, if it fail, 
 What boots the sculptured Tomb ? And who can blame, 
 Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
 This mutual confidence ; if, from such source, 
 The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 
 And general humility in death ? 
 T 3 
 
278 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
 
 From disregard of Time's destructive power, 
 
 As only capable to prey on things 
 
 Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 
 
 Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 
 
 Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
 
 In courting notice, and the ground all paved 
 
 With commendations of departed worth, 
 
 Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives, 
 
 Of each domestic charity fulfilled 
 
 And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my part, ' 
 
 Though with the silence pleased which here prevails, 
 
 Among those fair recitals also range 
 
 Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 
 
 And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
 
 Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round 
 
 With such Memorials, I have sometimes felt 
 
 That 'twas no momentary happiness 
 
 To have one enclosure where the voice that speaks 
 
 In envy or detraction is not heard ; 
 
 Which malice may not enter ; where the traces 
 
 Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 
 
 Where love and pity tenderly unite 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 2W 
 
 With resignation ; and no jarring tone 
 Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
 Of amity and gratitude." 
 
 " Thus sanctioned,'* 
 The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
 My narratives to subjects that excite 
 Feelings with these accordant ; love, esteem 
 And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 
 A sun-beam introducing among hearts 
 Retired and covert ; so that ye shall have 
 Clear Images before your gladdened eyes 
 Of Nature's unambitious underwood, 
 And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when 
 I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
 Or fell, those only wiQ I single out 
 Upon whose lapse, or error, something more 
 Than brotherly forgiveness may attend : 
 To such will we restrict our notice ; else 
 Better my tongue were mute. And yet there are, 
 I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
 Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
 For strength to persevere and to support, 
 And energy to conquer and repel, 
 
 T 4 
 
280 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 These elements of virtue, that declare 
 
 The native grandeur of the human Soul, 
 
 Are oft-times not unprofitably shewn 
 
 In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
 
 Truth every day exemplified, no less 
 
 In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 
 
 Than the fantastic Conqueror's roving camp. 
 
 Or in the factious Senate, unappalled 
 
 While merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 
 
 — There," said the Vicar pointing as he spake, 
 
 " A woman rests in peace ; surpassed by few 
 
 In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
 
 Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
 
 And saturnine ; her port erect, her head 
 
 Not absolutely raised, as if to hold 
 
 Converse with Heaven, nor yet depressed towards earth, 
 
 But in projection carried, as she walked 
 
 For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes; 
 
 Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought 
 
 Was her broad forehead ; like the brow of One 
 
 Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 
 
 Of overpowering light. — While yet a Child, 
 
 She, 'mid the humble Flowerets of the vale, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 281 
 
 Towered like the imperial Thistle, not unfurnished 
 
 With its appropriate grace, yet rather framed 
 
 To be admired, than coveted and loved. 
 
 Even at that age, she ruled as sovereign Queen 
 
 Among her Play-mates ; else their simple sports 
 
 Had wanted power to occupy a mind 
 
 Held in subjection by a strong controul 
 
 Of studious application, self-imposed. 
 
 Books were her creditors ; to them she paid. 
 
 With pleasing, anxious eagerness, the hours 
 
 Which they exacted j were it time allowed, 
 
 Or seized upon by stealth, or fairly won. 
 
 By stretch of industry, from other tasks. 
 
 — Oh ! pang of sorrowfiil regret for them 
 
 Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled, 
 
 That they have lived for harsher servitude, 
 
 Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
 
 Such doom was hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
 
 Her keen desire of knowledge ; or efface 
 
 Those brighter images — by books impressed 
 
 Upon her memory ; faithfully as stars 
 
 That occupy their places, — and, though oft 
 
282 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze, 
 Are not to be extinguished, or impaired. 
 
 . Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
 
 Began in honour, gradually obtained 
 
 Rule over her, and vexed her daily life ; 
 
 An unrelenting, avaricious thrift; 
 
 And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 
 
 That held her spirit, in its own despite, 
 
 Bound by vexation, and regret, and scorn. 
 
 Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows. 
 
 And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed, 
 
 To a poor dissolute Son, her only Child. 
 
 — Her wedded days had opened with mishap, 
 
 Wlience dire dependance. — What could she perform 
 
 To shake the burthen off? Ah ! there she felt, 
 
 Indignantly, the weakness of her sex, 
 
 The injustice of her low estate. — She mused ; 
 
 Resolved, adhered to her resolve ; her heart 
 
 Closed by degrees to charity ; and, thence 
 
 Expecting not Heaven's blessing, placed her trust 
 
 In ceaseless pains and parsimonious care, 
 
 Which got, and sternly hoarded each day's gain. 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 283 
 
 Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
 Constructed, that sufficed for every end, 
 Save the contentment of the Builder's mind ; 
 A Mind by nature indisposed to aught 
 So placid, so inactive, as content ; 
 A Mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
 And cherishing the pang which it deplored. 
 Dread life of conflict ! which I oft compared 
 To the agitation of a brook that runs 
 Down rocky mountains — buried now and. lost 
 In silent pools, unfathomably deep ; — 
 Now, in a moment, starting forth again 
 With violence, and proud of its escape ; — 
 Until it sink once more, by slow degrees. 
 Or instantly, into as dark repose. 
 
 A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
 Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
 How on -her bed of death the Matron lay, 
 To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
 But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon — almost 
 To anger, by the malady, that griped 
 
284 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
 
 As the fierce Eagle fastens on the Lamb. 
 
 She prayed, she moaned — her Husband's Sister watched 
 
 Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 
 
 And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
 
 Was anguish to her ears ! — " And must she rule," 
 
 This was the dying Woman heard to say 
 
 In bitterness, " and must she rule and reign, 
 
 " Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 
 
 ** Sit by my fire — possess what I possessed — 
 
 " Tend what I tended — calling it her own !" 
 
 Enough ; — I fear, too much. — Of nobler feeling 
 
 Take this example. — One autumn^ evening, 
 
 While she was yet in prime of health and strength, 
 
 I well remember, while I passed her door. 
 
 Musing with loitering step, and upward eye 
 
 Turned towards the planet Jupiter, that hung 
 
 Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
 
 Roused me, her voice ; it said, " That glorious Star 
 
 " In its untroubled element will shine 
 
 " As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 
 
 " And safe from all our sorrows.** — She is safe, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 285 
 
 And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 
 
 And harsh unkindnesses, are all forgiven ; 
 
 Though, in this Vale, remembered with deep awe !" 
 
 The Vicar paused ; and tow'rds a seat advanced, 
 A long stone-seat, framed in the Church-yard wall ; 
 Part under shady sycamore, and part 
 Offering a place of rest in pleasant sunshine, 
 Even as may suit the comers old or young 
 Who seek the House of worship, while the Bells 
 Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
 The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
 To this commodious resting-place he led ; 
 Where, by his side, we all sate down ; and there 
 His office, uninvited, he resumed. 
 
 " As on a sunny bank, a tender Lamb 
 Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
 Screened by its Parent, so that little mound 
 Lies guarded by its neighbour ; the small heap 
 
286 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Speaks for itself; — an Infant there doth rest, 
 
 The sheltering Hillock is the Mother's grave. 
 
 If mild discourse, and manners that conferred 
 
 A natural dignity on humblest rank ; 
 
 If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
 
 That for a face not beautiful did more 
 
 Than beauty for the fairest face can do ; 
 
 And if religious tenderness of heart. 
 
 Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
 
 Shed when the clouds had gathered and distained 
 
 The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
 
 If these may make a hallowed spot of earth 
 
 More holy in the sight of God or Man ; 
 
 Then, on that mold, a sanctity shall brood. 
 
 Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 
 
 Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless Man, 
 Could field or grove, or any spot of earth, 
 Shew to his eye an image of the pangs 
 Which it hath witnessed ; render back an epho 
 Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
 There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave. 
 Yea, doubtless, on the turf that roofs her own, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 287 
 
 The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
 
 In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
 
 Now she is not ; the swelling turf reports 
 
 Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
 
 Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
 
 Upon the pathway, of her mournful tread ; 
 
 Nor of that pace with which she once had moved 
 
 In virgin fearlessness, a step that seemed 
 
 Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
 
 Upon the mountains wet with morning dew, ^ 
 
 In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
 
 — Serious and thoughtful was her mind ; and yet, 
 
 By reconcilement exquisite and rare. 
 
 The form, port, motions of this Cottage-girl 
 
 Were such as might have quickened and inspired 
 
 A Titian's hand, addressed to picture forth 
 
 Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
 
 When first the Hunter's startling horn is heard 
 
 Upon the golden hills. A spreading Elm 
 
 Stands in our Valley, called The joyful Tree ; 
 
 An Elm distinguished by that festive name. 
 
 From dateless usage which our Peasants hold 
 
 Of giving welcome to the first of May 
 
288 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 
 
 Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid 
 
 To the Twelfth Night ; beneath the frosty Stars 
 
 Or the clear Moon. The Queen of these gay sports. 
 
 If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, 
 
 Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the ground 
 
 So deftly, and the nicest Maiden's locks 
 
 Less gracefully were braided ; — but this praise, 
 
 Methinks, would better suit another place. 
 
 She loved,— and fondly deemed herself beloved. 
 The road is dim, the current unperceived. 
 The weakness painful and most pitiful. 
 By which a virtuous Woman, in pure youth, 
 May be delivered to distress and shame. 
 Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen danced, 
 Among her Equals, round the joyful Tree, 
 She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 
 Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
 Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
 Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 
 It was the season sweet, of budding leaves, 
 Of days advancing tow'rds their utmost length, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 289 
 
 And small birds singing to their happy mates. 
 Wild is the music of the autumnal wind 
 Among the faded woods ; but these blithe notes 
 Strike the deserted to the heart; — I speak 
 Of what I know, and what we feel within. 
 
 — Beside the Cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
 Stands a tall ash-tree ; to whose topmost twig 
 A Thrush resorts, and annually chaunts, 
 
 At morn and evening, from that naked perch, 
 While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
 A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
 Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
 
 — " Ah why," said Ellen, sighing to herself, , 
 
 " Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 
 
 " And nature that is kind in Woman's breast, 
 
 " And reason that in Man is wise and good, 
 
 " And fear of him who is a righteous Judge, 
 
 " Why do not these prevail for human life, 
 
 " To keep two Hearts together, that oegan 
 
 " Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
 
 " Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 
 " To grant, or be received, while that poor Bird, 
 
 «« — O come and hear him ! Thou who hast to me 
 
290 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 " Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly Creature, 
 
 " One of God's simple children that yet know not 
 
 " The universal Parent, how he sings 
 
 ." As if he wished, the firmament of Heaven 
 
 " Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
 
 ** Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 
 
 " The proclamation that he makes, how tar 
 
 " His darkness doth transcend our fickle light !" 
 
 Such was the tender passage, not by me 
 Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 
 Which I perused, even as the words had been 
 Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
 To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
 Bedropped with tears. 'Twill please you to be told 
 That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
 Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
 In lonely reading found a meek resource. 
 How thankful for the warmth of summer days. 
 And their long twilight ! — friendly to that stealth . 
 With which she slipped into the Cottage-barn, 
 And found a secret oratory there ; 
 Or, in the garden, pored upon her book 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 291 
 
 By the last lingering help of open sky, 
 Till the dark night dismissed her to her bed. 
 Thus did a waking Fancy sometimes lose 
 The unconquerable pang of despised love. 
 
 A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
 When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 
 She looked as on a pure and spotless gift 
 Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
 Gr dread was all that had been thought of — joy 
 Far sweeter than bewildered Traveller feels 
 Upon a perilous waste, where all night long 
 Through darkness he hath toiled and fearful storm, 
 When he beholds the first pale speck serene 
 Of day-spring — in the gloomy east revealed. 
 And greets it with thanksgiving. " Till this hour/ * 
 Thus in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 
 <* There was a stony region in my heart 
 ** But he, at whose command the parched rock 
 ** Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 
 ** Hath softened that obduracy, and made 
 '' Unlooked-for gladness in the desart place, 
 ** To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, I look 
 
 u 2 
 
292 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 ** Upon the light with cheerfulness, for thee 
 
 " My Infant ; and for that good Mother dear, 
 
 " Who bore me, — and hath prayed for me in vain ; — 
 
 *' Yet not in vain, it shall not be in vain." 
 
 She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled, 
 
 And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return 
 
 They stayed not long. — The blameless Infant grew ; 
 
 The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
 
 They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed, 
 
 A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 
 
 Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands ; 
 
 Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 
 
 With vacant mind, not seldom may observe 
 
 Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 
 
 Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 
 
 — Through four months' space the Infant drew its food 
 
 From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 
 
 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and crossed 
 
 The sweet affection. She no more could bear 
 
 By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
 
 On a kind parent willing to forget 
 
 Their slender means, so, to that parent's care 
 
 Trusting her child, she left their common home, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 293 
 
 And with contented spirit undertook 
 A Foster- Mother's office. 
 
 'Tis, perchance, 
 Unknown to you that in these simple Vales 
 The natural feeling of equality 
 Is by domestic service unimpaired ; 
 Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
 From sense of degradation, not the less. 
 The ungentle mind can easily find means 
 To impose severe restraints and laws unjust: 
 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel. 
 
 In selfish blindness, for I will not say 
 In naked and deliberate cruelty. 
 The Pair, whose Infant she was bound to nurse, 
 Forbad her all communion with her own. 
 They argued that such meeting would disturb 
 The Mother's mind, distract her thoughts, and thus 
 Unfit her for her duty — in which dread, 
 Week after week, the mandate was enforced. 
 — So near I — yet not allowed, upon that sight 
 To fix her eyes — alas ! 'twas hard to bear ! 
 But worse affliction must be borne — far worse ; 
 
 u 3 
 
294 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 For 'tis Heaven's will — that, after a disease 
 
 Begun and ended within three days' space, 
 
 Her Child should die ; as Ellen now exclaimed, 
 
 Her own — deserted Child ! — Once, only once. 
 
 She saw it in that mortal malady : 
 
 And, on the burial day, could scarcely gain 
 
 Permission to attend its obsequies. 
 
 She reached the house — last of the funeral train ; 
 
 And some One, as she entered, having chanced 
 
 To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
 
 " Nay," said she, with commanding look, a spirit 
 
 Of anger never seen in her before, 
 
 " Nay, ye must wait my time !" and down she sate, 
 
 And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
 
 Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping 
 
 Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
 
 Until at length her soul was satisfied. 
 
 You see the Infant's Grave ; — and to this Spot, 
 The Mother, ofl: as she was sent abroad 
 And whatsoe'er the errand, urged her steps : 
 Hither she came ; and here she stood, or knelt 
 In the broad day — a ruefiil Magdalene ! 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 295 
 
 So call her; for not only she bewailed 
 A Mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
 Her own transgression ; Penitent sincere 
 As ever raised to Heaven a streaming eye. 
 
 — At length the Parents of the Foster-child 
 Noting that in despite of their commands 
 She still renewed, and could not but renew, 
 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
 Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. 
 I failed not to remind them that they erred : 
 For holy Nature might not thus be crossed, 
 
 Thus wronged in woman's breast : in vain I pleaded : 
 But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped, 
 And the flower drooped ; as every eye could see, 
 It hung its head in mortal languishment. 
 
 — Aided by this appearance I at length 
 Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, she went 
 Home to her mother's house. The Youth was fled ; 
 The rash Betrayer could not face the shame 
 
 Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ; 
 And little would his presence, or proof given 
 Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
 For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
 u 4f 
 
296 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 From Ellen's thoughts ; had perished to her mind 
 
 For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love, 
 
 Save only those which to their common shame. 
 
 And to his moral being appertained : 
 
 Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
 
 A heavenly comfort ; there she recognised 
 
 An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; 
 
 There, and, as seemed, there only. — She had raised, 
 
 Her fond maternal Heart had built a Nest 
 
 In blindness all too near the river's edge ; 
 
 That Work a summer flood with hasty swell 
 
 Had swept away ; and now her Spirit longed 
 
 For its last flight to Heaven's security. 
 
 — The bodily frame was wasted day by day ; 
 
 Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares. 
 
 Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
 
 And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, 
 
 And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
 
 Upon her own unworthiness. — To me, 
 
 As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 
 
 Her heart she opened ; and no pains were spared 
 
 To mitigate, as gently as I could, 
 
 The sting of self-ieproach, with healing words. 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 297 
 
 — Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on earth ! 
 In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
 
 The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
 
 A sun -like beauty, and appeared divine ! 
 
 May I not mention — that, within these walls, 
 
 In due observance of her pious wish, 
 
 The Congregation joined with me in prayer 
 
 For her Soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. 
 
 — Much did she suffer : but, if any Friend, 
 Beholding her condition, at the sight 
 Gave way to words of pity or complaint. 
 
 She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 
 " He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 
 " And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
 " Will mercifully take me to himself." 
 So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed 
 Into that pure and unknown world of love. 
 Where injury cannot come : — and here is laid 
 The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 
 
 The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
 That Each had listened with his inmost heart. 
 For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong 
 
298 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Or less benign than that which I had felt 
 
 When, seated near my venerable Friend, 
 
 Beneath those shady elms, from him I heard 
 
 The story that retraced the slow decline 
 
 Of Margaret sinking on the lonely Heath, 
 
 With the neglected House in which she dwelt. 
 
 — I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
 
 Confessed the power of nature. — Pleased though sad, 
 
 More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate 
 
 Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
 
 Capacious and serene, his blameless lite, 
 
 His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 
 
 Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
 
 The pensive silence, saying, " Blessed are they 
 
 Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
 
 Than to do wrong, although themselves have erred. 
 
 This Tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals 
 
 With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's fate, 
 
 Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 
 
 Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
 
 Of One who died within this Vale, by doom 
 
 Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
 
 Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 299 
 
 Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?" — The Vicar answered, 
 
 " In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, 
 
 Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
 
 In memory and for warning, and in sign 
 
 Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, 
 
 Of reconcilement after deep offence, 
 
 There doth he lie. — In this his native Vale 
 
 He owned and tilled a little plot of land ; 
 
 Here, with his Consort and his Children, saw 
 
 Days — that were seldom crossed by petty strife ; 
 
 Years — safe from large misfortune ; and maintained 
 
 That course which minds, of insight not too keen. 
 
 Might look on with entire complacency. 
 
 Yet, in himself and near him, there were faults 
 
 At work to undermine his happy state 
 
 By sure, though tardy progress. Active, prompt, 
 
 And lively was the Housewife ; in the Vale 
 
 None more industrious ; but her industry, 
 
 Ill-judged, full oft, and specious, tended more 
 
 To splendid neatness ; to a shewy, trim, 
 
 And overlaboured purity of house ; 
 
 Than to substantial thrift. He, on his part, { 
 
 Generous and easy-minded, was not free 
 
SOO THE CHUCRH-YARD 
 
 From carelessness ; and thus, in lapse of time, 
 
 These joint infirmities induced decay 
 
 Of worldly substance ; and distress of mind, 
 
 That to a thoughtful Man was hard to shun, 
 
 And which he could not cure. A blooming Girl 
 
 Served in the house, a Favourite that 'had grown 
 
 Beneath his eye, encouraged by his care. 
 
 Poor now in tranquil pleasure he gave way 
 
 To thoughts of troubled pleasure ; he became 
 
 A lawless Suitor to the Maid ; and she 
 
 Yielded unworthily. — Unhappy Man ! 
 
 That which he had been weak enough to do 
 
 Was misery in remembrance ; he was stung, 
 
 Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 
 
 Of Wife and Children stung to agony. 
 
 Wretched at home he gained no peace abroad ; 
 
 Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth. 
 
 Asked comfort of the open air, and found 
 
 No quiet in the darkness of the night. 
 
 No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 
 
 His flock he slighted : his paternal fields 
 
 Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 
 
 To fly, but whither ? And this gracious Church, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 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 
 
802 THE CHURCH^YARD 
 
 Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, 
 
 Those six fair Daughters, budding yet — not one, 
 
 Not one of all the band, a full-blown Flower ! 
 
