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
Of their undrooping Father's widowhood,
Those six fair Daughters, budding yet-not one,
Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower.
Deprest, 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 objects 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,
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 inclosure: 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.

-But at the closing-in of night, then most
This Dwelling 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
I turned, that ye in mind might witness where,
And how, her Spirit yet survived on earth!

THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. CONTINUED.

BOOK VII.

Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind-Pastor invited to give account of certain Graves that lie apart-Clergyman 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-Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man-Elevated character of a blind man -Reflection upon Blindness-Interrupted by a Peasant who passes -his animal cheerfulness 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-distinguished qualities-and untimely death-Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this PictureSolitary how affected-Monument of a Knight-Traditions concerning him-Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things and the revolutions of society-Hints at his own past CallingThanks to the Pastor.

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 Snowden'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
By some accomplished Master, while he sate
Amid the quiet of the green recess,
And there did inexhaustibly dispense
An interchange of soft and 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 impassioned 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, and cannot be destroyed.

"The grassy heaps lie amicably close,"
Said I, "like surges heaving in the wind
Upon the surface of a mountain pool;
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 from yon mountain's base
Through bare inclosures stretches, 'till its line
Is lost among a little tuft of trees;

Then, re-appearing in a moment, quits
The cultured fields; and up the heathy waste,
Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine,
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.

All unembowered

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 tow'rds 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 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, 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 portrayed
Of boor or burgher, as they marched 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 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;
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 showy 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 remots
The chapel stood, divided from that house
By an unpeopled tract of mountain waste.
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 distress'd in mind;
And, by as salutary change, compelled
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 those wild brooks; from which he now returned
Contentedly to take a temperate meal

At his own board, where sat his gentle Mate
And three fair Children, plentifully fed,

Though simple, from their little household farm,
With acceptable treat of fish or fowl

By nature yielded to his practised hand;