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 overflow'd the soul was pass'd away,
A consciousness remain'd that it had left,
Deposited upon the silent shore
Of memory, images and precious thoughts,
That shall not die, and cannot be destroy'd.
"These grassy heaps lie amicably close,"
Said I, "like surges heaving in the wind
Along the surface of a mountain pool:
Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold
Five graves, and only five, that rise together
Unsociably sequester'd, and encroaching
On the smooth play-ground of the village-school?
The Vicar answer'd: "No disdainful pride
In them who rest beneath, nor any course
Of strange or tragic accident, hath help'd
To place those hillocks in that lonely guise.
Once more look forth, and follow with your sight
The length of road that from yon mountain's base
Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line
Is lost within 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,
Led towards an easy outlet of the vale.
That little shady spot, that 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.
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 cross'd;
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 pass'd
In order, drawing toward their wish'd-for home.
Rock'd 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 it was the pleasant month of June;
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, cheer'd
By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest;
And freak put on, and arch word dropp'd, to swell
The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise
That gather'd 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 under the green-wood tree?
Or Strollers are they, furnish'd to enact
Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood,
And, by that whisker'd 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 portray'd
Of boor or burgher, as they march'd along.
And more than once their steadiness of face
Was put to proof, and exercise supplied
To their inventive humour, by stern 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 cheer'd
Their grave migration, the good pair would tell,
With undiminish'd 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 check'd. 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,
Had earn'd 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 revell'd long, Frolick'd industriously, a simple Clerk By hopes of coming patronage beguiled Till the heart sicken'd. So, each loftier aim Abandoning and all his showy friends, For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) He turn'd to this secluded chapelry,
That had been offer'd 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 Cure not long had been endow'd:
And far remote the chapel stood, remote,
And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable,
Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening
Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers
Frequented, and beset with howling winds.
Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang
On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice
Or the necessity that fix'd him here;
Apart from old temptations, and constrain'd
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 distrest in mind;
And by as salutary change compell'd
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 the wild brooks; from which he now return'd
Contented to partake the quiet meal
Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate
And three fair Children, plentifully fed,
Though simply, from their little household farm;
Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl
By nature yielded to his practised hand,-
To help the small but certain comings-in
Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less
Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs
A charitable door.
-the inside of that rugged house
Was trimm'd and brighten'd by the Matron's care,
And gradually enrich'd with things of price,
Which might be lack'd for use or ornament.
What though no soft and costly sofa there
Insidiously stretch'd out its lazy length,
And no vain mirror glitter'd upon the walls;
Yet were the windows of the low abode
By shutters weather-fended, which at once
Repell❜d the storm and deaden'd 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 homespun wool,
But tinctured daintily with florid hues,
For seemliness and warmth, on festal days,
Cover'd the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone
With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise
Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid.
Those pleasing works the Housewife's skill produced: Meanwhile th' 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, form'd
In youth, and sanction'd 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,
Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast;
While the dark shadows of the summer leaves
Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof.
Time, which had thus afforded willing help
To beautify with Nature's fairest growths
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
Retain❜d a flashing eye, a burning palm,
A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights
Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes.
Few likings had he dropp'd, 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 talk'd in glee
Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends:
Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight
Uproused by recollected injury, rail'd
At their false ways disdainfully, - and oft
In bitterness, and with a threatening eye
Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow.-
Those 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 seen not seldom on some gusty day,
Struggling and bold, and shining from the West
With an inconstant and unmellow'd light;
She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung
As if with wish to veil the restless orb;
From which it did itself imbibe a ray
Of pleasing lustre. But no more of this;
I better love to sprinkle on the sod
That now divides the pair, or, rather say,
That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew,
Without reserve descending upon both.
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 disappear'd: not twice
Had Summer scorch'd the fields; not twice had fallen,
On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow,
Before the greedy visiting was closed,
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