 Depressed, and desolate of soul, as once 
 
 That Father was, and filled with anxious fear, 
 
 Now by experience taught, he stands assured. 
 
 That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 
 
 Of what he seems to take ; or gives it back. 
 
 Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer ; 
 
 He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 
 
 Which our endeavours have refused to till. 
 
 And Hope hath never watered. The Abode, 
 
 Whose grateful Owner can attest these truths, 
 
 Even were the object nearer to our sight, 
 
 Would seem in no distinction to surpass 
 
 The rudest habitations. Ye might think 
 
 That it had sprung self- raised from earth, or grown 
 
 Out of the living rock, to be adorned 
 
 By Nature only ; but, if thither led. 
 
 Ye would discover, then, a studious work 
 
 Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 
 
 — Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines 
 
 Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 303 
 
 A Plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 
 
 There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
 
 Roof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall, 
 
 And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
 
 Sparry and bright, the scatterings of the hills. 
 
 These ornaments, that fade not with the year, 
 
 A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
 
 Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights. 
 
 Her Father's prompt Attendant, does for him 
 
 All that a Boy could do ; but with delight 
 
 More keen and prouder daring : yet hath she, 
 
 Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
 
 For her own flowers and favourite herbs — a space, 
 
 By sacred charter, holden for her use. 
 
 — These, and whatever else the garden bears 
 
 Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 
 
 I freely gather ; and my leisure draws 
 
 A not unfrequent pastime from the sight 
 
 Of the Bees murmuring round their sheltered hives 
 
 In that Enclosure ; while the mountain rill. 
 
 That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice 
 
 To the pure course of human life, which there 
 
 Flows on in solitude from year to year. 
 
801; THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 — But at the closing-in of night, then most 
 
 This DwelUng charms me. Covered by the gloom, 
 
 Then, in my walks, I oftentimes stop short, 
 
 (Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight 
 
 With prospect of the Company within, 
 
 Laid open through the blazing window : — there 
 
 I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 
 
 Spinning amain, as if to overtake 
 
 The never-halting time ; or, in her turn. 
 
 Teaching some Novice of the Sisterhood 
 
 That skill in this, or other household work ; 
 
 Which, from her Father's honoured hand, herself 
 
 While she was yet a little One, had learned. 
 
 — Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are gay ; 
 And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. 
 
 — Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed, 
 The Wife, who rests beneath that turf, from which 
 1 turned, that ye in mind might witness where, 
 And how her Spirit yet survives on Earth. 
 
 The next three Ridges — those upon the left — 
 By close connexion with our present thoughts 
 Tempt me to add, in praise of humble worth, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 305 
 
 Their brief and unobtrusive history. 
 
 — One Hillock, ye may note, is small and low. 
 
 Sunk almost to a level with the plain ■ ' 
 
 By weight of time ; the others, undepressed, ^ 
 
 Are bold and swelling. There a Husband sleeps, 
 
 Deposited, in pious confidence 
 
 Of glorious resurrection with the just, 
 
 Near the loved Partner of his early days ; 
 
 And, in the bosom of that family mold, 
 
 A second Wife is gathered to his side ; 
 
 The approved Assistant of an arduous course 
 
 Trom his mid noon of manhood to old age ! 
 
 He also of his Mate deprived, was left 
 
 Alone — 'mid many Children ; One a Babe 
 
 Orphaned as soon as born. Alas ! 'tis not 
 
 In course of nature that a Father's wing 
 
 Should warm these Little-ones ; and can he feed? 
 
 That was a thought of agony more keen. 
 
 For, hand in hand with Death, by strange mishap 
 
 And chance-encounter on their diverse road, 
 
 The ghastlier shape of Poverty had entered 
 
 Into that House, unfeared and unforeseen. 
 
306 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 He had stepped forth, in time of urgent need, 
 The generous Surety of a Friend : and now 
 The widowed Father found that all his rights 
 In his paternal fields were undermined. 
 Landless he was and pennyless. — The dews 
 Of night and morn that wet the mountain sides. 
 The bright stars twinkhng on their dusky tops. 
 Were conscious of the pain that drove him forth 
 From his own door, he knew not when — to range 
 He knew not where ; distracted was his brain. 
 His heart was cloven ; and full oft he prayed. 
 In blind despair, that God would take them all. 
 — But suddenly, as if in one kind moment 
 To encourage and reprove, a gleam of light 
 Broke from the very bosom of that cloud 
 Which darkened the whole prospect of his days. 
 For He, who now possessed the joyless right 
 To force the Bondsman from his house and lands, 
 In pity, and by admiration urged 
 Of his unmurmuring and considerate mind 
 Meekly submissive to the law's decree. 
 Lightened the penalty with liberal hand. 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 307 
 
 — The desolate Father raised his head, and looked 
 On the wide world in hope. Within these walls, 
 In course of time was solemnized the vow 
 Whereby a virtuous Woman, of grave years 
 
 And of prudential habits, undertook 
 The sacred office of a wife to him, 
 Of Mother to his helpless family. 
 
 — Nor did she fail, in nothing did she fail. 
 Through various exercise of twice ten years, 
 Save in some partial fondness for that Child 
 Wliich at the birth she had received, the Babe 
 Whose heart had known no Mother but herself 
 
 — By mutual efforts : by united hopes ; 
 By daily-growing help of boy and girl, 
 Trained early to participate that zeal 
 Of industry, which runs before the day 
 And lingers after it ; by strong restraint 
 Of an economy which did not check 
 
 The heart's more generous motions towards themselves 
 Or to their neighbours ; and by trust in God ; 
 This Pair insensibly subdued the fears 
 And troubles that beset their life : and thus 
 X 2 
 
306 THE CHURCH-YARD, &c. 
 
 Did the good Father and his second Mate 
 Redeem at length their plot of smiling fields. 
 These, at this day, the eldest Son retains : 
 The younger Offspring, through the busy world. 
 Have all been scattered wide, by various fates ; 
 But each departed from the native Vale, 
 In beauty flourishing, and moral worth." 
 
 END OP THE SIXTH BOOK. 
 
BOOK THE SEVENTH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
 MOUNTAINS ^ Continued. 
 
 While thus from theme to theme the Historian passed, 
 The words he uttered, and the scene that lay 
 Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
 Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours ; 
 When, in the hollow of some shadowy Vale, 
 (What time the splendour of the setting sun 
 Lay beautiful on Snowdon's craggy top. 
 On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
 A wandering Youth, I listened with delight 
 To pastoral melody or warlike air, 
 Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp j 
 
 X 3 
 
310 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 By some accomplished Master ; while he sate 
 
 Amid the quiet of the green recess, 
 
 And there did inexhaustibly dispense 
 
 An interchange of soft or solemn tunes 
 
 Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 
 
 Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 
 
 From Youth or Maiden, or some honoured Chief 
 
 Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 
 
 Around him, drinking in the empassioned notes 
 
 Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 
 
 For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power 
 
 Were they, to seize and occupy the sense ; 
 
 But to a higher mark than song can reach 
 
 Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 
 
 Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 
 
 A consciousness remained that it had left. 
 
 Deposited upon the silent shore 
 
 Of memory, images and precious thoughts ; 
 
 That shall not die, ahd cannot be destroyed. 
 
 " These grassy heaps lie amicably close,'' 
 Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
 Upon the surface of a mountain pool ; 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 311 
 
 — Whence comes it then, that yonder we behold 
 
 Five graves, and only five, that lie apart. 
 
 Unsociable company and sad ; 
 
 And, furthermore, appearing to encroach 
 
 On the smooth play-ground of the Village school ?* 
 
 The Vicar answered. " No disdainful pride 
 In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
 Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped 
 To place those Hillocks in that lonely guise. 
 
 — Once more look forth, and follow with your eyes 
 The length of road which firom yon mountain's base 
 Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line 
 
 Is lost among a little tuft of trees, — 
 
 Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 
 
 The cultured fields, — and up the heathy waste, 
 
 Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine. 
 
 Towards an easy oudet of the Vale. 
 
 — That little shady spot, tliat sylvan tuft. 
 By which the road is hidden, also hides 
 
 A Cottage from our view, — though I discern, 
 (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees. 
 The smokeless chimney-top. — All unembowered 
 
 X 4 
 
312 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
 (For such in truth it is, and appertains 
 To a small Chapel in the Vale beyond) 
 When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
 
 Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads 
 By which our Northern wilds could then be crossed ; 
 And into most of these secluded Vales 
 Was no access for wain, heavy or light. 
 So, at his Dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
 With store of household goods, in panniers slung 
 On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells, 
 And on the back of more ignoble beast; 
 That, with like burthen of effects most prized 
 Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
 Young was I then, a school-boy of eight years ; 
 But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 
 In order, drawing towards their wished-for home. 
 — Rocked by the motion of a trusty Ass 
 Two ruddy Children hung, a well-poised freight. 
 Each in his basket nodding drowsily ; 
 Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers 
 Which told that 'twas the pleasant month of June ; 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 313 
 
 And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
 
 A Woman of soft speech and gracious smile, 
 
 And with a Lady's mien. — From far they came, 
 
 Even from Northumbrian hills ; yet theirs had been 
 
 A merry journey — rich in pastime — cheered 
 
 By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 
 
 And freak put on, and arch word dropped — to swell 
 
 The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
 
 That gathered round the slowly-moving train. 
 
 — "Whence do they come? and with what errand charged? 
 
 " Belong they to the fortune-telling Tribe 
 
 " Who pitch their Tents beneath the green-wood Tree ? 
 
 " Or are they Strollers, furnished to enact 
 
 " Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 
 
 " And, by that whiskered Tabby's aid, set forth 
 
 " The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
 
 " When the next Village hears the Show announced 
 
 " By blast of trumpet?" Plenteous was the growth 
 
 Of such conjectures, overheard; or seen 
 
 On many a staring countenance pourtrayed 
 
 Of Boor or Burgher, as -they marched along. 
 
 And more than once their steadiness of face 
 
 Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
 
314 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 To their inventive humour, by stem looks, 
 
 And questions in authoritative tone, 
 
 From some staid Guardian of the public peace, 
 
 Checking the sober steed on which he rode, 
 
 In his suspicious wisdom ; oftener still. 
 
 By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
 
 From Traveller halting in his own despite, 
 
 A simple curiosity to ease. 
 
 Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered 
 
 Their grave migration, the good Pair would tell, 
 
 With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 
 
 A Priest he was by function ; but his course 
 From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 
 (The hour of life to which he then was brought) 
 Had been irregular ; I might say, wild : 
 By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care 
 Too little checked. An active, ardent mind ; 
 A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 
 To cheat the sadness of a rainy day : 
 Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 
 A generous spirit, and a body strong 
 To cope with stoutest Champions of the bowl ; 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 315 
 
 Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights 
 Of a prized Visitant ; in the jolly hall 
 Of country Squire ; or at the statelier board 
 Of Duke or Earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 
 Withdrawn, — to while away the summer hours 
 In condescension among rural guests. 
 
 With these high Comrades he had revelled long, 
 Had frolicked many a year ; a simple Clerk 
 By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
 And vexed, until the weary heart grew sick. 
 And so, abandoning each higher aim 
 And all his shewy Friends, at length he turned 
 For a life's stay, though slender yet assured, 
 To this remote and humble Chapelry ; 
 Which had been offered to his doubtful choice 
 By an unthought of Patron. Bleak and bare 
 They found the Cottage, their allotted home : 
 Naked without and rude within ; a spot 
 With which the scantily provided Cure 
 Not long had been endowed : and far remote 
 The Chapel stood, divided from that House 
 By an unpeopled tract of mountain waste. 
 
316 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 — Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang 
 
 On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 
 
 Or the necessity that fixed him here ; 
 
 Apart from old temptations, and constrained 
 
 To punctual labour in his sacred charge. 
 
 See him a constant Preacher to the Poor ! 
 
 And visiting, though not with saintly zeal. 
 
 Yet when need was, with no reluctant will. 
 
 The sick in body, or distressed in mind ; 
 
 And, by as sali^tary change, compelled, 
 
 Month after month, in that obscure Abode 
 
 To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 
 
 With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud 
 
 Or splendid than his garden could afford, 
 
 His fields, — or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, 
 
 Or these wild brooks ; from which he now returned 
 
 Contentedly, to take a temperate meal 
 
 At his own board, where sate his gentle Mate 
 
 And three fair Children, plentifully fed 
 
 Though simply, from their little household farm ; 
 
 With acceptable treat of fish or fowl 
 
 By nature yielded to his practised hand, 
 
 To help the small but certain comings-in 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 317 
 
 Of that spare Benefice. Yet not the less 
 Their's was a hospitable board, and their's 
 A charitable door. — So days and years 
 Passed on ; — the inside of that rugged House 
 Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's care. 
 And gradually enriched with things of price, 
 Which might be lacked for use or ornament. 
 What, though no soft and costly sofa there 
 Insidiously stretched out its lazy length, 
 And no vain mirror glittered on the walls, 
 Yet were the windows of the low Abode 
 By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
 Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar. 
 There, snow-white curtains hung in decent folds ; 
 Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain-plants, 
 That creep along the ground with sinuous trail. 
 Were nicely braided, and composed a work 
 Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace 
 Lay at the threshold and the inner doors. 
 And a fair carpet, woven of home-spun wool. 
 But tinctured daintily with florid hues. 
 For seemHness and warmth, on festive days, 
 Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain stone 
 
318 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise 
 
 Of pastoral home-steads, had been long inlaid. 
 
 — These pleasing works the Housewife's skill produced 
 
 Meanwhile, the unsedentary Master's hand 
 
 Was busier with his task, to rid, to plant. 
 
 To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
 
 A thriving covert ! And when wishes, formed 
 
 In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind. 
 
 Restored me to my native Valley, here 
 
 To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 
 
 The once-bare Cottage, on the mountain-side, - 
 
 Screened from assault of every bitter blast ; 
 
 While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 
 
 Danced in the breeze, upon its mossy roof. 
 
 Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
 
 To beautify with Nature's fairest growth 
 
 This rustic Tenement, had gently shed. 
 
 Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ; 
 
 The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 
 
 But how could I say, gently ? for he still 
 
 Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
 
 A stirring foot, and head which beat at nights 
 
 Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 319 
 
 Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost ; 
 
 Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
 
 And still his harsher passions kept their hold, 
 
 Anger and indignation ; still he loved 
 
 The sound of titled names, and talked in glee 
 
 Of long-past banquetings with high-born Friends : 
 
 Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
 
 Uproused by recollected injury, railed 
 
 At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
 
 In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
 
 Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
 
 — These transports, with staid looks of pure good will 
 And with soft smile, his Consort would reprove. 
 She, far behind him in the race of years, 
 
 .Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 
 
 Far nearer, in the habit of her soul. 
 
 To that still region whither all are bound. 
 
 — Him might we liken to the setting Sun 
 As I have seen it, on some gusty day. 
 Struggling and bold, and shining from the west 
 With an inconstant and unmellowed light. 
 
 — She was a soft attendant Cloud, that hung 
 As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 
 
320 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
 
 Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this ; 
 
 I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
 
 Which now divides the Pair, or rather say 
 
 Which still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew, 
 
 Without distinction falling upon both. 
 
 — Yoke-fellows were they long and well approved 
 To endure and to perform. 
 
 With frugal pains, 
 Yet in a course of generous discipline. 
 Did this poor Churchman and his Consort rear 
 Their progeny. — Of three — sent forth to try 
 The paths of fortune in the open world, 
 One, not endowed with firmness to resist 
 The suit of pleasure, to his native Vale 
 Returned, and humbly tilled his Father's glebe. 
 
 — The youngest Daughter, too, in duty stayed 
 To lighten her declining Mother's care. 
 
 But, ere the bloom was passed away which health 
 Preserved to adorn a cheek no longer young. 
 Her heart, in course of nature, finding place 
 For new aifections, to the holy state 
 Of wedlock they conducted her; but still 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 321 
 
 The Bride, adhering to those fiHal cares, 
 Dwelt with her Mate beneath her Father's roof. 
 
 Our very first in eminence of years 
 This old Man stood, the Patriarch of the Vale ! 
 And, to his unmolested mansion. Death 
 Had never come, through space of forty years ; 
 Sparing both old and young in that Abode. 
 Suddenly then they disappeared : — not twice 
 Had summer scorched the fields, — not twice had fallen, 
 On those high Peaks, the first autumnal snow, — ■ 
 Before the greedy visiting was closed 
 And the long-privileged House left empty — swept 
 As by a plague : yet no rapacious plague 
 Had been among them ; all was gentle death, 
 One after one, with intervals of peace. 
 — A happy consummation ! an accord 
 Sweet, perfect, — to be wished for ! save that here 
 Was something which to mortal sense might sound 
 Like haf shness, — that the old grey-headed Sire, 
 The oldest, he was taken last, — survived 
 When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 
 
 Y 
 
322 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 His Daughter, aiid that late and high-prized gift, 
 His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 
 
 " All gone, all vanished ! he deprived and bare, 
 " How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
 " What will become of him ?" we said, and mused 
 In sad conjectures, " Shall we meet him now 
 " Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks ? 
 " Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
 " Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
 " With music ?" (for he had not ceased to touch 
 The harp or viol which himself had framed. 
 For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 
 " What titles will he keep ? will he remain 
 " Musician, Gardener, Builder, Mechanist, 
 " A Planter, and a rearer from the Seed ? 
 '' A Man of hope and forward-looking mind 
 " Even to the last !" — Such was he, imsubdued. 
 But Heaven was gracious ; yet a little while. 
 And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
 Of open schemes, and all his inward hoard 
 Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 328 
 
 Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
 In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 
 Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 
 Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
 For noon-tide solace on the summer grass, 
 The warm lap of his Mother Earth : and so, 
 Their lenient term of separation past, 
 That Family (whose graves you there behold) 
 By yet a higher privilege, once more 
 Were gathered to each other." 
 
 Calm of mind 
 And silence waited on these closing words ; 
 Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear 
 Lest in these passages of life were some 
 That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend 
 Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
 His own firm spirit in degree depressed 
 By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
 Thus silence broke ; " Behold a thoughtless Man 
 From vice and premature decay preserved 
 By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
 Transplanted, ere too late. — The Hermit, lodged 
 In the untrodden desart, tells his beads, 
 
 y2 
 
324 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 With each repeating its allotted prayer, 
 
 And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 
 
 Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could string, 
 
 Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
 
 Of keen domestic anguish, — and beguile 
 
 A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed ; 
 
 Till gentlest death released him. — Far from us 
 
 Be the desire — too curiously to ask 
 
 How much of this is but the blind result 
 
 Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
 
 And what to higher powers is justly due. 
 
 But you, Sir, know that in a neighbouring Vale 
 
 A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
 
 Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of nature lie 
 
 Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
 
 Of Reason, — honourably effaced by debts 
 
 Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe, 
 
 And conquests over her dominion gained. 
 
 To which her frowardness must needs submit. 
 
 In this one Man is shown a temperance — proof 
 
 Against all trials ; industry severe 
 
 And constant as the motion of the day ; 
 
 Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 325 
 
 That might be deemed forbidding, did not there 
 
 All generous feelings flourish and rejoice ; 
 
 Forbearance, charity in deed and thought, 
 
 And resolution competent to take 
 
 Out of the bosom of simplicity 
 
 All that her holy customs recommend. 
 
 And the best ages of the world prescribe. 
 
 — Preaching, administering, in every work 
 
 Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 
 
 Of worldly intercourse 'twixt man and man, 
 
 And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
 
 A Labourer, with moral virtue girt, 
 
 With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 
 
 " Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, " for whom 
 " This Portraiture is sketched. — The Great, the Good, 
 The Well-beloved, the Fortunate, the Wise, 
 These Titles Emperors and Chiefs have borne. 
 Honour assumed or given : and Him, the Wonderful, 
 Our simple Shepherds, speaking from the heart. 
 Deservedly have styled. — From his Abode 
 In a dependant Chapelry, that lies 
 Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, 
 
 y 3 
 
326 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, — 
 
 And, having once espoused, would never quit ; 
 
 Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good Man 
 
 Will be conveyed. An unelaborate Stone 
 
 May cover him ; and by its help, perchance, 
 
 A century shall hear his name pronounced. 
 
