Of a relenting soul, have now avail'd;
For, like a shadow, he was pass'd away
From Ellen's thoughts; had perish'd 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 appertain❜d:
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.
Hope from that quarter would, I know, have Where, sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones
A heavenly comfort: there she recognised
An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need:
Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?" The vicar answer'd, "In that green nook, close by the churchyard wall, Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself
There, and, as seem'd, there only. She had built, In memory and for warning, and in sign
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 long'd
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 tutor'd 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 open'd; and no pains were spared
To mitigate, as gently as I could,
The sting of self-reproach, with healing words.
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 appear'd divine!
May I not mention-that, within those walls,
In due observance of her pious wish,
The congregation join'd 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 still'd 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 pass'd
Into that pure and unknown world of love
Where injury cannot come :-and here is laid
The mortal body by her infant's side."
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known,
Of reconcilement after deep offence,
There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies
For the smooth glozings of th' indulgent world;
Nor need the windings of his devious course
Be here retraced; enough that, by mishap
And venial error, robb'd of competence,
And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind,
He craved a substitute in troubled joy;
Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving
Divine displeasure, broke the marriage vow.
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 gain'd no peace abroad;
Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth,
Ask'd 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 wish'd
To fly, but whither! And this gracious church,
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 remain'd 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,
The vicar ceased; and downcast looks made That, stretching boldly from the mountain side,
That each had listen'd with his inmost heart.
For me, th' emotion scarcely was less strong
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 to which she clung.
I noted that the solitary's cheek
Confess'd the power of nature. Pleased though sad,
More pleased than sad, the gray-hair'd wanderer
sate;
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul
Capacious and serene, his blameless life,
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love
Of human kind! He was it who first broke
The pensive silence, saying, "Blest are they
Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong
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 that 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 fill'd 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;
Than to do wrong, although themselves have err'd. He gives it-the boon produce of a soil
Which our endeavours have refused to till,
And hope hath never water'd. The abode,
Whose grateful owner can attest these truths,
E'en 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 adorn'd
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, rough 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
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mentations over misdirected applause. Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man. Elevated characte of a blind man. Reflection upon blindness. Interrupt ed by a peasant who passes; his animal cheerfulnes and careless vivacity. He occasions a digression o the fall of beautiful and interesting trees. A female infant's grave. Joy at her birth. Sorrow at her depart ure. A youthful peasant; his patriotic enthusiasm, dis tinguished qualities, and untimely death. Exultation of the wanderer, as a patriot, in this picture. Solitary, 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 calling. Thanks the pastor.
WHILE thus from theme to theme the historian
pass'd,
The words he utter'd, and the scene that lay
Before our eyes, awaken'd 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 sovereign brow,
On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur,)
A wandering youth, I listen'd with delight
To pastoral melody or warlike air,
Drawn from the chords of th' ancient British harp
For her own flowers and favourite herbs-a space, By some accomplished master, while he sate
By sacred charter, holden for her use.
These, and whatever else the garden bears
Of fruit or flower, permission ask'd or not,
I freely gather; and my leisure draws
A not unfrequent pastime from the sight
Of the bees murmuring round their shelter'd 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. But, when the gloom
Of night is falling round my steps, then most
This dwelling charms me: often I stop short,
(Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight
With prospect of the company within,
Laid open through the blazing window.
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 honour'd hand, herself
While she was yet a little one, had learn'd.
Mild man! he is not gay, but they are gay;
And the whole house seems fill'd with gayety.
Thrice happy, then, the mother may be deem❜d,
The wife, from whose consolatory grave
I turn'd, that ye in mind might witness where
And how, her spirit yet survives on earth."
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
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. La
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 honour'd chief
Of his compatriot villagers (that hung
Around him, drinking in the impassion'd notes
Of the time-hallow'd 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 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
Upon 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 playground of the village school?"
The vicar answered: "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,
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 unembower'd And naked stood that lonely 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 burden of effects most prized
Or easiest carried, closed the motley train.
Young was I then, a schoolboy 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,
E'en 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
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, though slender yet assured,
He turn'd to this secluded chapelry,
That 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.
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 his salutary change, compell'd
To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day
Who pitch their tents beneath the green-wood tree? With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud Or are they strollers, 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
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 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
Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less
Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs
A charitable door. So days and years
Pass'd on; 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 on 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.
These pleasing works the housewife's skill pro-
duced:
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, 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, 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
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.
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 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
And the lone 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 wish'd for! save that here
Was something which to mortal sense might sound
Like harshness,—that the old gray-headed sire,
The oldest, he was taken last,-survived
When the meek partner of his age, his son,
His daughter, and that late and high-prized gift,
His little smiling grandchild, were no more.
"All gone, all vanish'd! 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
E'en to the last! Such was he, unsubdued.
But Heaven was gracious: yet a little while,
And this survivor, with his cheerful throng
Of open schemes, and all his inward hoard
Of unsunn'd griefs, too many and too keen,
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 noontide 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 gather'd to each other."
And silence waited on these closing words;
Until the wanderer (whether moved by fear
Lest in those passages of life were some
That might have touch'd the sick heart of his friend
Too nearly, or intent to reinforce
His own firm spirit in degree deprest
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 desert, tells his beads,
With each repeating its allotted prayer,
That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dow, And thus divides and thus relieves the time;
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 fall'n
On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow,
Before the greedy visiting was closed,
Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could
Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread
A keen domestic anguish,-and beguile
Of solitude, unchosen, unprofess'd;
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.
t you, sir, know that in a neighbouring vale priest abides before whose life such doubts ll to the ground: whose gifts of nature lie etired from notice, lost in attributes
reason, honourably effaced by debts 'hich her poor treasure house is content to owe, nd conquest over her dominion gain'd,
o which her frowardness must needs submit.
this one man is shown a temperance-proof
gainst all trials; industry severe
nd constant as the motion of the day;
tern self-denial round him spread, with shade
hat might be deem'd forbidding, did not there
All generous feelings flourish and rejoice;
'orbearance, 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, crown'd."
"Doubt can be none," the pastor said, "for whom
This portraiture is sketch'd. 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 dependent chapelry, that lies
Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild,
Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,―
And, having once espoused, would never quit;
Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good man
Will be convey'd. 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 shapes 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, insiduously to nurse
The perturbation in the suffering breast,
And propagate its kind, far as he may?
Ah who (and with such rapture as befits
The hallow'd 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 vapory clouds
Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain,
And like the soft infections of the heart,
Hamlet, and town; and piety survive
Upon the lips of men in hall or bower;
Not for reproof, but high and warm delight,
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.
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,
Oft stretches towards me, like a long straight path
Traced faintly in the greensward; 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
Murmur'd 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, wheresoe'er he moved.
Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts
Upheld, he duteously pursued the round
Of rural labours; the steep mountain side
Ascended with his staff and faithful dog;
The plough he guided, and the scythe he sway'd;
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 own'd:
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 remain'd 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 fall'n.
Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight
That press'd upon his brother's house, for books
Were ready comrades whom he could not tire,-
Of whose society the blameless man
Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,
E'en to old age, with unabated charm
Beguiled his leisure hours; refresh'd his thoughts;
Beyond its natural elevation raised
His introverted spirit: and bestow'd
By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, Upon his life an outward dignity
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