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 those 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.'

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The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known That each had listened with his inmost heart.

For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong
Or less benign than that which I had felt
When, seated near my venerable Friend,
Under 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

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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 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

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Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong

Than to do wrong, albeit 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

✓of Wilfred Armathwaite ?'

The Vicar answered,

'In that green nook, close by the Churchyard wall, 1080 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 rest. No theme his fate supplies
For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world;
Nor need the windings of his devious course
Be here retraced;-enough that, by mishap
And venial error, robbed 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.

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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,
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,
That, 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 that might be prelude to a tale

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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 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,
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
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 hum

Of bees around their range of sheltered hives

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Busy in that enclosure; while the 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 :-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, from whose consolatory grave

I turned, that ye in mind might witness where,
And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth!'

BOOK SEVENTH

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THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

(continued)

ARGUMENT

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 and distinguished qualities-his 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.

HILE thus from theme to theme the Historian

W 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 sovereign brow,
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 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 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.

'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 sequestered, and encroaching

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 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.