 With images attendant on the sound ; 
 
 Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close 
 
 In utter night ; and of his course remain 
 
 No cognizable vestiges, no more 
 
 Than of this breath, which frames itself in words 
 
 To speak of him, and instantly dissolves. 
 
 — Noise is there not enough in doleful war. 
 
 But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
 
 And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 
 
 To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
 
 Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 
 
 And, in requited passion, all too much 
 
 Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — ► 
 
 But that the Minstrel of the rural shade 
 
 Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
 
 The perturbation in the suffering breast. 
 
 And propagate its kind, where'er he may ? 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 327 
 
 — Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
 The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
 The good Man's deeds and purposes ; retrace 
 His struggles, his discomfiture deplore, 
 
 His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ? 
 
 That Virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 
 
 Through Fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 
 
 And like the soft infections of the heart. 
 
 By dharm of measured words may spread through fields 
 
 And cottages, and Piety survive 
 
 Upon the lips of Men in hall or bower ; 
 
 Not for reproof, but high and warm dehght, 
 
 And grave encouragement, by song inspired. 
 
 — Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine ? 
 The memory of the just survives in heaven : 
 
 And, without sorrow, will this ground receive 
 
 That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 
 
 Of what it holds confines us to degrees 
 
 In excellence less difficult to reach. 
 
 And milder worth : nor need we travel far 
 
 From those to whom our last regards were paid, 
 
 For such example. 
 
 Almost at the root 
 Y 4 
 
328 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Of that tall Pine, the shadow of whose bare 
 And tender stem, while here I sit at eve. 
 Oft stretches towards me, like a long straight path 
 Traced faintly in the green sward ; there, beneath 
 A plain blue Stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 
 From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
 The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
 From year to year in loneliness of soul ; 
 And this deep mountain Valley was to him 
 Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
 Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
 With startling summons ; not for his delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
 Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds 
 Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
 Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
 Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
 Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 Was silent as a picture : evermore 
 Were all things silent, wheresoever he moved. 
 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 
 Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 329 
 
 Of rural labours ; the steep mountain-side 
 
 Ascended with his staff and faithful dog ; 
 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed ; 
 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 
 Among the jocund reapers. For himself^ 
 
 All watchful and industrious as he was. 
 
 He wrought not ; neither field nor flock he owned : 
 
 No wish for wealth had place within his mind ; 
 
 Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 
 
 Though born a younger Brother, need was none 
 
 That from the floor of his paternal home 
 
 He should depart, to plant himself anew. 
 
 And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
 
 His Parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
 
 Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased. 
 
 By the pure bond of independent love 
 
 An inmate of a second family, 
 
 The fellow-labourer and friend of him 
 
 To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
 
 — Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 
 
 That pressed upon his Brother's house, for books 
 
 Were ready comrades whom he could not tire, — 
 
 Of whose society he blameless Man 
 
S90 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 Was never satiate. Their familiar voice. 
 
 Even to old age, with unabated charm 
 
 Beguiled his leisure hours ; refreshed his thoughts ; 
 
 Beyond its natural elevation raised 
 
 His introverted spirit ; and bestowed 
 
 Upon his life an outward dignity 
 
 Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, 
 
 The stormy day, had each its own resource ; 
 
 Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 
 
 Science severe, or word of holy Writ 
 
 Announcing immortality and joy 
 
 To the assembled spirits of the just, 
 
 From imperfection and decay secure. 
 
 — Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 
 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave way. 
 
 No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint : 
 
 And they, who were about him, did not fail 
 
 In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized 
 
 His gentle manners : — and his peaceful smiles. 
 
 The gleams of his slow-varying countenance. 
 
 Were met with answering sympathy and love. 
 
 At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 331 
 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 The powers of nature : and a few short steps 
 Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
 (Yon Cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
 To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
 
 — Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
 
 Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 
 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
 And now that monumental Stone preserves 
 His name, and unambitiously relates 
 How long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
 And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
 The sad privation was by him endured. 
 
 — And yon tall Pine-tree, whose composing sound 
 Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 
 
 Hath now its own pecuHar sanctity ; 
 
 And, at the touch of every wandering breeze. 
 
 Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 
 
 Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of Things ! 
 Guide of our way, mysterious Comforter ! 
 Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and heaven, 
 We all too thanklessly participate, 
 
332 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Thy gifts were utterly withheld from Him 
 
 Whose place of rest is near yon ivied Porch. 
 
 Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
 
 Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
 
 A safer, easier, more determined course. 
 
 What terror doth it strike into the mind 
 
 To think of One, who cannot see, advancing 
 
 Towards some precipice's airy brink ! 
 
 But, timely warned. He would have stayed his steps ; 
 
 Protected, say enlightened, by his ear. 
 
 And on the very brink of vacancy 
 
 Not more endangered than a Man whose eye 
 
 Beholds the gulph beneath. — No floweret blooms 
 
 Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills. 
 
 Or in the woods, that could from him conceal 
 
 Its birth-place ; none whose figure did not live 
 
 Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
 
 Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
 
 The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
 
 Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led. 
 
 His genius mounted to the plains of Heaven. 
 
 — Methinks 1 see him — how his eye-balls rolled, 
 
 Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired, — 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 333 
 
 But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
 Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 
 Fancy, and understanding; while the voice 
 Discoursed of natural and moral truth 
 With eloquence, and such authentic power, 
 That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
 Abashed, and tender pity overawed." 
 
 " A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
 A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 
 " Beings like these present ! But proof abounds 
 Upon the earth that faculties, which seem 
 Extinguished, do not, therefm-e, cease to be. 
 And to the mind among her powers of sense 
 This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
 That the bereft may win their recompence ; 
 But for remoter purposes of love 
 And charity ; nor last nor least for this, 
 That to the imagination may be given 
 A type and shadow of an awful truth, 
 How, likewise, under sufferance divine. 
 Darkness is banished from the realms of Death, 
 By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
 
334 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Unto the men who see not as we see 
 
 Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
 
 To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
 
 And know we not that from the bUnd have flowed 
 
 The highest, hoHest raptures of the lyre ; 
 
 And wisdom married to immortal verse?" 
 
 Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
 Lying insensible to human praise, 
 Love, or regret, — "dohose lineaments would next 
 Have been pourtrayed, I guess not ; but it chanced 
 That neai' the quiet church-yard where we sate 
 A Team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
 Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope. 
 Whose sharp descent confounded their array. 
 Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 
 
 " Here," said the Pastor, " do we muse, and mourn 
 The waste of death ; and lo ! the giant Oak 
 Stretched on his bier ; — that massy timber wain ; 
 Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 
 
 He was a Peasant of the lowest class : 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 335 
 
 Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 
 In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
 Of Winter cannot thin ; the fresh air lodged 
 Within his cheek, as light within a cloud ; 
 And he returned our greeting with a smile. 
 When he had passed, the Solitary spake ; 
 — "A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
 And confident to-morrows, — with a face 
 Not worldly-minded ; for it bears too much 
 Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health. 
 Freedom and Hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
 His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of voice 
 Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 
 
 The Pastor answered, " You have read him well. 
 Year after year is added to his store 
 With silent increase : summers, winters — past, 
 Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say. 
 Ten summers and ten winters of the space 
 That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
 Upon his sprightly vigor, cannot fis. 
 The obligation of an anxious mind, 
 A pride in having, or a fear to lose ; 
 
336 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Possessed like outskirts of some large Domain, 
 By any one more thought of than by him 
 Who holds the land in fee, its careless Lord ! 
 — Yet is the creature rational — endowed 
 With foresight; hears, too, every Sabbath day, 
 The christian promise with attentive ear. 
 Nor disbelieves the tidings which he hears. 
 Meanwhile the incense offered up by him 
 Is of the kind which beasts and birds present 
 In grove or pasture ; chearfulness of soul. 
 From trepidation and repining free. 
 How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
 Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
 Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 
 
 Tliis quahfied respect, the Old Man's due, 
 Is paid without reluctance ; but in truth" 
 (Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile) 
 " I feel at times a motion of despite 
 Towards One, whose bold contrivances and skill, 
 As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
 In works of havoc ; taking from these vales. 
 One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 337 
 
 Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
 
 Tall ash-tree sown by winds, by vapours nursed, 
 
 In the dry crannies of the pendant rocks ; 
 
 Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge. 
 
 Transparent texture, framing in the east 
 
 A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 
 
 And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped. 
 
 And on whose forehead inaccessible 
 
 The raven -lodged in safety. — Many a Ship 
 
 Launched into Morecamb bay, hath owed to him 
 
 Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears 
 
 The loftiest of her pendants. Help he gives 
 
 To lordly mansion rising far or near ; 
 
 The enormous wheel that turns ten thousand spindles, 
 
 And the vast engine labouring in the mine. 
 
 Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked 
 
 The trunk and body of their marvellous strength. 
 
 If his undaunted enterprize had failed 
 
 Among the mountain coves, or keen research 
 
 In forest, park, or chace. Yon household Fir, 
 
 A guardian planted to fence off the blast, 
 
 But towering high the roof above, as if 
 
 Its humble destination were forgot; 
 
SS8 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 That Sycamore, which annually holds 
 
 Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
 
 On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
 
 A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
 
 The fleece-incumbered flock ; — the Joyful Elm 
 
 Around whose trunk the lasses dance in May ; — 
 
 And the Lord's Oak ; — would plead their several rights 
 
 In vain, if He were master of their fate. 
 
 Not one would have his pitiful regard. 
 
 For prized accommodation, pleasant use, 
 
 For dignity, for old acquaintance sake, 
 
 For ancient custom, or distinguished, name. 
 
 His sentence to the axe would doom them all ! 
 
 — But, green in age and lusty as he is 
 
 And promising to stand from year to year. 
 
 Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
 
 Than with the forest's more enduring growth, 
 
 His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
 
 And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world, 
 
 This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall. 
 
 Now from the living pass we once again. 
 From Age," the Priest continued, "turn your thoughts; — 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 339 
 
 From Age, that often unlamented drops, 
 
 And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long. 
 
 — Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 
 Of Gold-rill side ; and when the hope had ceased 
 Of other progeny, a Daughter then 
 
 Was given, the crown and glory of the whole I 
 Welcomed with joy, whose penetrating power 
 Was not unfelt amid that heavenly calm 
 With which by nature every Mother's Soul 
 Is stricken, in the moment when her throes 
 Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 
 Which tells her that a living Child is born, — 
 And she lies conscious in a blissful rest . 
 
 That the dread storm is weathered by them both. 
 
 — The Father — Him at this unlooked-for gift 
 A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
 
 Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, 
 
 And from the laurel-shaded seat thereby, 
 
 Pay after day the gladness is diffused 
 
 To all that come, and almost all that pass ; 
 
 Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
 
 Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
 
 Health and good wishes to his new-bom Girl, 
 z 2 
 
34-0 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 From cups replenished by his joyous hand, 
 
 — Those seven fair Brothers variously were moved 
 Each by the thoughts best suited to his years : 
 But most of all and with most thankful mind 
 
 The hoary Grand-sire felt himself enriched ; 
 A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
 To fill the total measure of the soul ! 
 
 — From the low tenement, his own abode, 
 Whither, as to a little private cell. 
 
 He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise. 
 To spend the Sabbath of old age in peace. 
 Once every day he duteously repaired 
 To rock the cradle of the slumbering Babe : 
 For in that female Infant's name he heard 
 The silent Name of his departed Wife ; 
 Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that name ; 
 Full blest he was, " Another Margaret Green," 
 Oft did he say, " was come to Gold-rill side." 
 
 — Oh ! pang unthought of, as the precious boon 
 Itself had been unlooked for ; — oh ! dire stroke 
 Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
 
 — Just as the Child could totter on the floor. 
 And, by some friendly finger's help upstayed, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 341 
 
 Range round the garden -walk, whose low ground-flowers 
 
 Were peeping forth, shy messengers of spring, — 
 
 Even at that hopeful time, — the winds of March, 
 
 One sunny day, smiting insidiously, 
 
 Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
 
 Viewless obstruction ; whence — all unforewarned, 
 
 The Household lost their hope and souPs delight. 
 
 — But Providence, that gives and takes away 
 
 By his own law, is merciful and just ; 
 
 Time wants not power to soflen all regrets, 
 
 And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress 
 
 Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 
 
 Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
 
 Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own. 
 
 Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
 
 The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
 
 In what may now be called a peaceful grave. 
 
 On a bright day, the brightest of the year. 
 These mountains echoed with an unknown sound, 
 A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
 Let down into the hollow of that Grave, 
 Whose shelving sides are red with naked mold, 
 z 3 
 
342 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Ye Rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
 Spare, burning Sun of Midsummer, these sods. 
 That they may knit together, and therewith 
 Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
 Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
 Dear Youth 1 by young and old alike beloved, 
 To me as precious as my own ! — Green herbs 
 May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
 Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
 Reminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
 The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
 Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
 Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
 Thy image disappear. The mountain Ash, 
 Decked with autumnal berries that outshine 
 Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show, 
 Amid the leafy woods ; and ye have seen. 
 By a brook side or solitary tarn, 
 How she her station doth adorn, — the pool 
 Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
 Are brightened round her. In his native Vale 
 Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 
 A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 34.3 
 
 By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
 Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, 
 By all the graces with which Nature's hand 
 Had bounteously arrayed him. As old Bards 
 Tell in their idle songs of wandering Gods, 
 Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form ; 
 Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade, 
 Discovered in their own despite to sense 
 Of Mortals, (if such fables without blame 
 May find chance-mention on this sacred ground) 
 So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise. 
 And through the impediment of rural cares, 
 In him revealed a Scholar's genius shone ; 
 And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 
 In him the spirit of a Hero walked 
 Our unpretending valley. — How the coit 
 Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If touched by him 
 The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 
 Of the Lark's flight, — or shaped a rain-bow curve. 
 Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
 The indefatigable Fox had learned 
 To dread his perseverance in the chace. 
 With admiration he could lift his eyes 
 
 z 4 
 
344. THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 To the wide-ruling Eagle, and his hand 
 Was loth to assault the majesty he loved ; 
 Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 
 To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead, 
 The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 
 The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves. 
 And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes, 
 Fixed at their seat — the centre of the Mere, 
 Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 
 
 From Gallia's coast a Tyrant's threats were hurled ; 
 Our Country marked the preparations vast 
 Of hostile Forces ; and she called — with voice 
 That filled her plains and reached her utmost shores 
 And in remotest vales was heard — to Arms ! 
 — Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 
 The Shepherd's grey to martial scarlet changed. 
 That flashed uncouthly through the woods and fields. 
 Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire 
 And graced with shining weapons, weekly marched, 
 From this lone valley, to a central spot 
 Where, in assemblage with the Flower and Choice 
 Of the surrounding district, they might learn 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 31.5 
 
 The rudiments of war ; ten — hardy, strong, 
 And valiant ; but young Oswald, like a Chief 
 And yet a modest Comrade, led them forth 
 From their shy solitude, to face the world. 
 With a gay confidence and seemly pride ; 
 Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 
 Like youths released from labour and yet bound 
 To most laborious service, though to them 
 A festival of unencumbered ease ; 
 The inner spirit keeping holiday. 
 Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 
 
 Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour, 
 Stretched on the grass or seated in the shade 
 Among his Fellows, while an ample Map 
 Before their eyes lay carefully outspread, 
 From which the gallant Teacher would discourse, 
 Now pointing this way and now that. — " Here flows," 
 Thus would he say, " the Rhine, that famous Stream ! 
 " Eastward, the Danube tow'rds this inland sea, 
 " A mightier river, winds from realm to realm ; — 
 <* And, like a serpent, shews his glittering back 
 " Bespotted with innumerable isles. 
 
346 THE CHURCH-YARD 
 
 " Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk ; observe 
 
 " His capital city !" — Thence — along a fa-act 
 
 Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears 
 
 His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
 
 Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged ; 
 
 Nor left unstigmatized those fatal Fields 
 
 On which the Sons of mighty Germany 
 
 Were taught a base submission. — " Here behold 
 
 " A nobler race, the Switzers, and their Land ; 
 
 *' Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods, 
 
 " And moimtains white with everlasting snow !" 
 
 — . And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow, 
 
 Was a true Patriot, hopeful as the best 
 
 Of that young Peasantry, who, in our days. 
 
 Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rights, — 
 
 Ah not in vain ! — or those who, in old time, 
 
 For work of happier issue, to the side 
 
 Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts. 
 
 When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 
 
 Descended from Judea's heights, to march 
 
 With righteous Joshua ; or appeared in arms 
 
 When grove was feUed, and altar was cast down, 
 
 And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-enflamed. 
 
 And strong in hatred of idolatry." 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 347 
 
 This spoken, from his seat the Pastor rose. 
 And moved towards the grave ; — instinctively 
 His steps we followed ; and my voice exclaimed, 
 " Power to the Oppressors of the world is given, 
 A might of which they dream not. Oh ! the curse, 
 To be the Awakener of divinest thoughts. 
 Father and Founder of exalted deeds. 
 And to whole nations bound in servile straits 
 The liberal Donor of capacities 
 More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
 Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
 Deserve the least return of human thanks ; 
 Winning no recompence but deadly hate 
 With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn !" 
 
 When these involuntary words had ceased, 
 The Pastor said, " So Providence is served ; 
 The forked weapon of the skies can send 
 Illumination into deep, dark Holds, 
 Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
 Why do ye quake, intimidated Thrones? 
 For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
 Which to outrageous Wrong the Sufferer owes. 
 
34.8 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Europe, through all her habitable Seats, 
 Is thirsting for their overthrow, who still- 
 Exist, as Pagan Temples stood of old, 
 By very horror of their impious rites 
 Preserved ; are suffered to extend their pride, 
 Like Cedars on the top of Lebanon 
 Darkening the sun. — But less impatient thoughts, 
 And love " all hoping and expecting all," 
 This hallowed Grave demands ; where rests in peace 
 A humble Champion of the better Cause ; 
 A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
 No higher name; in whom our Country shewed. 
 As in a favourite Son, most beautiful. 
 In spite of vice, and misery, and disease. 
 Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
 England, the ancient and the free, appeared. 
 In him, to stand before my swimming eyes 
 Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
 " — No more of this, lest I offend his dust : 
 Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 
 
 One summer's day, a day of annual pomp 
 And solemn chace ; from morn to sultry noon 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 349 
 
 His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
 
 The red-deer driven along its native heights 
 
 With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
 
 Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed, 
 
 This generous Youth, too negligent of self, 
 
 (A natural failing which maturer years 
 
 Would have subdued) took fearlessly — and kept — 
 
 His wonted station in the chilling flood, 
 
 Among a busy company convened 
 
 To wash his Father's flock. Convulsions dire 
 
 Seized him, that self-same night ; and through the space 
 
 Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched. 
 
 Till nature rested from her work in death. 
 
 — To him, thus snatched away, his Comrades paid 
 
 A Soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 
 
 Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue, 
 
 A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 
 
 And if by chance a Stranger, wandering there, 
 
 From some commanding eminence had looked 
 
 Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 
 
 A glittering Spectacle ; but every face 
 
 Was pallid, — seldom hath that eye been moist 
 
 With tears — that wept not then ; nor were the few 
 
350 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Who from their Dwellings came not forth to join 
 In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 
 They started at the tributary peal 
 Of instantaneous thunder, which announced 
 Through the still air the closing of the Grave; 
 And distant mountains echoed with a sound 
 Of lamentation, never heard before !" 
 
 The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend 
 Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
 And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
 En wrapt, — as if his inward sense perceived 
 The prolongation of some still response. 
 Sent by the ancient soul of this wide Land, 
 The spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
 Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
 Its rights and virtues — by that Deity 
 Descending ; and supporting his pure heart 
 With patriotic confidence and joy. 
 And, at the last of those memorial words, 
 The pining SoUtary turned aside, 
 WTiether through manly instinct to conceal 
 Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 351 
 
 To his worn cheek ; or with uneasy shame 
 
 For those cold humours of habitual spleen, 
 
 Which, fondly seeking in dispraise of Man 
 
 Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged 
 
 To self-abuse, a not ineloquent tongue. 
 
