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
Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow
The cadence, as of psalms - a funeral dirge!
We listen'd, 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 known,
In death thy faithfulness?"
The Wand'rer cried, abruptly breaking silence ;
'He is departed, and finds peace at last!'
This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains
Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band
Of rustic persons from behind the hut,
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
Bareheaded, 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.'
So speaking, on he went, and at the word
I follow'd, till he made a sudden stand;
For full in view, approaching through the gate,
That open'd from the inclosure 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!
He saw us not, though distant but few steps;
For he was busy dealing from a store,
Which on a leaf he carried in his hand,
Strings of ripe currants; gift by which he strove,
With intermixture of endearing words,
To soothe a child who walk'd 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 surprised than glad.
But now, recover'd from the shock, and calm,
He soberly advanced, and to the man
Gave cordial greeting. Vivid was the light
Which flash'd at this from out the other's eyes;
He was all fire: the sickness from his face
Pass'd like a fancy that is swept away.
Hands join'd 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 vanish'd was return'd,
An amicable smile retain'd the life,
Which it had unexpectedly received,
Upon his hollow cheek.
Nor could your coming have been better timed; For this, you see, is in our narrow world
A day of sorrow. I have here a charge'—
And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly
The sunburnt 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 disappear'd.' This blooming child,'
Said the old man, 'is of an age to weep
At any grave or solemn spectacle;
Inly distress'd, or overpower'd with awe,
He knows not why; but he, perchance, this day
Is shedding orphan's tears; and you yourself
Must have sustain'd a loss.' "The hand of Death,'
He answer'd,' 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 :-
Down whose steep sides we dropp'd 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,
When on my way, I could not choose 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,
Its final home on 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 cluster'd 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 consign'd
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeath'd 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 Psalmist's mournful 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,
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 mourn'd!
6 That poor man taken hence to-day,' replied
The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile,
Which did not please me, ' must be deem'd, 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,
Like a ripe date which in the desert 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,'
Answer'd 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
And advocate of humble life, I now
Will force upon his notice; undeterr'd
By the example of his own pure course,
And that respect and deference which a soul
May fairly claim, by niggard age enrich'd
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
Towards the cottage: homely was the spot,
And to my feeling, ere we reach'd the door,
Had almost a forbidding nakedness;
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair,
Than it appear'd when from the valley's brink
We had look'd down upon it. All within,
As left by the departed company,
Was silent; and the solitary clock
Tick'd, as I thought, with melancholy sound.
Following our guide, we clomb the cottage stairs
And reach'd a small apartment dark and low,
Which was no sooner enter'd than our host
Said gaily, 'This is my domain, my cell,
My hermitage, my cabin - what you will:
I love it better than a snail his house.
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