 — Right tow'rds the sacred Edifice his steps 
 
 Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
 
 Intent upon a monumental Stone, 
 
 Whose uncouth Form was grafted on the wall, 
 
 Or rather seemed to have grown into the side 
 
 Of the rude Pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees. 
 
 Where Nature works in wild and craggy spots, r 
 
 Are seen incorporate with the living rock ; 
 
 To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
 
 Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
 
 Exclaimed, " The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
 
 That task would foil." And, with these added words. 
 
 He thitherward advanced, " Tradition tells 
 
 That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
 
 Came on a War-horse sumptuously attired. 
 
 And fixed his home in this sequestered Vale. ;■ * 
 
 'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath. 
 
 Or as a Stranger reached this deep recess, « ;y<>iif fH 
 
352 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought 
 
 I sometimes entertain, that, haply bound . 
 
 To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, 
 
 Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
 
 Of England's Realm, this Vale he might have seen 
 
 With transient observation ; and thence caught 
 
 An Image fair, which, brightening in his soul 
 
 When years admonished him of failing strength 
 
 And he no more rejoiced in war's delights. 
 
 Had power to draw him from the world — resolved 
 
 To make that paradise his chosen home 
 
 To which his peaceful Fancy oft had turned. 
 
 — Vague thoughts are these ; but, if belief may rest 
 
 Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
 
 From sire to son, in this obscure Retreat 
 
 The Knight arrived, with pomp of spear and shield, 
 
 And borne upon a Charger covered o'er 
 
 With gilded housings. And the lofty Steed — 
 
 His sole companion, and his faithful friend, 
 
 Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
 
 In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 
 
 Of admiration and delightful awe, 
 
 By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less pride, 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 353 
 
 Yet free from touch of envious discontent, ' '(> 
 
 They saw a Mansion at his bidding rise, 
 
 Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 
 
 Of their rude Homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt, 
 
 And, in that Mansion, Children of his own, 
 
 Or Kindred, gathered round him. As a Tree 
 
 That falls and disappears, the House is gone ; 
 
 And, through improvidence, or want of love 
 
 For ancient worth and honourable things, 
 
 The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight 
 
 Hung in his rustic Hall. One ivied arch ,/y 
 
 Myself have seen, a gateway, last remainsj^nrr < * - :to.T 
 
 Of that Foundation in domestic care • 
 
 Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left 
 
 Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this Stone, 
 
 Faithless memorial ! and his family name 
 
 Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 
 
 From out the ruins of his stately Lodge : 
 
 These, and the name and title at full length, — 
 
 Sir Alfred Irthing, with appropriate words 
 
 Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 
 
 Or posy — girding round the several fronts [ 'IC) 
 
 A A 
 
954 THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, 
 That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 
 
 " So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
 The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, 
 " All that this World is proud of. From their spheres 
 The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
 Perish the roses and the flowers of Kings, 
 Princes and Emperors, and the crowns and palms 
 Of all the Mighty, withered and consumed ! 
 Nor is power given to lowliest Innocence 
 Long to protect her own. The Man himself 
 Departs ; and soon is spent the Line of those 
 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
 In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, 
 Did most resemble him. Degrees and Hanks, 
 Fraternities and Orders — heaping high 
 New wealth upon the burthen of the old. 
 And placing trust in privilege confirmed 
 And re-confirmed — are scoffed at with a smile 
 Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
 Of Desolation, aimed : to slow decline 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 355 
 
 These yield, and these to sudden overthrow; 
 
 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
 
 Expire ; and Nature's pleasant robe of green, 
 
 Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
 
 Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame 
 
 Of social nature changes evermore 
 
 Her organs and her members, with decay 
 
 Restless, and restless generation, powers 
 
 And functions dying and produced at need, — 
 
 And by this law the mighty Whole subsists : 
 
 With an ascent and progress in the main ; 
 
 Yet oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 
 
 And expectations of self-flattering minds ! 
 
 — The courteous Knight, whose bones are here interred. 
 Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
 
 For strife and ferment in the minds of men ; 
 Whence alteration, in the forms of things. 
 Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
 Which did to him assign a pensive lot, 
 
 — To linger 'mid the last of those bright Clouds, 
 That, on the steady breeze of honour, sailed 
 
 In long procession calm and beautiful. 
 
 He, who had seen his own bright Order fade, ► , r 
 
 A A 2 
 
THE CHURCH- YARD 
 
 And its devotion gradually decline, 
 
 (While War, relinquishing the lance and shield. 
 
 Her temper changed and bowed to other laws) 
 
 Had also witnessed, in his mom of life, 
 
 That violent Commotion, which overthrew, 
 
 In town, and city, and sequestered glen, 
 
 Altar, and Cross, and Church of solemn roof. 
 
 And old religious House — Pile after Pile ; 
 
 And shook the Tenants out into the fields. 
 
 Like wild Beasts without home ! Their hour was come ; 
 
 But why no softening thought of gratitude. 
 
 No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt ? 
 
 Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help. 
 
 Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, 
 
 Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
 
 But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
 
 Of Mutability, and airjr Hopes, 
 
 Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
 
 Those meditations of the soul, which feed 
 
 The retrospective Virtues. Festive songs 
 
 Break from the maddened Nations at the sight 
 
 Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
 
 Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 357 
 
 — Even," said the Wanderer, "as that courteous Knight, 
 Bound by his vow to labour for redress 
 
 Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
 By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
 If I may venture of myself to speak. 
 Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
 Low things with lofty, I too shall be doomed 
 To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
 Of the poor calling which my Youth embraced 
 With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 
 
 — Thoughts crowd upon me — and 'twere seemlier now 
 To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks 
 
 For the pathetic Records which his voice 
 Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt truth. 
 Tending to patience when Affliction strikes ; 
 To hope and love ; to confident repose 
 In God ; and reverence for the dust of Man." 
 
 END OF THE SEVENTH BOOK. 
 
 A A 3 
 
:<ji^ 
 
BOOK THE EIGHTH. 
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 -ff 
 
 X) 
 
 r 
 
 
 The pensive Sceptic of the lonely Vale 
 
 To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, [ 
 
 With a sedate compliance, which the Priest () 
 
 Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said, V 
 
 " If Ye, by whom invited I commenced 
 
 Those Narratives of calm and humble life, 
 
 Be satisfied, 'tis well, — the end is gained ; 
 
 And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
 
 And patient listening, thanks accept from me. 
 
 — Life, Death, Eternity ! momentous themes 
 
 Are these — and might demand a Seraph*s tongufe,iji7/' 
 
 A A 4 
 
360 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Were they not equal to their own support ; 
 And therefore no incompetence of mine 
 Could do them wrong. The universal forms 
 Of human nature, in a Spot like this, 
 Present themselves at once to all Men's view : 
 Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make 
 The Individual known and understood ; " • 
 And such as my best judgment could select 
 From what the place afforded have been given ; 
 Though apprehensions crossed me, in the course 
 Of this self-pleasing exercise, that Ye 
 My zeal to his would liken, who, possessed 
 Of some rare gems, or pictures finely wrought. 
 Unlocks his Cabinet, and draws them forth 
 One after one, — soliciting regard 
 To this, and this, as worthier than the last, 
 Till the Spectator, who a while was pleased 
 More than the Exhibitor himself, becomes 
 Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 
 — But let us hence ! my Dwelling is in sight. 
 And there — "< : r of^ : ' 
 
 " i At this the Solitary shrunk 
 With backward will ; but, wanting not address 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 361 
 
 That inward motion to disguise, he said 
 To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake ; 
 
 — " The peaceable Remains of this good Knight 
 Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 
 If consciousness could reach him where he lies 
 That One, albeit of these degenerate times. 
 Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
 Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought. 
 The fine Vocation of the sword and lance 
 With the gross aims and body-bending toil 
 
 Of a poor Brotherhood who walk the earth 
 Pitied, and where they are not known, despised. 
 
 — Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two Estates 
 Are graced with some resemblance. Errant Those, 
 Exiles and Wanderers — and the like are These ; 
 Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale. 
 Carrying relief for Nature's simple wants. 
 
 — What though no higher recompence they seek 
 Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
 
 Full oft procured ! Yet Such may claim respect, i i 
 Among the Intelligent, for what this course 
 Enables them to be, and to perfonn. 
 Their tardy steps give leisure to observe ; 
 
362 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Wliile solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
 And doth instruct her to supply defects 
 By the division of her inward self, 
 For grateful converse : and to these poor Men, 
 (As I have heard you boast with honest pride) 
 Nature is bountiful, where'er they go ; 
 Kind Nature's various wealth is all their own. 
 Versed in the characters of men ; and bound, 
 By tie of daily interest, to maintain 
 Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
 Such have been, and still are in their degree. 
 Examples efficacious to refine 
 Rude intercourse ; apt Instruments to excite, 
 By importation of unlooked-for Arts, 
 Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
 Raising, through just gradation, savage life 
 To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
 
 — Within their moving magazines is lodged 
 Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt 
 The aflPections seated in the Mother's breast, 
 And in the Lover's fancy ; and to feed 
 The sober sympathies of long tried Friends. 
 
 — By these Itinerants, as experienced Men, 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 363 
 
 Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
 With healing words ; and, in remotest WiJds, 
 Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring; 
 Could the proud quest of Chivalry do more ?" 
 
 " Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, " They who gain 
 A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
 But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 
 Aught of romantic interest, 'tis gone ; 
 Their purer service, in this realm at least. 
 Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 
 Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 
 To most strange issues. I have lived to mark 
 A new and unforeseen Creation rise 
 From out the labours of a peaceful Land, 
 Wielding her potent Enginery to frame 
 And to produce, with appetite as keen 
 As that of War, which rests not night or day, 
 Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 
 Might one like me now visit many a tract 
 Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
 A lone Pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
 Wished for, or welcome, wheresoever he came, 
 
364 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Among the Tenantry of Thorpe and Vill ; 
 
 Or straggling Burgh, of ancient charter proud, 
 
 And dignified by battlements and towers 
 
 Of some stern Castle, mouldering on the brow 
 
 Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
 
 The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild. 
 
 And formidable length of plashy lane, 
 
 (Prized avenues ere others had been shaped 
 
 Or easier links connecting place with place) 
 
 Have vanished, — swallowed up by stately roads 
 
 Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 
 
 Of England's farthest Glens. The Earth has lent 
 
 Her waters. Air her breezes ; and the Sail 
 
 Of traffic glides with ceaseless interchange, 
 
 Ghstening along the low and woody dale. 
 
 Or on the naked mountain's lofty side. 
 
 Meanwhile, at social Industry's command. 
 
 How quick, how vast an increase ! From the germ 
 
 Of some poor Hamlet, rapidly produced 
 
 Here a huge Town, continuous and compact, 
 
 Hiding the face of earth for leagues — and there, 
 
 Where not a Habitation stood before. 
 
 The Abodes of men irregularly massed 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 365 
 
 Like trees in forests — spread through spacious tracts, i 
 
 O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
 
 Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
 
 Of vapour glittering in the morning sun. 
 
 And, wheresoe'er the Traveller turns his steps. 
 
 He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
 
 Or disappearing ; triumph that proclaims 
 
 How much the mild Directress of the plough 
 
 Owes to alliance with these new-born Arts ! 
 
 — Hence is the wide Sea peopled, — and the Shores 
 
 Of Britain are resorted to by Ships 
 
 Freighted from every climate of the world 
 
 With the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum . 
 
 Of Keels that rest within her crowded ports. 
 
 Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 
 
 That animating spectacle of Sails 
 
 Which through her inland regions, to and fro 
 
 Pass with the respirations of the tide, 
 
 Perpetual, multitudinous ! Finally, 
 
 Hence a dread arm of floating Power, a voice ^ 
 
 Of Thunder, daunting those who would approach 
 
 With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
 
366 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 
 Impregnable, of Liberty and Peace. 
 
 And yet, O happy Pastor of a Flock 
 Faithfully watched, and by that loving care 
 And Heaven's good providence preserved from taint ! 
 With You I grieve, when on the darker side 
 Of this great change I look; and there behold, 
 Through strong temptation of those gainful Arts, 
 Such outrage done to Nature as^ compels 
 The indignant Power to justify herself; 
 Yea to avenge her violated rights 
 
 For England's bane. — When soothing darkness spreads 
 O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed 
 His recollections, " and the punctual stars. 
 While all things else are gathering to their homes, 
 Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
 Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed. 
 As if their silent company were charged 
 With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
 Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful Lord; 
 Then, in full many a region, once like this 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 367 
 
 The assured domain of calm simplicity 
 
 And pensive quiet, an unnatural light, 
 
 Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes. 
 
 Breaks from a many-windowed Fabric huge ; 
 
 And at the appointed hour a Bell is heard — 
 
 Of harsher import than the Curfew-knoll 
 
 That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest — 
 
 A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
 
 Disgorged are now the Ministers of day; 
 
 And, as they issue from the illumined Pile, 
 
 A fresh Band meets them, at the crowded door, — 
 
 And in the Courts — and where the rumbling Stream, 1 
 
 That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels. 
 
 Glares, like a troubled Spirit, in its bed 
 
 Among the rocks below. Men, Maidens, Youths, 
 
 Mother and little Children, Boys and Girls, 
 
 Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
 
 Within this Temple — where is offered up 
 
 To Gain — the Master Idol of the Realm, 
 
 Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 
 
 Our Ancestors, within the still domain 
 
 Of vast Cathedral or Conventual Church, 
 
 Their vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 
 
368 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 On the dim altar burned continually, 
 
 In token that the House was evermore 
 
 Watching to God. Religious Men were they ; 
 
 Nor would their Reason, tutored to aspire 
 
 Above this transitory world, allow 
 
 That there should pass a moment of the year, 
 
 When in their land the Almighty's Service ceased. 
 
 Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
 Which We, a generation self-extolled, 
 As zealously perform ! I cannot share 
 His proud complacency ; yet I exult, 
 Casting reserve away, exult to see 
 An Intellectual mastery exercised 
 0*er the blind Elements ; a purpose given, 
 A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 
 Imparted — to brute Matter. I rejoice. 
 Measuring the force of those gigantic powers. 
 Which by the thinking Mind have been compelled 
 To serve the Will of feeble-bodied Man. 
 For with the sense of admiration blends 
 The animating hope that time may come 
 When strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 369 
 
 Of this dominion over Nature gained, 
 
 Men of all lands shall exercise the same 
 
 In due proportion to their Country^s need ; 
 
 Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, 
 
 All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 
 
 Upon the Moral law. Egyptian Thebes ; 
 
 Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves ; 
 
 Pahnyra, central in the Desart, fell ; 
 
 And the Arts died by which they had been raised. 
 
 — Call Archimedes from his buried Tomb 
 
 Upon the plain of vanished Syracuse, 
 
 And feelingly the Sage shall make report 
 
 How insecure, how baseless in itself. 
 
 Is that Philosophy, whose sway is framed 
 
 For mere material instruments : — how weak 
 
 Those Arts, and high Inventions, if unpropped 
 
 By Virtue. — He with sighs of pensive grief, 
 
 Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 
 
 That not the slender privilege is theirs 
 
 To save themselves from blank forgetfulness !" 
 
 When from the Wanderer's Hps these words had fallen, 
 I said, " And, did in truth these vaunted Arts 
 
 B B 
 
370 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
 Regret and painful sadness, who revere. 
 And would preserve as things above all price, 
 The old domestic morals of the land, 
 Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
 That dignified and cheered a low estate. 
 Oh ! where is now the character of peace, 
 Sobriety, and order, and chaste love. 
 And honest dealing, and untainted speech. 
 And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer ; 
 That made the very thought of Country-life 
 A thought of refuge, for a Mind detained 
 Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd ? 
 Where now the beauty of the Sabbath kept 
 With conscientious reverence, as a day 
 By the Almighty Law-giver pronounced 
 Holy and blest ? and where the winning grace 
 Of all the lighter ornaments attached 
 To time and season, as the year rolled round ?" 
 
 " Fled !" was the Wanderer's passionate response, 
 *' Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
 In a few fortunate Retreats like this ; 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 371 
 
 Which I behold with trembling, when I think 
 What lamentable change, a year — a month — 
 May bring; that Brook converting as it runs 
 Into an Instrument of deadly bane 
 For those, who, yet untempted to forsake ^ 
 
 The simple occupations of their Sires, 
 Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
 With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss, 
 (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
 How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart ! 
 Lo ! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, 
 The Habitations empty ! or perchance 
 The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
 To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; 
 No daughters round her, busy at the wheel. 
 Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 
 Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
 Of needle-work ; no bustle at the fire, 
 Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 
 Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
 Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command ! 
 — The Father, if perchance he still retain 
 His old employments, goes to field or wood^ 
 B B 2 
 
37« THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 No longer led or followed by the Sons ; 
 
 Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight ; 
 
 Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth ; 
 
 'Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 
 
 Ne'er to return ! That birth-right now is lost. 
 
 Economists will tell you that the State 
 
 Thrives by the forfeiture — unfeeling thought. 
 
 And false as monstrous ! Can the Mother thrive 
 
 By the destruction of her innocent Sons ? 
 
 In whom a premature Necessity 
 
 Blocks out the forms of Nature, preconsumes 
 
 The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
 
 The Infant Being in itself, and makes 
 
 Its very spring a season of decay ? 
 
 The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
 
 Whether a pining discontent survive, 
 
 And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 
 
 The soul depressed ; dejected — even to love 
 
 Of her dull tasks, and close captivity. 
 
 — Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
 
 A native Briton to these inward chains, 
 
 Fixed in his soul, so early and so dee^, 
 
 Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed ! 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 373 
 
 He is a Slave to whom release comes not, 
 And cannot come. The Boy, where'er he turns, 
 Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 
 Among the clouds and in the ancient woods ; 
 Or when the sun is rising in the heavens. 
 Quiet and calm. Behold him — in the school 
 Of his attainments? no; but with the air 
 Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. 
 His raiment, whiten'd o'er with cotton flakes. 
 Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 
 Creeping his gait and cowering — his lip pale — 
 His respiration quick and audible ; 
 And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam ^ 
 From out those languid eyes could break, or blush 
 Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 
 Is that the countenance, and such the port. 
 Of no mean Being ? One who should be clothed 
 With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
 Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
 Sublime — from present purity and joy ! 
 The limbs increase ; but, liberty of mind 
 Thus gone for ever, this organic Frame, 
 Which from Heaven's bounty we receive, instinct 
 B B 3 
 
374 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 With light, and gladsome motions, soon becomes 
 
 Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead; 
 
 And even the Touch, so exquisitely poured 
 
 Through the whole body, with a languid Will 
 
 Performs its functions ; rarely competent 
 
 To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
 
 Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 
 
 The gentle visitations of the sun. 
 
 Or lapse of liquid element — by hand. 
 
 Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth — perceived. 
 
 — Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 
 
 On such foundations ?" 
 
 " Hope is none for him," 
 The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
 " And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
 Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, 
 If there were not, before those Arts appeared. 
 These Structures rose, commingling old and young, 
 And imripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
 Then, if there were not, in our far-famed Isle, 
 Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed 
 Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large ; 
 Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, 
 
THE PARSONAGE. S75 
 
 As abject, as degraded ? At this day, 
 Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
 And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
 A ragged Offspring, with their own blanched hair 
 Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear ; 
 Or wearing, we might say, in that white growth 
 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
 Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt brows, 
 By savage Nature's unassisted care. 
 Naked and coloured like the soil, the feet 
 On which they stand; as if thereby they drew 
 Some nourishment, as Trees do by their roots, 
 From Earth the common Mother of us all. 
 Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 
 Are framed to strike dismay, but the outstretched hand 
 And whining voice denote them Supplicants 
 For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
 Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found ; 
 And with their Parents dwell upon the skirts 
 Of furze-clad commons ; and are born and reared 
 At the mine's mouth, beneath impending rocks, 
 Or in the chambers of some natural cave ; 
 And where their Ancestors erected huts, 
 B S 4 
 
376 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 For the convenience of unlawful gain, 
 
 In forest purlieus ; and the like are bred, 
 
 All England through, where nooks and slips of ground, 
 
 Purloined in times less jealous than our own, 
 
 From the green margin of the public way, 
 
 A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom 
 
 And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
 
 — Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
 Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
 
 'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. Upon the watch, . 
 Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
 Then, following closely with the cloud of dust. 
 An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
 Heels over head like Tumblers on a Stage. 
 
 — Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin, 
 And, on the freight of merry Passengers 
 
 Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 
 And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 
 Wild Pursuivants ! until their breath is lost, 
 Or bounty tires, — and every face, that smiled 
 Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. 
 
 — But, like the Vagrants of the Gypsy tribe, 
 These, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 377 
 
 Are profitless to others. Turn we then 
 
 To Britons bom and bred within the pale 
 
 Of civil polity, and early trained 
 
 To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, 
 
 The bread they eat. A sample should I give 
 
 Of what this stock produces to enrich 
 
 And beautify the tender age of life, 
 
 A sample fairly culled, ye would exclaim, 
 
 " Is this the whistling Plough-boy whose shrill notes 
 
 Impart new gladness to the morning air ?" 
 
 '' Forgive me ! if I venture to suspect 
 
 That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse. 
 
 Are of no finer frame : — his joints are stiff; 
 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock that to the knees 
 
 Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear. 
 
 Fellows to those which lustily upheld 
 
 The wooden stools, for everlasting use. 
 
 Oh which our Fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
 
 Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
 
 Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare ; 
 
 Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange; 
 
 Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
 
 A look or motion of intelligence 
 
378 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 From infant conning of the Christ-cross-row, 
 Or puzzling through a Primer, line by line. 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
 
 — What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand. 
 What penetrating power of sun or breeze, 
 
 Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
 
 Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 
 
 This torpor is no pitiable work 
 
 Of modem ingenuity ; no Town 
 
 Nor crowded City may be taxed with aught 
 
 Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, 
 
 To which in after years he may be roused. 
 
 — This Boy the Fields produce : his spade and hoe, 
 The Carter's whip which on his shoulder rests 
 
 In air high-towering with a boorish pomp. 
 
 The sceptre of his sway ; his Country's name, , 
 
 Her equal rights, her churches and her schools, 
 
 What have they done for him ? And, let me ask. 
 
 For tens of thousands uninformed as he ? 
 
 In brief, what liberty of mind is here ?" 
 
 This cheerful sally pleased the mild good Man, 
 To whom the appeal couched in those closing words 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 379 
 
 Was pointedly addressed ; and to the thoughts 
 
 Which, in assent or opposition, rose 
 
 Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give 
 
 Prompt utterance ; but, rising from our seat. 
 
 The hospitable Vicar interposed 
 
 With invitation earnestly renewed. 
 
 — We followed, taking as he led, a Path 
 
 Along a Hedge of stately hollies framed, 
 
 AVhose flexile boughs, descending with a weight 
 
 Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots 
 
 That gave them nourishment. How sweet methought^ 
 
 When the fierce wind comes howling from the north, 
 
 How grateful this impenetrable screen ! 
 
 Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot 
 
 On rural business passing to and fro 
 
 Was the commodious Walk ; a careful hand 
 
 Had marked the line, and strewn the surface o'er 
 
 With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights 
 
 Fetched by the neighbouring brook. — Across the Vale 
 
 The stately Fence accompanied our steps ; 
 
 And thus the Pathway, by perennial green 
 
 Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite. 
 
380 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, 
 
 The Pastor's Mansion with the House of Prayer. 
 
 Like Image of solemnity, conjoined 
 With feminine allurement soft and fair. 
 The Mansion's self displayed ; — a reverend Pile 
 With bold projections and recesses deep ; 
 Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
 Fronting the noon-tide Sun. We paused to admire 
 The pillared Porch, elaborately embossed ; 
 The low wide windows with their mullions old ; 
 The cornice richly fretted, of grey stone ; 
 And that smooth slope from which the Dwelling rose, 
 By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
 And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned. 
 Profusion bright ! and every flower assuming 
 A more than natural vividness of hue. 
 From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
 Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
 Of yew, in which survived some traces, here 
 Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
 And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 381 
 
 Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 
 
 Blending their diverse foliage with the green 
 
 Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 
 
 The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight 
 
 For wren and red-breast, — where they sit and sing 
 
 Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
 
 Nor must I pass unnoticed (leaving else 
 
 The picture incomplete,- as it appeared 
 
 Before our eyes) a relique of old times 
 
 Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
 
 Of nicest workmanship ; which once had held 
 
 The sculptured Image of some Patron Saint, . 
 
 Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
 
 On all who entered those religious doors. 
 
 But lo ! where from the rocky garden mount 
 Crowned by its antique summer-house — descends. 
 Light as a silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
 For she hath recognized her honoured Friend, 
 The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt kiss 
 The gladsome Child bestows at his request. 
 And, up the flowery lawn as we advance. 
 Hangs on the Old Man with a happy look, 
 
382 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
 
 — We enter ; — need I tell the courteous guise 
 
 In which the Lady of the place received 
 
 Our little Band, with salutation meet 
 
 To each accorded ? Graceful was her port : 
 
 A lofty stature undepressed by Time, 
 
 Whose visitation had not spared to touch 
 
 The finer lineaments of frame and face ; 
 
 To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 
 
 And wisdom loves. — But when a stately Ship 
 
 Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
 
 On homeward voyage, what — if wind and wave, 
 
 And hardship undergone in various climes. 
 
 Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
 
 And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
 
 With which she left her haven — not for this. 
 
 Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze 
 
 Play on her streamers, doth she fail to assume 
 
 Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 
 
 That charm all eyes. So bright to us appeared 
 
 This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
 
 Of unexpected pleasure. Soon the board 
 
 Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 383 
 
 Here in cool shelter, while the scorching heat 
 Oppressed the fields, we sate, and entertained 
 The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
 From trivial themes to general argument 
 Passing, as accident or fancy led, 
 Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose 
 And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
 Dropped from our minds ; and even the shy Recluse 
 Resumed the manners of his happier days. 
 He in the various conversation bore 
 A willing, and, at times, a forward part ; 
 Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
 Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now 
 Occasion given him to display his skill, 
 Upon the steadfast Vantage ground of truth. 
 He gazed with admiration unsuppressed 
 Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
 Seen, from the shady room in which we sate. 
 In softened perspective ; and more than once 
 Praised the consummate harmony serene 
 Of gravity and elegance — diffused 
 Around the Mansion and its whole domain ; 
 Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
 
384 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 And female care. — « A blessed lot is yours !" 
 He said, and with that exclamation breathed 
 A tender sigh ; — but, suddenly the door 
 Opening, with eager haste two lusty Boys 
 Appeared, — confusion checking their delight. 
 — Not Brothers they in feature or attire, 
 But fond Companions, so I guessed, in field. 
 And by the river-side — from which they come, 
 A pair of Anglers, laden with their spoil. 
 One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 
 The Boy of plainer garb, and more abashed 
 In countenance, — more distant and retired. 
 Twin might the Other be to that fair Girl 
 Who bounded towards us from the garden mount. 
 Triumphant entry this to him ! — for see. 
 Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, 
 On whose capacious surface is outspread 
 Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts ; 
 Ranged side by side, in regular ascent, 
 One after one, still lessening by degrees 
 Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 
 Upon the Board he lays the sky-blue stone 
 With its rich spoil ; — their number he proclaims ; 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 385 
 
 Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged ; 
 And where the very monarch of the brook, 
 After long struggle, had escaped at last — 
 Stealing alternately at them and us 
 (As doth his Comrade too) a look of pride. 
 And, verily, the silent Creatures made 
 A splendid sight, together thus exposed; 
 Dead — but not sullied or deformed by Death, 
 That seemed to pity what he could not spare. 
 
 But oh ! the animation in the mien 
 Of those two Boys ! Yea in the very words 
 With which the young Narrator was inspired. 
 When, as our questions led, he told at large 
 Of that day's prowess ! Him might I compare, 
 His look, tones, gestures, eager eloquence. 
 To a bold Brook which splits for better speed, 
 And, at the self-same moment, works its way 
 Through many channels, ever and anon 
 Parted and reimited : his Compeer 
 To the still Lake, whose stillness is to the eye 
 As beautiful, as grateful to the mind. 
 — But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
 
 c c 
 
386 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Be likened ? She whose countenance and air 
 
 Unite the graceful qualities of both, 
 
 Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 
 
 My grey-haired Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 
 Glistened with tenderness ; his Mind, I knew. 
 Was full ; and had, I doubted not, returned. 
 Upon this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
 Abruptly broken-ofF. The ruddy Boys 
 Did now withdraw to take their well-earned meal ; 
 And He — (to whom all tongues resigned their rights 
 With willingness, to whom the general ear 
 Listened with readier patience than to strain 
 Of music, lute or harp, — a long delight 
 That ceased not when his voice had ceased) as One 
 Who from truth's central point serenely views 
 The compass of his argument, — began 
 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 
 
 END OF THE EIGHTH BOOK. 
 
BOOK THE NINTH. 
 
 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN 
 EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 
 
 " To every Form of Being is assigned,'* 
 Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
 " An active principle : — howe'er removed 
 From sense and observation, it subsists 
 In all things, in all natures, in the stars 
 Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 
 In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
 That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks. 
 The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
 c c 2 
 
388 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Whatever exists hath properties that spread 
 
 Beyond itself, communicating good, 
 
 A simple blessing, or with evil mixed ; 
 
 Spirit that knows no insulated spot. 
 
 No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 
 
 It circulates, the Soul of all the Worlds. 
 
 This is the freedom of the Universe ; 
 
 Unfolded still the more, more visible, 
 
 The more we know ; and yet is reverenced least, 
 
 And least respected, in the human Mind, 
 
 Its most apparent home. The food of hope 
 
 Is meditated action ; robbed of this 
 
 Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 
 
 We perish also ; for we live by hope 
 
 And by desire ; we see by the glad light. 
 
 And breathe the sWeet air of futurity. 
 
 And so we live, or else we have no life. 
 
 To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour, 
 
 (For every moment hath its own to-morrow !) 
 
 — Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 
 
 With present triumph, will be sure to find 
 
 A field before them freshened with the dew 
 
 Of other expectations ; — in which course 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 389 
 
 Their happy year spins round. The Youth obeys 
 A like glad impulse; and so moves the Man 
 'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — / 
 
 Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 
 Do we revert so fondly to the walks 
 Of Childhood — but that there the Soul discerns 
 The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 
 Of her own native vigour — but for this, 
 That it is given her thence in age to hear 
 Reverberations ; and a choral song. 
 Commingling with the incense that ascends 
 Undaunted, towards the imperishable heavens, 
 From her own lonely altar ? — Do not think 
 That Good and Wise will ever be allowed, 
 Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
 As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
 Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
 That Man descends into the Vale of years ; 
 Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 
 And not presumptuously I trust, of Age, • 
 
 As of a final Eminence, though bare 
 In aspect and forbidding, yet a Point 
 On which 'tis not impossible to sit 
 CO 3 
 
390 . DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER 
 
 In awfiil sovereignty — a place of power — 
 
 — A Throne, which may be likened unto his. 
 
 Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
 
 Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 
 
 High peaks, that bound the Vale where now we are. 
 
 Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 
 
 Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, 
 
 With all the shapes upon their surface spread. 
 
 But, while the gross and visible frame of things 
 
 Relinquishes its hold upon the sense, 
 
 Yea almost on the mind itself, and seems 
 
 All unsubstantialized, — how loud the voice 
 
 Of waters, with invigorated peal 
 
 From the fiill River in the vale below. 
 
 Ascending ! — For on that superior height 
 
 Who sits, is disencumbered from the press 
 
 Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
 
 To breathe in solitude above the host 
 
 Of ever humming insects, 'mid thin air 
 
 That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves 
 
 Many and idle, touches not his ear ; 
 
 This he is freed from, and from thousand notes 
 
 Not less unceasing, not less vain than these, — 
 
, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 39) 
 
 By which the finer passages of sense 
 
 Are occupied; and the Soul, that would incline 
 
 To listen, is prevented or deterred. 
 
 And may it not be hoped, that, placed by Age 
 In like removal tranquil though severe. 
 We are not so removed for utter loss ; 
 But for some favour, suited to our need ? 
 What more than this, that we thereby should gain 
 Fresh power to commune with the invisible world, 
 And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
 Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
 A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
 To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 
 To run the giddy round of vain delight. 
 Or fret and labour on the Plain below. 
 
 But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
 Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
 And termination of his mortal course, 
 Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
 Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; ^^^ 
 
 Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
 
 c c 4 
 
392 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 To whom kind Nature, therefore, may afford 
 
 Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
 
 Wliose birth-right Reason, therefore, may ensure. 
 
 For me, consulting what I feel within 
 
 In times when most existence with herself 
 
 Is satisfied, I cannot but believe. 
 
 That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 
 
 And Reason's sway predominates, even so far. 
 
 Country, society, and time itself, 
 
 That saps the Individual's bodily frame. 
 
 And lays the generations low in dust, 
 
 Do, by the Almighty Ruler's grace, partake 
 
 Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
 
 And cherishing with ever-constant love, 
 
 That tires not, nor betrays. Our Life is turned 
 
 Out of her course, wherever Man is made 
 
 An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
 
 Or implement, a passive Thing employed 
 
 As a brute mean, without acknowledgment 
 
 Of common right or interest in the end ; 
 
 Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
 
 Say, what can follow for a rational Soul 
 
 Perverted thus, but weakness in all good. 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 393 
 
 And strength in evil? Hence an after-call 
 
 For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
 
 And oft-times Death, avenger of the past. 
 
 And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 
 
 Entrust the future. — Not for these sad issues 
 
 Was Man created ; but to obey the law 
 
 Of life, and hope, and action. And 'tis known 
 
 That when we stand upon our native soil, 
 
 Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 
 
 Our active powers, those powers themselves become 
 
 Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
 
 They sweep away infection from the heart ; 
 
 And, by the substitution of delight. 
 
 Suppress all evil ; whence the Being moves 
 
 In beauty through the world ; and all who see 
 
 Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 
 
 " Then," said the Solitary, " by what power 
 Of language shall a feeling Heart express 
 Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 
 We look for health from seeds that have been sown 
 In sickness, and for increase in a power 
 That works but by extinction. On themselves 
 
394 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 
 
 To know what they must do; their wisdom is 
 
 To look into the eyes of others, thence 
 
 To be instructed what they must avoid : 
 
 Or rather let us say, how least observed, 
 
 How with most quiet and most silent death. 
 
 With the least taint and injury to the air 
 
 The Oppressor breathes, their hiunan Form divine. 
 
 And their immortal Soul, may waste away." 
 
 The Sage rejoined, " I thank you — you have spared 
 My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
 A wide compassion which with you I share. 
 When, heretofore, I placed before your sight 
 A most familiar object of our days, 
 A Little-one, subjected to the Arts 
 Of modem ingenuity, and made 
 The senseless member of a vast machine. 
 Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel ; 
 Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget 
 The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught ; 
 The Slave of ignorance, and oft of want. 
 And miserable hunger. Much, too much 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 395 
 
 Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
 
 We both have witnessed, lot which I myself 
 
 Shared, though in mild and merciful degree : 
 
 Yet was my mind to hindrances exposed, 
 
 Through which I struggled, not without distress 
 
 And sometimes injury, like a sheep enthralled 
 
 'Mid thorns and brambles ; or a Bird that breaks 
 
 Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind. 
 
 Though with her plumes impaired. If they, whose souls 
 
 Should open while they range the richer fields 
 
 Of merry England, are obstructed less 
 
 By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
 
 Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 
 
 That tens of thousands at this day exist 
 
 Such as the Boy you painted, lineal Heirs 
 
 Of those who once were Vassals of her soil. 
 
 Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 
 
 Which it sustained. But no one takes delight 
 
 In this oppression ; none are proud of it ; 
 
 It bears no sounding name nor ever bore ; 
 
 A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
 
 Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 
 
 Were turned to evils that are new and chosen, 
 
396 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 A Bondage lurking under shape of good, — 
 
 Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
 
 But all too fondly followed and too far ; 
 
 To Victims, which the merciful can see 
 
 Nor think that they are Victims ; turned to wrongs 
 
 Which Women who have Children of their own 
 
 Regard without compassion, yea with praise ! 
 
 I spake of mischief which the wise diffuse 
 
 With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
 
 The healthier, the securer we become ; 
 
 Delusion which a moment may destroy ! 
 
 Lastly I mourned for those whom I had seen 
 
 Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground, 
 
 Where circumstance and nature had combined 
 
 To shelter innocence, and cherish love ; 
 
 Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived, 
 
 Possessed of health, and strength, and peace of mind ; 
 
 Thus would have lived, or never have been born. 
 
 Alas ! what differs more than man from man ! 
 And whence that difference ? whence but from himself? 
 For see the universal Race endowed 
 With the same upright form ! — The sun is fixed, 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 397 
 
 And the infinite magnificence of heaven, 
 
 Within the reach of every human eye ; 
 
 The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears ; 
 
 The vernal field infuses fi-esh delight 
 
 Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense 
 
 Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
 
 That object is laid open to the view 
 
 Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
 
 Is salutary, or an influence sweet, 
 
 Are each and all enabled to perceive 
 
 That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
 
 Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
 
 Reason, — and, with that reason, smiles and tears ; ; ; 
 
 Imagination, freedom in the will. 
 
 Conscience to guide and check ; and death to be 
 
 Foretasted, immortality presumed. 
 
 Strange, then, nor less than monstrous might be deemed 
 
 The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 
 
 Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
 
 The excellence of moral qualities 
 
 From common understanding ; leaving truth 
 
 And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark ; 
 
 Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 
 
398 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Strange, should he deal herein with nice respects, 
 
 And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 
 
 The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; 
 
 The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 
 
 Are scattered at the feet of Man — like flowers. 
 
 The generous inclination, the just rule. 
 
 Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts 
 
 No mystery is here ; no special boon 
 
 For high and not for low, for proudly graced 
 
 And not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 
 
 To heaven as lightly from the Cottage hearth 
 
 As from the haughty palace. He, whose soul 
 
 Ponders this true equality, may walk 
 
 The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 
 
 Yet, in that meditation, will he find 
 
 Motive to sadder grief, as we have found, — 
 
 Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown. 
 
 And for the injustice grieving, that hath made 
 
 So wide a difference betwixt Man and Man. 
 
 But let us rather fix our gladdened thoughts 
 Upon the brighter scene. How blest that Pair 
 Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even now) 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 399 
 
 Blest in their several and their common lot ! 
 
 A few short hours of each returning day 
 
 The thriving Prisoners of their Village school ; 
 
 And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 
 
 Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy, 
 
 To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 
 
 Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss ; 
 
 For every genial Power of heaven and earth, 
 
 Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 
 
 Obsequiously doth take upon herself 
 
 To labour for them ; bringing each in turn 
 
 Tlie tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, 
 
 Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is theirs, 
 
 Granted alike in the outset of their course 
 
 To both ; and, if that partnership must cease, 
 
 I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 
 
 " Much as I glory in that Child of yours. 
 
 Repine not, for his Cottage-comrade, whom 
 
 Belike no higher destiny awaits 
 
 Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled. 
 
 The wish for liberty to live — content 
 
 With what Heaven grants, and die — in peace of mind, 
 
 Within the bosom of his native Vale. 
 
400 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 At least, whatever fate the noon of life 
 Reserves for either, this is sure, that both 
 Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn ; 
 Whether regarded as a jocund time 
 That in itself may terminate, or lead 
 In course of nature to a sober eve. 
 Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 
 They will allow that justice has in them 
 Been shewn — alike to body and to mind." 
 
 He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
 Some weighty matter, then, with fervent voice 
 And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed, 
 " Oh for the coming of that glorious time 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 And best protection, this Imperial Realm, 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 
 Binding herself by Statute to secure 
 For all the Children whom her soil maintains 
 The rudiments of Letters, and to inform 
 The mind with moral and religious truth. 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE, 401 
 
 Both understood, and practised, — so that none, 
 
 However destitute, be left to droop 
 
 By timely culture unsustained ; or run 
 
 Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 
 
 To drudge through weary life without the aid 
 
 Of intellectual implements and tools ; 
 
 A savage Horde among the civilized, 
 
 A servile Band among the lordly free ! 
 
 This right, as sacred almost as the right 
 
 To exist and be supplied with sustenance 
 
 And means of life, the lisping Babe proclaims 
 
 To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will. 
 
 For the protection of his innocence ; 
 
 And the rude Boy — • who, having overpast 
 
 The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 
 
 Yet mutinously knits his angry brow. 
 
 And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 
 
 Or turns the sacred faculty of speech 
 
 To impious use — by process indirect 
 
 Declares his due, while he makes known his need, 
 
 — This sacred right is fruitlessly announced, 
 
 This universal plea in vain addressed, 
 
 To eyes and ears of Parents who themselves 
 
 D D 
 
402 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Did, in the time of their necessity, 
 
 Urge it in vain ; and, therefore, like a prayer 
 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven, 
 
 It mounts, to reach the State's parental ear; 
 
 Who, if indeed she own a Mother's heart, 
 
 And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 
 The unquestionable good ; which, England, safe 
 
 From interference of external force. 
 
 May grant at leisure ; without risk incurred 
 
 That what in wisdom for herself she doth. 
 
 Others shall e'er be able to undo. 
 
 Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliffs 
 To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, 
 Long-reverenced Titles cast away as weeds ; 
 Laws overturned, — and Territory spht; 
 Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind 
 And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes, 
 Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
 Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. 
 Meantime, the Sovereignty of these fair Isles 
 Remains entire and indivisible ; 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 403 
 
 And, if that ignorance were removed, which acts 
 Within the compass of their several shores 
 To breed commotion and disquietude. 
 Each might preserve the beautiful repose 
 Of heavenly Bodies shining in their spheres. 
 — The discipline of slavery is unknown 
 Amongst us, — hence the more do we require 
 The discipline of virtue ; order else 
 Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
 Thus, duties rising out of good possessed, 
 And prudent caution needful to avert 
 Impending evil, do alike require 
 That permanent provision should be made 
 For the whole people to be taught and trained. 
 So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
 Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 
 Their place ; and genuine piety descend. 
 Like an inheritance, from age to age. 
 
 With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 
 Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
 To the prevention of all healthful growth 
 Through mutual injury ! Rather in the law 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Of increase and the mandate from above 
 
 Rejoice ! — and Ye have special cause for joy. 
 
 — For, as the element of air aiFords 
 
 An easy passage to the industrious bees 
 
 Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth 
 
 For those ordained to take their sounding flight 
 
 From the thronged hive, and settle where they list 
 
 In fresh abodes, their labour to renew; 
 
 So the wide waters, open to the power. 
 
 The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
 
 Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
 
 Her swarms, and in succession send them forth ; 
 
 Bound to establish new communities 
 
 On every shore whose aspect favours hope 
 
 Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 
 
 And perseverance their deserved reward. 
 
 — " Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 
 
 " Change wide, and deep, and silently performed. 
 
 This Land shall witness ; and, as days roll on. 
 
 Earth's universal Frame shall feel the effect 
 
 Even 'till the smallest habitable Rock, 
 
 Beaten by lonely billows, heai^the songs 
 
 Of humanized Society ; and bloom 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 405 
 
 With civil arts, and send their fragrance forth, 
 
 A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
 
 From Culture, universally bestowed 
 
 On Britain's noble Race in freedom bom ; 
 
 From Education, from that humble source, 
 
 Expect these mighty issues ; from the pains 
 
 And quiet care of unambitious Schools 
 
 Instructing simple Childhood's ready ear : 
 
 Thence look for these magnificent results ! 
 
 Vast the circumference of hope — and Ye 
 
 Are at its centre, British Lawgivers, 
 
 Ah ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall Wisdom's voice, 
 
 From out the bosom of these troubled Times 
 
 Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind. 
 
 And shall the venerable Halls ye fill 
 
 Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 
 
 Trust not to partial care a general good ; 
 
 Transfer not to Futurity a work 
 
 Of urgent need. — Your Country must complete 
 
 Her glorious destiny. — Begin even now. 
 
 Now, when Oppression, like the Egj^tian plague 
 
 Of darkness stretched o'er guilty Europe, makes 
 
 The brightness more conspicuous, that invests 
 
 D D 3 
 
4.06 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 The happy Island where ye think and act : 
 Now, when Destruction is a prime pursuit, 
 Shew to the wretched Nations for what end 
 The Powers of civil Polity were given !" 
 
 Abruptly here, but with a graceful air 
 The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
 Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
 " Behold, the shades of afternoon have fallen 
 Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
 The Lake, though bright, is of a placid blue ; 
 As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
 How temptingly the Landscape shines ! — The air 
 Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
 To the Lake's margin, where a Boat lies moored 
 Beneath her sheltering tree. — Upon this hint 
 We rose together : all were pleased — but most 
 The beauteous Girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy. 
 Light as a sun-beam glides along the hills 
 She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 
 To her loved Brother and his shy Compeer. 
 — Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 
 And earnest preparation. — Forth we went, 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 407 
 
 And down the Valley on the Streamlet's bank 
 
 Pursued our way, a broken Company, 
 
 Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
 
 Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 
 
 The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
 
 A two-fold Image ; on a grassy bank 
 
 A snow-white Ram, and in the crystal flood 
 
 Another and the same ! Most beautiful. 
 
 On the green turf, with his imperial front 
 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb. 
 
 The breathing Creature stood ; as beautiful. 
 
 Beneath him, shewed his shadowy Counterpart. 
 
 Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, 
 
 And each seemed centre of his own fair world : 
 
 Antipodes unconscious of each other. 
 
 Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, - 
 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 
 
 " Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse. 
 Or to disturb so fair a spectacle. 
 And yet a breath can do it !" 
 
 These few words 
 
 D D 4 
 
408 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed 
 
 Gathered together, all, in still delight. 
 
 Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
 
 In like low voice to my particular ear, 
 
 " I loVe to hear that eloquent Old Man 
 
 Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
 
 On human life from infancy to age. 
 
 How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
 
 His mind gives back the various forms of things, 
 
 Caught in their fairest, happiest attitude ! 
 
 While he is speaking I have power to see 
 
 Even as he sees ; but when his voice hath ceased. 
 
 Then, with a sigh, I sometimes feel, as now. 
 
 That combinations so serene and bright, 
 
 Like those reflected in yon quiet Pool, 
 
 Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
 
 To great and small disturbances exposed." 
 
 More had she said — but sportive shouts were heard ; 
 
 Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 
 
 Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
 
 Down the green field came tripping after us. 
 
 — When we had cautiously embarked, the Pair 
 
 Now for a prouder service were addrest ; 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 409 
 
 But an inexorable law forbade, 
 
 And each resigned the oar which he had seized. 
 
 Whereat, with willing hand I undertook 
 
 The needful labour ; grateful task ! — to me 
 
 Pregnant with recollections of the time 
 
 When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere ! 
 
 A Youth, I practised this delightful art; 
 
 Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
 
 Of joyous Comrades. — Now the reedy marge 
 
 Cleared, with a strenuous arm I dipped the oar, 
 
 Free from obstruction ; and the Boat advanced 
 
 Through crystal water, smoothly as a Hawk, 
 
 That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
 
 Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
 
 With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 
 
 — " Observe," the Vicar said, yon rocky Isle 
 
 With birch-trees fringed ; my hand shall guide the helm. 
 
 While thitherward we bend our course; or while 
 
 We seek that other, on the western shore, — 
 
 Where the bare Columns of those lofty Firs, 
 
 Supporting gracefully a massy Dome 
 
 Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
 
 A Grecian Temple rising from the Deep." 
 
410 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 " Turn where we may," said I, " we cannot err 
 In this delicious Region." — Cultured slopes, 
 Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves. 
 And mountains bare — or clothed with ancient woods, 
 Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 
 Along the level of the glassy flood. 
 They ceased not to surround us ; change of place. 
 From kindred features diversely combined. 
 Producing change of beauty ever new. 
 — Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 
 Of living nature, cannot be pourtrayed 
 By words, nor by the penciFs silent skill ; 
 But is the property of him alone 
 Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 
 And in his mind recorded it with love ! 
 Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
 Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 
 Of trivial occupations well devised. 
 And unsought pleasures springing up by chance ; 
 As if some friendly Genius had ordained 
 That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
 By acquisition of sincere delight. 
 The same should be continued to its close. 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 4.11 
 
 One spirit animating old and young, 
 A gypsy fire we kindled on the shore 
 Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed — and there 
 Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
 The beverage drawn from China's fragrant herb. 
 — Launched from our hands the smooth stone skimmed 
 
 the Lake ; 
 With shouts we roused the echoes ; — stiller sounds 
 The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song, 
 Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
 To be repeated there, but gently sank 
 Into our hearts ; and charmed the peaceful flood. 
 Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
 From land and water; Lilies of each hue — 
 Golden and white, that float upon the waves 
 And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy Plant, 
 (Her flowers were shed) the Lily of the Vale, 
 That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
 Her pensive beauty, from the breeze her sweets. 
 
 Such product, and such pastime did the place 
 And season yield ; but, as we re-embarked, 
 Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore , .^ > 
 
412 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Of that wild Spot, the Solitary said 
 
 In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
 
 " The fire, that burned so brightly to our wish, 
 
 Where is it now ? Deserted on the beach 
 
 It seems extinct ; nor shall the fanning breeze 
 
 Revive its ashes. What care we for this. 
 
 Whose ends are gained? Behold an emblem here 
 
 Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
 
 And, in this unpremeditated slight 
 
 Of that which is no longer needed, see 
 
 The common course of human gratitude !" 
 
 This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
 Of the still evening. Right across the Lake 
 Our pinnace moves : then, coasting creek and bay, 
 Glades we behold — and into thickets peep — 
 Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
 To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
 Browzed by the side of dashing waterfalls. 
 Thus did the Bark, meandering with the shore. 
 Pursue her voyage, till a point was gained 
 Where a projecting line of rock, that framed 
 A natural pier, invited us to land. 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 413 
 
 — Alert to follow as the Pastor led 
 
 We clomb a green hiirs side ; and thence obtained, 
 
 Slowly, a less and less obstructed sight 
 
 Of the flat meadows, and indented coast 
 
 Of the whole lake — in compass seen ! Far off, 
 
 And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower, 
 
 In majesty presiding o'er the Vale 
 
 And all lier Dwellings ; seemingly preserved 
 
 From the intrusion of a restless world 
 
 By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 
 
 Soft heath this elevated spot supplied. 
 With resting-place of mossy stone ; — and there 
 We sate reclined — admiring quietly 
 The frame and general aspect of the scene ; 
 And each not seldom eager to make known 
 His own discoveries ; or to favourite points 
 Directing notice, merely from a wish 
 To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
 That rapturous moment ne'er shall I forget 
 When these particular interests were effaced 
 From every mind ! — Already had the sun, 
 Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
 
414 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Attained his western bound ; but rays of light — 
 Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
 Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
 By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 
 Of the blue firmament — aloft — and wide : 
 And multitudes of little floating clouds, 
 Pierced through their thin etherial mould, ere we, 
 Who saw, of change were conscious, had become 
 Vivid as fire — clouds separately poized, 
 Innumerable multitude of Forms 
 Scattered through half the circle of the sky ; 
 And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
 With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
 Which from the unapparent Fount of glory 
 They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
 That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep 
 Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 
 
 While from the grassy mountain's open side 
 We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent 
 On the refulgent spectacle — diffused 
 Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
 The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed — 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 415 
 
 " Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
 Power inaccessible to human thought 
 Save by degrees and steps which Tliou hast deigned 
 To furnish ; for this Image of Thyself, 
 To the infirmity of mortal sense 
 Vouchsafed ; this local, transitory type 
 Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 
 Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven, 
 The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 
 Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened. 
 Presume to offer ; we, who from the breast 
 Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
 The faint reflections only of thy face, 
 Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
 Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
 Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
 Imperishable majesty streamed forth 
 From thy empyreal Throne, the elect of Earth 
 Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
 Of all dishonour — cleansed from mortal stain. 
 — Accomplish, then their number ; and conclude 
 Time's weary course ! Or, if, by thy decree, 
 The consummation that will come by stealth 
 
416 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail, 
 Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
 The sting of human nature. Spread the Law, 
 As it is written in thy holy Book, 
 Throughout all Lands : let every nation hear 
 The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
 Both for the love of purity and hope 
 Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
 And persevere in good, that they shall rise. 
 To have a nearer view of Thee, in heaven. 
 — Father of Good ! this prayer in bounty grant. 
 In mercy grant it to thy wretched Sons. 
 Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease. 
 And cruel Wars expire. The way is marked, 
 The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. . 
 Alas ! the Nations, who of yore received 
 These tidings, and in Christian Temples meet 
 The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
 Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
 Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
 Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. 
 So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few, 
 Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 417 
 
 This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask, 
 
 Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife, 
 
 Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 
 
 And the kind never perish ? Is the hope 
 
 Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
 
 A peaceable dominion, wide as earth 
 
 And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 
 
 When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
 
 In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
 
 Studious of mutual benefit ; and he. 
 
 Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and flowers 
 
 Of every clime, to till the lonely field, 
 
 Be happy in himself? — The law of faith 
 
 Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, 
 
 Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve ? 
 
 Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart ! 
 
 And with that help the wonder shall be seen 
 
 Fulfilled, the hope accomplished ; and thy praise 
 
 Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 
 
 Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound, 
 Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle, 
 
 E E 
 
418 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER 
 
 Unheard, the savage nations bowed their heads 
 
 To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds ; 
 
 Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote 
 
 111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
 
 Then, in the bosom of yon mountain cove, 
 
 To those inventions of corrupted Man 
 
 Mysterious rites were solemnized ; and there, 
 
 Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods, 
 
 Of those dread Idols, some, perchance, received 
 
 Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
 
 Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 
 
 Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 
 
 Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 
 
 Of human Victims, offered up to appease 
 
 Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
 
 Had visionary faculties to see 
 
 The thing that hath been as the thing that is, 
 
 Aghast we might behold this spacious Mere 
 
 Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous. 
 
 Flung from the body of devouring fires, 
 
 To Taranis erected on the heights 
 
 By priestly hands, for sacrifice, performed 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 419 
 
 Exultingly, in view of open day 
 And full assemblage of a barbarous Host ; 
 Or to Andates, Female Power ! who gave 
 (For so they fancied) glorious Victory. 
 — A few rude Monuments of mountain-stone 
 Survive ; all else is swept away. — How bright 
 The appearances of things ! From such, how changed 
 The existing worship ; and, with those compared, 
 The W^orshippers how innocent and blest ! 
 So wide the difference, a willing mind. 
 At this affecting hour, might almost think 
 That Paradise, the lost abode of man, 
 Was raised again : and to a happy Few, 
 In its original beauty, here restored. 
 — Whence but from Thee, the true and only God, 
 And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
 Upon the Cross, this marvellous advance 
 Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
 Were left — the other gained. — O Ye, who come 
 To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
 Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
 Of Sabbath bells ; and Ye, who sleep in earth, 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls ! 
 
 For You, in presence of this little Band 
 
 Gathered together on the green hill-side. 
 
 Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
 
 Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King ; 
 
 Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands have made 
 
 Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
 
 And in good works ; and Him, who is endowed 
 
 With scantiest knowledge. Master of all truth 
 
 Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
 
 Conscious of that abundant favour showered 
 
 On you, the Children of my humble care ; — 
 
 On your Abodes, and this beloved Land, 
 
 Our birth-place, home, and Country, while on Earth 
 
 We sojourn, — loudly do I utter thanks 
 
 With earnest joy, that will not be suppressed. 
 
 These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 
 
 These fertile fields, that recompence your pains; 
 
 The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top ; 
 
 Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
 
 Or hushed ; the roaring waters, or the still ; 
 
 They see the offering of my lifted hands — 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 421 
 
 They hear my lips present their sacrifice — 
 They know if I be silent, morn or even : 
 For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 
 Will find a vent ; and Thought is praise to Him, 
 Audible praise, to Thee, Omniscient Mind, 
 From Whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow !" 
 
 This Vesper service closed, without delay, 
 From that exalted station, to the plain 
 Descending, we pursued our homeward course, 
 In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake. 
 Beneath a faded sky. No trace remained 
 Of those celestial splendors ; grey the vault 
 Pure, cloudless ether ; and the Star of Eve 
 Was wanting ; — but inferior Lights appeared 
 Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
 Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
 In twinkling lustre, ere the Boat attained 
 Her mooring-place ; — where, to the sheltering tree 
 Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, 
 With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we paced 
 The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 
 E E 3 
 
422 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps ; 
 Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed 
 A farewell salutation, — and, the like 
 Receiving, took the slender path that leads 
 To the one Cottage in the lonely dell, 
 His chosen residence. But, ere he turned 
 Aside, a welcome promise had been given. 
 That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 
 Of yet another summer's day, consumed 
 In wandering with us through the Vallies fair, 
 And o'er the Mountain- wastes. " Another sun,' 
 Said he, " shall shine upon us, ere we part, — 
 Another sun, and peradventure more ; 
 If time, with free consent, be yours to give, — 
 And season favours." 
 
 To enfeebled Power, 
 From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
 What renovation had been brought ; and what 
 Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
 Dejected, and habitually disposed 
 To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
 Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 423 
 
 How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
 
 And whether aught, of tendency as good 
 
 And pure, from further intercourse ensued ; • 
 
 This — (if delightful hopes, as heretofore, 
 
 Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
 
 Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past) 
 
 My future Labours may not leave untold. 
 
 E E 4 
 
NOTES. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Page xi. — ** Come thou prophetic Spirit, that inspirst 
 The human soul, S^c." 
 
 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. 
 
 Shakespeare's Sonnets. 
 
 Page 20. Line 10. " much did he see of men,*' 
 
 m 
 
 In Heron's Tour in Scotland is given an intelligent ac- 
 count of the qualities by which this class of men used to 
 be, and still are, in some degree, distinguished, and of the 
 benefits which Society derives from their labours. Among 
 their characteristics, he does not omit to mention that, 
 from being obliged to pass so much of their time in solitary 
 wandering among rural objects, they frequently acquire 
 meditative habits of mind, and are strongly disposed to 
 enthusiasm poetical and religious. I regret that I have not 
 
426 NOTES. 
 
 the book at hand to quote the passage, as it is interesting 
 on many accounts. 
 
 Page 100. Line 15. — *' Lost in unsearchable Eternity T 
 
 Since this paragraph was composed, I have read with so 
 much pleasure, in Burnet's Theory of the Earth, a passage 
 expressing correspondent sentiments, excited by objects of 
 a similar nature, that I cannot forbear to transcribe it. 
 
 " Siquod vero Natura nobis dedit spectaculum in hac 
 tellure, vere gratum, et philosopho dignum, id semel mihi 
 contigisse arbitror ; ctim ex celsissima rupe speculabundus 
 ad Oram maris Mediterranei, hinc aequor caeruleum, illinc 
 tractus Alpinos prospexi ; nihil quidem magis dispar aut 
 dissimile, nee in suo genere, magis egregiura et singulare. 
 Hoc theatrum ego facile praetulerim Romanis cunctis, 
 Graecisve ; atque id quod natura htc spectandum exhibet, 
 scenicis ludis omnibus, aut ampitheatri certaminibus. Nihil 
 hie elegans aut venustum, sed ingens et magnificum, et 
 quod placet magnitudine sua et quadam specie immensitatis. 
 Hinc intuebar maris aequabilem superficiem, usque et usque 
 diffusam, quantum maximum oculorum acies ferri potuit ; 
 illinc disruptissimam terrae faciem, et vastas moles varie 
 elevatas aut depressas, erectas, propendentes, reclinatas, 
 coacervatas, omni situ inaequali et turbido. Placuit, ex hac 
 parte, Naturae unitas et simplicitas, et inexhausta quaedam 
 planities ; ex altera, multiformis confusio magnorum cor- 
 porum, et insanae rerum strages : quas cilm intuebar, non 
 urbis alicujus aut oppidi, sed confracti mundi rudera, ante 
 oculos habere mihi visus sum. 
 
 " In singulis fere montibus erat ahquid insolens et 
 mirabile, sed prae caeteris mihi placebat ilia, qua sedebam, 
 
NOTES. 427 
 
 rupes ; erat maxima et altissima, et qua terram respiciebat, 
 molliori ascensu altitudinem suam dissimulabat : qua vero 
 mare, horrendum praeceps, et quasi ad perpendiculum facta, 
 instar parietis. Praeterea facies ilia marina adeb erat laevis 
 ac uniformis (quod in rupibus aliquando observare licet) ac 
 si scissa fuisset k summo ad imum, in illo piano ; vel terrae 
 motu aliquo, aut fulmine, divulsa. 
 
 " Ima pars rupis erat cava, recessusque habuit, et saxeos 
 specus, euntes in vacuum montem ; sive natura pridem factos, 
 sive exesos mari, et undarum crebris ictibus : In hos enim 
 cum impetu ruebant et fragore, aestuantis maris fluctus ; 
 quos iterum spumantes reddidit antrum, et quasi ab imo 
 entre evomuit. 
 
 " Dextrum latus montis erat praeruptum, aspero saxo et 
 luda caute ; sinistrum non adeb neglexerat Natura, arboribus 
 utpote ornatum : et prope pedem montis rivus limpidae aquae 
 prorupit ; qui ctim vicinam vallem irrigaverat, lento motu 
 serpens, et per varios maeandros, quasi ad protrahendam 
 vitam, in magno mari absorptus subito periit, Denique in 
 summo vertice promontorii, commode eminebat saxum, cui 
 insidebam contemplabundus. Vale augusta sedes, Rege 
 digna : Augusta rupes, semper mihi memoranda !" P. 89. 
 Telluris Tkeoria sacra, S^c. Editio secunda. 
 
 Page 137. Line 13.— 
 " Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream." 
 
 " A man is supposed to improve by going out into the 
 World, by visiting, London. Artificial man does ; he extends 
 with his sphere ; but alas ! that sphere is microscopic : it is 
 formed of minutiae, and he surrenders his genuine vision to 
 the artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. His bodily senses 
 
428 NOTES. 
 
 grow acute, even to barren and inhuman pruriency ; while 
 his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the 
 Man of Mind : He who is placed in the sphere of Nature 
 and of God, might be a mock at Tattersall's and Brookes's, 
 and a sneer at St. James's : he would certainly be swallowed 
 alive by the first Pizarro that crossed him : — But when he 
 walks along the River of Amazons ; when h€ rests his eye 
 on the unrivalled Andes ; when he measures the long and 
 watered Savannah ; or contemplates from a sudden Pro- 
 montory, the distant, vast Pacific — and feels himself a 
 Freeman in this vast Theatre, and commanding each ready 
 produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this 
 stream — His exaltation is not less than Imperial. He is as 
 gentle, too, as he is great : His emotions of tenderness 
 keep pace with his elevation of sentiment; for he says, 
 " These were made by a good Being, who, unsought by me, 
 placed me here to enjoy them." He becomes at once a 
 Child and a King. His mind is in himself; from hence 
 he argues, and from hence he acts, and he argues 
 unerringly and acts magisterially : His mind in himself is 
 also in his God ; and therefore he loves, and therefore he 
 soars." — From the notes upon The Hurricane^ a Poem, by 
 William Gilbert, 
 
 The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the above 
 Quotation, which, though from a strange book, is one of 
 the finest passages of modern English prose. 
 
 P. 14?7. L. 7. — " 'Tisy by comparison^ an easy task 
 Earth to despise^ Sfc.'* 
 
 See, upon this subject, Baxter's most interesting review 
 of his own opinions and sentiments in the decline of life. 
 
NOTES. 429 
 
 It may be found (lately reprinted) in Dr. Wordsworth's 
 Ecclesiastical Biography, 
 
 P. 150. L. 13. — " Alas! the endowment of immortal Potoer, 
 Is matched unequally mth custom, time, Sfc" 
 
 This subject is treated at length in the Ode at the con- 
 clusion of the second volume of Poems by the Author. 
 
 P. 155. L. 22. — " Knowing'' — (to adopt the energetic words" 
 
 The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a poem 
 addressed to the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, 
 and the two last lines, printed in Italics, are by him trans- 
 lated from Seneca. The whole Poem is very beautiful. I 
 will transcribe four stanzas from it, as they contain an ad- 
 mirable picture of the state of a wise Man's mind in a 
 time of public commotion. 
 
 Nor is he moved with all the Thunder-cracks 
 Of Tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
 Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
 Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. 
 The storms of sad confusion that may grow 
 Up in the present for the coming times. 
 Appal not him ; that hath no side at all. 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 
 
 Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous and distressed mortality. 
 
430 NOTES. 
 
 That thus make way unto the ugly Birth 
 Of their own Sorrows, and do still beget 
 Affliction upon Imbecility : 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 
 
 And whilst distraught Ambition compasses, 
 And is encompassed, while as Craft deceives : 
 And is deceived: whilst Man doth ransack Man, 
 And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
 And th'Inheritance of desolation leaves 
 To great-expecting Hopes : He looks thereon, 
 As from the shore of Peace, with unwet eye. 
 And bears no venture in Impiety, 
 
 Thus, Lady, fares that Man that hath prepared 
 A Rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
 Beneath him ; and hath learned this Book of Man, 
 Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
 The best of Glory with her sufferings : 
 By whom, I see, you labour all you can 
 To plant your heart ; and set your thoughts as near 
 His glorious Mansion as your powers can bear. 
 
 P. 230. Line 18. — " Or rather ^ as tve stand on holy earth 
 And have the Dead around its" 
 
 Leo, You, Sir, would help me to the History 
 Of half these Graves ? 
 Priest. For eight-Score winters past, 
 
 With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, 
 Perhaps I might ; 
 
NOTES. 431 
 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one 
 
 We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round, 
 
 Yet all in the broad high-way of the world. 
 
 Authors Poem of the Brothers, 
 Published in the Lyrical Ballads in the year 1800. 
 
 P. 245. Line 13. — " And suffering Nature grieved that one 
 
 should die^ 
 
 Southeys Retrospect. 
 
 P. 245. Line 16. — " And 'whence this tribute? ixiherefore 
 
 these regards ?" 
 
 The sentiments and opinions here uttered are in unison 
 with those expressed in the following Essay upon Epitaphs, 
 which was furnished by the author for Mr. Coleridge's peri- 
 odical work, the Friend; and as they are dictated by a 
 spirit congenial to that which pervades this and the two 
 succeeding books, the sympathizing reader will not be dis- 
 pleased to see the Essay here annexed. 
 
 ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 
 
 It needs scarcely be said, that an Epitaph presupposes a 
 Monument, upon which it is to be engraven. Almost all 
 Nations have wished that certain external signs should point 
 out the places where their Dead are interred. Among 
 savage Tribes unacquainted with Letters, this has mostly 
 been done either by rude stones placed near the Graves, or 
 by Mounds of earth raised over them. This custom pro- 
 ceeded obviously from a twofold desire ; first to guard the 
 
432 NOTES. 
 
 remains of the deceased from irreverent approach or from 
 savage violation : and, secondly, to preserve their memory. 
 " Never any," says Cambden, " neglected burial but some 
 savage Nations ; as the Bactrians which cast their dead to 
 the dogs ; some varlet Philosophers, as Diogenes, vrho de- 
 sired to be devoured of fishes ; some dissolute Courtiers, as 
 Mecaenas, who was wont to say, Non tumulum euro ; sepelit 
 natura relictos. 
 
 I'm careless of a Grave : — Nature her dead will save." 
 
 As soon as Nations had learned the use of letters, Epi- 
 taphs were inscribed upon these Monuments ; in order that 
 their intention might be more surely and adequately ful- 
 filled. I have derived Monuments and Epitaphs from two 
 sources of feeling : but these do in fact resolve themselves 
 into one. The invention of Epitaphs, Weever, in his dis- 
 course of funeral Monuments, says rightly, " proceeded 
 from the presage or fore-feeling of Immortality, implanted in 
 all men naturally, and is referred to the Scholars of Linus 
 the Theban Poet, who flourished about the year of the 
 World two thousand seven hundred ; who first bewailed this 
 Linus their Master, when he was slain, in doleful verses 
 then called of him CElina, afterwards Epit&phia, for that 
 they were first sung at burials, after engraved upon the 
 Sepulchres." 
 
 And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of 
 Immortality in the human soul, Man could never have had 
 awakened in him the desire to live in the remembrance of 
 his fellows; mere love, or the yearning of Kind towards 
 Kind, could not have produced it. The Dog or Horse 
 perishes in the field, or in the stall, by the side of his com- 
 
NOTES. 433 
 
 panions, and is incapable of anticipating the sorrow with 
 which his surrounding Associates shall bemoan his death, or 
 pine for his loss ; he cannot pre-conceive this regret, he can 
 form no thought of it ; and therefore cannot possibly have a 
 desire to leave such regret or remembrance behind him. 
 Add to the principle of love, which exists in the inferior 
 animals, the faculty of reason which exists in Man alone ; 
 will the conjunction of these account for the desire? Doubt- 
 less it is a necessary consequence of this conjunction ; yet 
 not I think as a direct result, but only to be come at through 
 an intermediate thought, viz. that of an intimation or assur- 
 ance within us, that some part of our nature is imperishable. 
 At least the precedence, in order of birth, of one feeling to 
 the other, is unquestionable. If we look back upon the 
 days of childhood, we shall find that the time is not in re- 
 membrance when, with respect to our own individual Being, 
 the mind was without this assurance ; whereas, the wish to 
 be remembered by our Friends or Kindred after Death, or 
 even in Absence, is, as we shall discover, a sensation that 
 does not form itself till the social feelings have been deve- 
 loped, and the Reason has connected itself with a wide range 
 of objects. Forlorn, and cut off from communication with 
 the best part of his nature, must that Man be, who should 
 derive the sense of immortahty, as it exists in the mind of 
 a Child, from the same unthinking gaiety or liveliness of 
 animal Spirits with which the Lamb in the meadow, or any 
 other irrational Creature, is endowed ; who should ascribe 
 it, in short, to blank ignorance in the Child ; to an inability 
 arising from the imperfect state of his faculties to come, in 
 any point of his being, into contact with a notion of Death ; 
 or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what had been instilled 
 
 F F 
 
434 NOTES. 
 
 into him ! Has such an unfolder of the mysteries of Nature, 
 though h6 may have forgotten his former self, ever noticed 
 the early, obstinate, and unappeaseable inquisitiveness of 
 Children upon the subject of origination? This single fact 
 proves outwardly the monstrousness of those suppositions : 
 for, if we had no direct external testimony that the minds 
 of very young Children meditate feelingly upon Death and 
 Immortality, these inquiries, which we all know they are 
 perpetually making concerning the tvkence, do necessarily 
 include correspondent habits of interrogation concerning the 
 'whither. Origin and tendency are notions inseparably co- 
 relative. Never did a Child stand by the side of a running 
 Stream, pondering within himself what power was the feeder 
 of the perpetual current, from what never-wearied sources 
 the body of water was supplied, but he must have been in- 
 evitably propelled to follow this question by another : 
 " towards what abyss is it in progress ? what receptacle 
 can contain the mighty influx ?" And the spirit of the 
 answer must have been, though the word might be Sea or 
 Ocean, accompanied perhaps with an image gathered from 
 a Map, or from the real object in Nature — these might 
 have been the letter, but the spirit of the answer must have 
 been as inevitably, — a receptacle without bounds or dimen- 
 sions ; — nothing less than infinity. We may, then, be jus- 
 tified in asserting that the sense of Immortality, if not a co- 
 existent and twin birth with Reason, is among the earliest 
 of her Offspring : and we' may further assert, that from 
 these conjoined, and under their countenance, the human 
 affections are gradually formed and opened out. This is 
 not the place to enter into the recesses of these investiga- 
 tions; but the subject requires me here to make a plain 
 
NOTES. 435 
 
 avowal that, for my own part, it is to me inconceivable, 
 that the sympathies of love towards each other, which grow 
 with our growth, could ever attain any new strength, or 
 even preserve the old, after we had received from the out- 
 ward senses the impression of Death, and were in the habit 
 of having that impression daily renewed and its accompa- 
 nying feeling brought home to ourselves, and to those we 
 love ; if the same were not counteracted by those commu- 
 nications with our internal Being, which are anterior to all 
 these experiences, and with which revelation coincides, and 
 has through that coincidence alone (for otherwise it could 
 not possess it) a power to affect us. I confess, with me the 
 conviction is absolute, that, if the impression and sense of 
 Death were not thus counterbalanced, such a hoUowness 
 would pervade the whole system of things, such a want of 
 correspondence and consistency, a disproportion so astound- 
 ing betwixt means and ends, that there could be no repose, 
 no joy. Were we to grow up unfostered by this genial warmth, 
 a frost would chill the spirit, so penetrating and powerful-* 
 that there could be no motions of the life of love ; and infi- 
 nitely less could we have any wish to be remembered after 
 we had passed away from a world in which each man had 
 moved about like a shadow. — If, then, in a Creature en- 
 dowed with the faculties of foresight and reason, the social 
 affections could not have unfolded themselves uncounte- 
 nanced by the faith that Man is an immortal being ; and if, 
 consequently, neither could the individual dying have had 
 a desire to survive in the remembrance of his fellow;?, nor 
 on their side could they have felt a wish to preserve for 
 future times vestiges of the departed ; it follows, as a final 
 inference, that without the belief in Immortality, wherein 
 
 F F 2 
 
4S6 NOTES. 
 
 these several desires originate, neither monuments nor epi- 
 taphs, in affectionate or laudatory commemoration of the 
 Deceased, could have existed in the world. 
 
 Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a strange Coun- 
 try, found the Corse of an unknown person, lying by the 
 Sea-side ; he buried it, and was honoured throughout Greece 
 for the piety of that Act. Another ancient Philosopher, 
 chancing to fix his eyes upon a dead Body, regarded the 
 same with slight, if not with contempt ; saying, " see the 
 Shell of the flown Bird !" But it is not to be supposed that 
 the moral and tender-hearted Simonides was incapable of the 
 lofty movements of thought, to which that other Sage gave 
 way at the moment while his soul was intent only upon the 
 indestructible being ; nor, on the other hand, that he, in whose 
 sight a lifeless human Body was of no more value than the 
 worthless Shell from which the living fowl had departed, 
 would not, in a different mood of mind, have been affected 
 by those earthly considerations which had incited the philo- 
 sophic Poet to the performance of that pious duty. And 
 with regard to this latter, we may be assured that, if he had 
 been destitute of the capability of communing with the more 
 exalted thoughts that appertain to human Nature, he would 
 have cared no more for the Corse of the Stranger than for 
 the dead body of a Seal or Porpoise which might have been 
 cast up by the Waves. We respect the corporeal frame of 
 Man, not merely because it is the habitation of a rational, 
 but of an immortal Sdul. Each of these Sages was in Sym- 
 pathy with the best feelings of our Nature ; feelings which, 
 though they seem opposite to each other, have another and 
 a finer connection than that of contrast. — It is a connection 
 formed through the subtle progress by which, both in the 
 
NOTES. 437 
 
 natural and the moral world, qualities pass insensibly into 
 their contraries, and things revolve upon each other. As, in 
 sailing upon the orb of this Planet, a voyage, towards the 
 regions where the sun sets, conducts gradually to the quarter 
 where we have been accustomed to behold it come forth at 
 its rising ; and, in like manner, a voyage towards the east, 
 the birth-place in our imagination of the morning, leads 
 finally to the quarter where the Sun is last seen when he 
 departs from our eyes ; so, the contemplative Soul, travelling 
 in the direction of mortality, advances to the Country of 
 everlasting Life ; and, in like manner, may she continue to 
 explore those cheerful tracts, till she is brought back, for her 
 advantage and benefit, to the land of transitory things — of 
 sorrow and of tears. 
 
 On a midway point, therefore, which commands the 
 thoughts and feelings of the two Sages whom we have repre- 
 sented in contrast, does the Author of that species of com- 
 position, the Laws of which it is our present purpose to 
 explain, take his stand. Accordingly, recurring to the twofold 
 desire of guarding the Remains of the deceased and preserving 
 their memory, it may be said, that a sepulchral Monument 
 is a tribute to a Man asahuman Being ; and that an Epitaph, 
 (in the ordinary meaning attached to the word) includes this 
 general feeling and something more ; and is a record to pre- 
 serve the memory of the dead, as a tribute due to his indi- 
 vidual worth, for a satisfaction to the sorrowing hearts of the 
 Survivors, and for the common benefit of the living : which 
 record is to be accomplished, not in a general manner, but, 
 where it can, in close connection ivith the bodily remains of 
 the deceased: and these, it may be added, among the modern 
 Nations of Europe are deposited within, or contiguous to 
 
 F F 3 
 
438 NOTES. 
 
 their places of worship. In ancient times, as is well known, 
 it was the custom to bury the dead beyond the Walls of 
 Towns and Cities ; and among the Greeks and Romans they 
 were frequently interred by the way-sides. 
 
 I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the Reader to 
 indulge with me in contemplation of the advantages which 
 must have attended such a practice. I could ruminate upon 
 the beauty which the Monuments, thus placed, must have 
 borrowed from the surrounding images of Nature — from the 
 trees, the wild flowers, from a stream running perhaps within 
 sight or hearing, from the beaten road stretching its weary 
 length hard by. Many tender similitudes must these objects 
 have presented to the mind of the Traveller, leaning upon 
 one of the Tombs, or reposing in the coolness of its shade, 
 whether he had halted from weariness or in compliance with 
 the invitation, " Pause Traveller !" so often found upon the 
 Monuments. And to its Epitaph also must have been sup- 
 plied strong appeals to visible appearances or immediate im- 
 pressions, lively and affecting analogies of Life as a Journey 
 — Death as a Sleep overcoming the tired Wayfarer — of 
 Misfortune as a Storm that falls suddenly upon him — of 
 Beauty as a Flower that passeth away, or of innocent plea- 
 sure as one that may be gathered — of Virtue that standeth 
 firm as a Rock against the beating Waves ; — of Hope " un- 
 dermined insensibly like the Poplar by the side of the River 
 that has fed it," or blasted in a moment like a Pine-tree by 
 the stroke of lightning upon the Mountain-top — of admo- 
 nitions and heart-stirring remembrances, like a refreshing 
 Breeze that comes without warning, or the taste of the 
 waters of an unexpected Fountain. . These, and similar sug- 
 gestions must have given, formerly, to the language of the 
 
NOTES. 439 
 
 senseless stone a voice enforced and endeared by the be- 
 nignity of that Nature, with which it was in unison. — We, in 
 modern times, have lost much of these advantages ; and they 
 are but in a small degree counterbalanced to the Inhabitants 
 of large Towns and Cities, by the custom of depositing the 
 Dead within, or contiguous to, their places of worship ; how- 
 ever splendid or imposing may be the appearances of those 
 Edifices, or however interesting or salutary the recollections 
 associated with them. Even were it not true that Tombs 
 lose their monitory virtue when thus obtruded upon the notice 
 of Men occupied with the cares of the World, and too often 
 sullied and defiled by those cares, yet still, when Death is 
 in our thoughts, nothing can make amends for the want of 
 the soothing influences of Nature, and for the absence of those 
 types of renovation and decay, which the fields and woods 
 offer to the notice of the serious and contemplative mind. To 
 feel the force of this sentiment, let a man only compare in 
 imagination the unsightly manner in which our Monuments 
 are crowded together in the busy, noisy, unclean, and almost 
 grassless Church-yard of a large Town, with the still seclu- 
 sion of a Turkish Cemetery, in some remote place ; and yet 
 further sanctified by the Grove of Cypress in which it is 
 embosomed. Thoughts in the same temper as these have 
 already been expressed with true sensibility by an ingenuous 
 Poet of the present day. The subject of his Poem is " All 
 Saints Church, Derby :" he has been deploring the forbid- 
 ding and unseemly appearance of its burial-ground, and 
 uttering a wish, that in past times the practice had been 
 adopted of interring the Inhabitants of large Towns in the 
 Country. — 
 
 " Then in some rural, calm, sequestered spot, 
 Where healing Nature her benignant look 
 F F 4 
 
440 NOTES. 
 
 Ne'ei* changes, save at that lorn season, when, 
 With tresses drooping o'er her sable stole. 
 She yearly mourns the mortal doom of man, 
 Her noblest work, (so Israel's virgins erst. 
 With annual moan upon the mountains wept 
 Their fairest gone) there in that rural scene. 
 So placid, so congenial to the wish 
 The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
 The silent grave, I would have strayed : 
 
 — wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 
 Lay on the humbler graves around, what time 
 The pale moon gazed upon the turfy mounds, 
 Pensive, as though like me, in lonely muse, 
 'Twere brooding on the Dead inhumed beneath. 
 There, while with him, the holy man of Uz, 
 O'er human destiny I sympathized. 
 Counting the long, long periods prophecy 
 Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives 
 Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 
 Had met me with her blossoms, as the Dove 
 Of old, returned with olive leaf, to cheer 
 The Patriarch mourning o'er a world destroyed : 
 And I would bless her visit ; for to me 
 'Tis sweet to trace the consonance that links 
 As one, the works of Nature and the word 
 
 Of God." 
 
 John Edwards. 
 
 A Village Church-yard, lying as it does in the lap of 
 Nature, may indeed be most favourably contrasted with that 
 
NOTES. ^^l 
 
 of a Town of crowded Population ; and Sepulture therein 
 combines many of the best tendencies which belong to the 
 mode practised by the Ancients, with others peculiar to itself. 
 The sensations of pious cheerfulness, which attend the cele- 
 bration of the Sabbath-day in rural places, are profitably 
 chastised by the sight of the Graves of Kindred and Friends, 
 gathered together in that general Home towards which the 
 thoughtful yet happy Spectators themselves are journeying. 
 Hence a Parish Church, in the stillness of the Country, is a 
 visible centre of a community of the living and the dead ; a 
 point to which are habitually referred the nearest concerns 
 of both. 
 
 As, then, both in Cities and in Villages, the Dead are 
 deposited in close connection with our places of worship, 
 with us the composition of an Epitaph naturally turns still 
 more than among the Nations of Antiquity, upon the most 
 serious and solemn affections of the human mind ; upon de- 
 parted Worth — upon personal or social Sorrow and Admir- 
 ation — upon Religion individual and social — upon Time, 
 and upon Eternity. Accordingly it suffices, in ordinary 
 cases, to secure a composition of this kind from censure, 
 that it contains nothing that shall shock or be inconsistent 
 with this spirit. But, to entitle an Epitaph to praise, more 
 than this is necessary. It ought to contain some Thought or 
 Feeling belonging to the mortal or immortal part of our 
 Nature touchingly expressed ; and if that be done, however 
 general or even trite the sentiment may be, every man of 
 pure mind will read the words with pleasure and gratitude. 
 A Husband bewails a Wife ; a Parent breathes a sigh of dis- 
 appointed hope over a lost Child ; a Son utters a sentiment 
 of filial reverence for a departed Father or Mother; a Friend 
 
442 NOTES. 
 
 perhaps inscribes an encomium recording the companionable 
 qualities, or the solid virtues, of the Tenant of the Grave, 
 whose departure has left a sadness upon his memory. This, 
 and a pious admonition to the Living, and a humble ex- 
 pression of Christian confidence in Immortality, is the lan- 
 guage of a thousand Church-yards ; and it does not often 
 happen that any thing, in a greater degree discriminate or 
 appropriate to the Dead or to the Living, is to be found in 
 them. This want of discrimination has been ascribed by 
 Dr. Johnson, in his Essay upon the Epitaphs of Pope, to 
 two causes, first, the scantiness of the Objects of human 
 praise ; and, secondly, the want of variety in the Characters 
 of Men ; or to use his own words, *' to the fact, that the 
 greater part of Mankind have no character at all." Such 
 language may be holden without blame among the generali- 
 ties of common conversation ; but does not become a Critic 
 and a Moralist speaking seriously upon a serious Subject. 
 The objects of admiration in Human Nature are not scanty 
 but abundant ; and every Man has a Character of his own, 
 to the eye that has skill to perceive it. The real cause of 
 the acknowledged want of discrimination in sepulchral me- 
 morials is this : That to analyse the Characters of others, 
 especially of those whom we love, is not a common or natural 
 employment of Men at any time. We are not anxious un- 
 erringly to understand the constitution of the Minds of those 
 who have soothed, who have cheered, who have supported 
 us : with whom we have been long and daily pleased or de- 
 lighted. The affections are their own justification. The Light 
 of Love in our Hearts is a satisfactory evidence that there is 
 a body of worth in the minds of our friends or kindred, whence 
 that Light has proceeded. We shrink from the thought of 
 
NOTES. 443 
 
 placing their merits and defects to be weighed against each 
 other in the nice balance of pure intellect ; nor do we find 
 much temptation to detect the shades by which a good qua- 
 lity or virtue is discriminated in them from an excellence 
 known by the same general name as it exists in the mind of 
 another; and, least of all, do we incline to these refine- 
 ments when under the pressure of Sorrow, Admiration, or 
 Regret, or when actuated by any of those feelings which 
 incite men to prolong the memory of their Friends and 
 Kindred, by records placed in the bosom of the all-uniting 
 and equalizing Receptacle of the Dead. 
 
 The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph is, that it should 
 speak, in a tone which shall sink into the heart, the general 
 language of humanity as connected with the subject of Death 
 — the source from which an Epitaph proceeds ; of death and 
 of life. To be born and to die are the two points in which 
 all men feel themselves to be in absolute coincidence. This 
 general language may be uttered so strikingly as to entitle 
 an Epitaph to high praise ; yet it cannot lay claim to the 
 highest unless other excellencies be superadded. Passing 
 through all intermediate steps, we will attempt to determine 
 at once what these excellences are, and wherein consists 
 the perfection of this species of composition. It will be 
 found to lie in a due proportion of the common or universal 
 feeling of humanity to sensations excited by a distinct and 
 clear conception, conveyed to the Reader's mind, of the 
 Individual, whose death is deplored and whose memory is 
 to be preserved ; at least of his character as, after death, it 
 appeared to those who loved him and lament his loss. The 
 general sympathy ought to be quickened, provoked, and 
 diversified, by particular thoughts, actions, images, — cir- 
 
444 NOTES. 
 
 cumstances of age, occupation, manner of life, prosperity 
 which the Deceased had known, or adversity to which he had 
 been subject ; and these ought to be bound together and 
 solemnized into one harmony by the general sympathy. The 
 two powers should temper, restrain, and exalt each other. 
 The Reader ought to know who and what the Man was whom 
 he is called upon to think of with interest. A distinct con- 
 ception should be given (implicitly where it can, rather than 
 explicitly) of the Individual lamented. But the Writer of an 
 Epitaph is not an Anatomist, who dissects the internal frame 
 of the mind ; he is not even a Paintef who executes a por- 
 trait at leisure and in entire tranquillity : his delineation, we 
 must remember, is performed by the side of the Grave ; and, 
 what is more, the grave of one whom he loves and admires. 
 What purity and brightness is that virtue clothed in, the 
 image of which must no longer bless our living eyes ! The cha- 
 racter of a deceased Friend or beloved Kinsman is not seen, 
 no — nor ought to be seen, otherwise than as a Tree through 
 a tender haze or a luminous mist, that spiritualizes and beau- 
 tifies it ; that takes away indeed, but only to the end that 
 the parts which are not abstracted may appear more digni- 
 fied and lovely, may impress and affect the more. Shall we 
 say then that this is not truth, not a faithful image ; and that 
 accordingly the purposes of commemoration cannot be an- 
 swered ? — It is truth, and of the highest order ! for, though 
 doubtless things are not apparent which did exist ; yet, the 
 object being looked at through this medium, parts and pro- 
 portions are brought into distinct view which before had 
 been only imperfectly or unconsciously seen : it is truth hal- 
 lowed by love — the joint offspring of the worth of the Dead 
 and the affections of the Living! — This may easily be 
 
NOTES. 4-45 
 
 brought to the test. Let one, whose eyes have been sharp- 
 ened by personal hostihty to discover what was amiss in the 
 character of a good man, hear the tidings of his death, and 
 what a change is wrought in a moment! — Enmity mehs 
 away ; and, as it disappears, unsightliness, disproportion, and 
 deformity, vanish ; and, through the influence of commiser- 
 ation, a harmony of love and beauty succeeds. Bring such 
 a Man to the Tomb-stone on which shall be inscribed an 
 Epitaph on his Adversary, composed in the spirit which we 
 have recommended. Would he turn from it as from an idle 
 tale? Ah ! no — the thoughtful look, the sigh, and perhaps 
 the involuntary tear, would testify that it had a sane, a ge- 
 nerous, and good meaning ; and that on the Writer's mind 
 had remained an impression which was a true abstract of the 
 character of the deceased ; that his gifts and graces were 
 remembered in the simplicity in which they ought to be re- 
 membered. The composition and quality of the mind of a 
 virtuous man, contemplated by the side of the Grave where 
 his body is mouldering, ought to appear, and be felt as some- 
 thing midway between what he was on Earth walking about 
 with his living frailties, and what he may be presumed to be 
 as a Spirit in Heaven. 
 
 It suffices, therefore, that the Trunk and the main 
 Branches of the Worth of the Deceased be boldly and 
 unaffectedly represented. Any further detail, minutely and 
 scrupulously pursued, especially if this be done with la- 
 borious and antithetic discriminations, must inevitably 
 frustrate its own purpose ; forcing the passing Spectator to 
 this conclusion, — either that the Dead did not possess the 
 merits ascribed to him, or that they who have raised a 
 monument to his memory and must therefore be supposed 
 
446 NOTES. 
 
 to have been closely connected with him, were incapable of 
 perceiving those merits ; or at least during the act of 
 composition had lost sight of them ; for, the Understanding 
 having been so busy in its petty occupation, how could the 
 heart of the Mourner be other than cold ? and in either of 
 these cases, whether the fault be on the part of the buried 
 Person or the Survivors, the Memorial is unaffecting and 
 profitless. 
 
 Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than to 
 pursue it too far, or to labour it unfeelingly. For in no place 
 are we so much disposed to dwell upon those points, of 
 nature and condition, wherein all Men resemble each other, 
 as in the Temple where the universal Father is worshipped, 
 or by the side of the Grave which gathers all Human 
 Beings to itself, and " equalizes the lofty and the low." We 
 suffer and we weep with the same heart ; we love and are 
 anxious for one another in one spirit ; our hopes look to the 
 same quarter ; and the virtues by which we are all to be 
 furthered and supported, as patience, meekness, good-will 
 temperance, and temperate desires, are in an equal degree the 
 concern of us all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least these 
 acknowledgments to our common nature ; nor let the sense 
 of their importance be sacrificed to a balance of opposite 
 qualities or minute distinctions in " individual character ; 
 which if they do not, (as will for the most part be the case) 
 when examined, resolve themselves into a trick of words, 
 will, even when they are true and just, for the most part 
 be grievously out of place ; for, as it is probable that few 
 only have explored these intricacies of human nature, so 
 can the tracing of them be interesting only to a few. But 
 an Epitaph is not a proud Writing shut up for the studious ; 
 it is exposed to all, to the wise and the most ignorant ; it is 
 
NOTES. 44-7 
 
 condescending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regard; 
 its story and admonitions are brief, that the thoughtless, the 
 busy and indolent, may not be deterred, nor the impatient 
 tired ; the stooping Old Man cons the engraven record Hke 
 a second horn-book ; — the Child is proud that he can read 
 it — and the Stranger is introduced by its mediation to the 
 company of a Friend : it is concerning all, and for all : — 
 in the Church-yard it is open to the day ; the sun looks 
 down upon the stone, and the rains of Heaven beat against 
 it. 
 
 Yet, though the Writer who would excite sympathy is 
 bound in this case more than in any other, to give proof 
 that he himself has been moved, it is to be remembered, that 
 to raise a Monument is a sober and a reflective act ; that the 
 inscription which it bears is intended to be permanent and 
 for universal perusal ; and that, for this reason, the thoughts and 
 feelings expressed should be permanent also — liberated from 
 that weakness and anguish of sorrow which is in nature tran- 
 sitory, and which with instinctive decency retires from notice. 
 The passions should be subdued, the emotions controlled ; 
 strong indeed, but nothing ungovernable or wholly in- 
 voluntarily. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires 
 it also : for how can the Narrator otherwise be trusted ? 
 Moreover, a Grave is a tranquillizing object : resignation, in 
 course of time springs up from it as naturally as the wild 
 flowers, besprinkling the turf with which it may be covered, 
 or gathering round the monument by which it is defended. 
 The very form and substance of the monument which has 
 received the inscription, and the appearance of the letters, 
 testifying with what a slow and laborious hand they must have 
 been engraven, might seem to reproach the Author who 
 had given way upon this occasion to transports of mind, or 
 
448 NOTES. 
 
 to quick turns of conflicting passion ; though the same 
 might constitute the life and beauty of a funeral Oration or 
 elegiac Poem. 
 
 These sensations and judgments, acted upon perhaps 
 unconsciously, have been one of the main causes why 
 Epitaphs so often personate the Deceased, and represent 
 him as speaking from his own Tomb-stone. The departed 
 Mortal is introduced telling you himself that his pains are 
 gone ; that a state of rest is come ; and he conjures you to 
 weep for him no longer. He admonishes with the voice of 
 one experienced in the vanity of those affections which are 
 confined to earthly objects, and gives a verdict like a 
 superior Being, performing the office of a Judge, who has 
 no temptations to mislead him, and whose decision cannot 
 but be dispassionate. Thus is Death disarmed of its stirig, 
 and affliction unsubstantialized. By this tender fiction the 
 Survivors bind themselves to a sedater sorrow, and employ 
 the intervention of the imagination in order that the reason 
 may speak her own language earlier than she would other- 
 wise have been enabled to do. This shadowy interposition also 
 harmoniously unites the two worlds of the Living and the 
 Dead by their appropriate affections. And I may observe, 
 that here we have an additional proof of the propriety 
 with which sepulchral inscriptions were referred to the 
 consciousness of Immortality as their primal source. 
 
 I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an Epitaph 
 should be cast in this mould preferably to the still more 
 common one, in which what is said comes from the Sur- 
 vivors directly ; but rather to point out how natural those 
 feelings are which have induced men, in all states and ranks 
 of Society, so frequently to adopt this mode. And this 1 
 
NOTES. 449 
 
 have done chiefly in order that the laws, which ought to 
 govern the composition of the other, may be better under- 
 stood. This latter mode, namely, that in which the Sur- 
 vivors speak in their own Persons, seems to me upon the 
 whole greatly preferable : as it admits a wider range of 
 notices ; and, above all, because, excluding the fiction 
 which is the ground-work of the other, it rests upon a more 
 solid basis. 
 
 Enough has been said to convey our notion of a perfect 
 Epitaph ; but it must be observed that one is meant which 
 will best answer the general ends of that species of compo- 
 sition. According to the course pointed out, the worth of 
 private life, through all varieties of situation and character, 
 will be most honourably and profitably preserved in memory. 
 Nor would the model recommended less suit public Men, 
 in all instances save of those persons who by the greatness 
 of their services in the employments of Peace or War, or by 
 the surpassing excellence of their works in Art, Literature, 
 or Science, have made themselves not only universally 
 known, but have filled the heart of their Country with ever- 
 lasting gratitude. Yet I must here pause to correct myself. 
 In describing the general tenour of thought which Epitaphs 
 ought to hold, I have omitted to say, that, if it be the actions 
 of a Man, or even some one conspicuous or beneficial act 
 of local or general utility, which have distinguished him and 
 excited a desire that he should be remembered, then, of 
 course, ought the attention to be directed chiefly to those 
 actions or that act ; and such sentiments dwelt upon as na- 
 turally arise out of them or it. Having made this necessary 
 distinction I proceed. — The mighty benefactors of man- 
 kind, as they are not only known by the immediate Sur- 
 vivors, but will continue to be known famiharly to latest 
 
 G G 
 
450 NOTES. 
 
 Posterity, do not stand in need of biographic sketches, in 
 such a place ; nor of delineations of character to individu- 
 alize them. This is already done by their Works, in the 
 Memories of Men. Their naked names, and a grand com- 
 prehensive sentiment of civic Gratitude, patriotic Love, or 
 human Admiration ; or the utterance of some elementary 
 Principle most essential in the constitution of true Virtue ; 
 or an intuition, communicated in adequate words, of the 
 sublimity of intellectual Power, — these are the only tribute 
 which can here be paid — the only offering that upon such 
 an Altar would not be unworthy ! 
 
 What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones 
 
 The labour of an age in piled stones, 
 
 Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
 
 Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? 
 
 Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 
 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? 
 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 
 Hast built thyself a live-long Monument, 
 
 And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 
 
 That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die. 
 
 P. 250. Line 9. 
 " And spires tokose silent Finger paints to Heaven.^ 
 
 An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches 
 in flat countries with spire-steeples, which as they cannot 
 be referred to any other object, point as with silent finger 
 to the sky and stars, and sometimes when they reflect the 
 brazen light of a rich though rainy sunset, appear like a 
 pyramid of flame burning heaven-ward. See " The Friend,^' 
 by S. T. Coleridge, No. U, p. 223. 
 
NOTES. 451 
 
 P. 338. Line 1. — " That Sycamore, xnhich annually holds 
 Within its shade, as in a stately tent,'' 
 
 This Sycamore oft musical with Bees ; 
 Such Tents the Patriarchs loved. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge, 
 
 P. 354. Line 7. 
 " Perish the roses and thejlovoers of Kings,'' 
 
 The " Transit gloria mundi" is finely expressed in the 
 Introduction to the Foundation Charters of some of the an- 
 cient Abbies. Some expressions here used are taken from 
 that of the Abbey of St. Mary's Furness, the translation of 
 which is as follows. 
 
 " Considering every day the uncertainty of life, that the 
 roses and flowers of Kings, Emperors, and Dukes, and the 
 crowns and palms of all the great, wither and decay ; and 
 that all things with an uninterrupted course, tend to dissa- 
 lution and death : I therefore," &c. 
 
 P. 364. Line 12. ^ 
 
 " Earth has lent her Waters, air her breezes'' 
 
 In treating this subject, it was impossible not to recollect, 
 with gratitude, the pleasing picture, which in his Poem of 
 the Fleece, the excellent and amiable Dyer has given of the 
 influences of manufacturing industry, upon the face of this 
 Island. He wrote at a time when machinery was first be- 
 ginning to be introduced, and his benevolent heart prompted 
 him to augur from it nothing but good. Truth has com- 
 pelled me to dwell upon the baneful effects arising out of an 
 
452 NOTES. 
 
 ill-regulated and excessive application of powers so admi- 
 rable in themselves. 
 
 P. 400. Line J9.— " Binding herself by Statute:' 
 
 The discovery of Dr. Bell affords marvellous facilities for 
 carrying this into effect, and it is impossible to overrate the 
 benefit which might accrue to humanity from the universal 
 application of this simple engine under an enlightened and 
 conscientious government. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by A. and R. SpottisWi)odt' 
 Printer's Street, London. 
 
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