(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Withdrawn, to while away the summer hours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 dew, 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.
But you, sir, know that in a neighbouring vale
A priest abides before whose life such doubts
Fall to the ground: whose gifts of nature lie
Retired from notice, lost in attributes
Of reason, honourably effaced by debts
Which her poor treasure house is content to owe,
And conquest over her dominion gain'd,
To which her frowardness must needs submit.
In this one man is shown a temperance-proof
Against all trials; industry severe
And constant as the motion of the day;
Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade
That might be deem'd forbidding, did not there
All generous feelings flourish and rejoice;
Forbearance, 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?
Al 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
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,
The stormy day, had each its own resource;
Song of the muses, sage historic tale,
Science severe, or word of holy writ
Announcing immortality and joy
To the assembled spirits of the just,
From imperfection and decay secure.
Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field,
To no perverse suspicion he gave way,
No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint:
And they who were about him did not fail
In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized
His gentle manners; and his peaceful smiles,
The gleams of his slow-varying countenance,
Were met with answering sympathy and love.
"At length, when sixty years and five were told,
A slow disease insensibly consumed
The powers of nature; and a few short steps
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home
(Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags)
To the profounder stillness of the grave.
Nor was his funeral denied the grace
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief;
Heart sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude.
And now that monumental stone preserves
His name, and unambitiously relates
How long, and by what kindly outward aids,
And in what pure contentedness of mind,
The sad privation was by him endured.
And yon tall pine tree, whose composing sound
Was wasted on the good man's living ear,
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;
And, at the touch of every wandering breeze,
Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.
"Soul-cheering light, most bountiful of things!
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter!
With eloquence, and such authentic power,
That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood
Abash'd, and tender pity overawed."
"A noble, and, to unreflecting minds,
A marvellous spectacle," the wanderer said,
"Beings like these present! But proof abounds
Upon the earth that faculties which seem
Extinguish'd, do not, therefore, cease to be.
And to the mind among her powers of sense
This transfer is permitted, not alone
That the bereft their recompense may win,
But for remoter purposes of love
And charity; nor last nor least for this,
That to th' imagination may be given
A type and shadow of an awful truth;
How, likewise, under sufferance divine,
Darkness is banish'd from the realms of death,
By man's imperishable spirit quell'd.
Unto the men who see not as we see,
Futurity was thought, in ancient times,
To be laid open, and they prophesied.
And know we not that from the blind have flow'd
The highest, holiest raptures of the lyre;
And wisdom married to immortal verse ?"
Among the humbler worthies, at our feet
Living insensible to human praise,
Love, or regret, whose lineaments would next
Have been portray'd, I guess not; but it chanced
That, near the quiet churchyard where we sate,
A team of horses, with a ponderous freight
Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope,
Whose sharp descent confounded their array
Came at that moment, ringing noisily.
"Here," said the pastor, "do we muse, and
The waste of death: and lo! the giant oak
Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and Stretch'd on his bier, that massy timber wain;
We all too thanklessly participate.
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch.
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained;
Ask of the channell'd rivers if they held
A safer, easier, more determined course.
What terror doth it strike into the mind
To think of one who cannot see, advancing
Toward some precipice's airy brink!
Nor fail to note the man who guides the team. '
He was a peasant of the lowest class:
Gray locks profusely round his temples hung
In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite
Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged
Within his cheek, as light within a cloud;
And he returned our greeting with a smile.
When he had pass'd, the solitary spake:
"A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to-morrows; with a face
But, timely warn'd, he would have stay'd his steps, Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much
Protected, say enlighten'd, by his ear,
And on the very edge of vacancy
Not more endanger'd than a man whose eye
Beholds the gulf beneath. No floweret blooms
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills,
Or in the woods, that could from him conceal
Its birthplace; none whose figure did not live
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth
Enrich'd with knowledge his industrious mind;
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores
Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led,
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven.
Methinks I see him; how his eyeballs roll'd
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness pair'd,
But each instinct with spirit; and the frame
Of the whole countenance alive with thought,
Fancy, and understanding; while the voice
Discoursed of natural or moral truth
Of nature's impress-gayety and health,
Freedom and hope; but keen withal, and shrewd.
His gestures note; and hark! his tones of voice
Are all vivacious as his mien and looks."
The pastor answered: "You have read him well.
Year after year is added to his store
With silent increase; summers, winters-past,
Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say,
Ten summers and ten winters of a space
That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds,
Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix
The obligation of an anxious mind,
A pride in having, or a fear to lose;
Possess'd like outskirts of some large domain,
By any one more thought of than by him
Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord!
Yet is the creature rational, endow'd
With foresight; hears, too, every Sabbath-day,
The Christian promise with attentive ear;
Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of heaven
Reject the incense offered up by him,
Though of the kind which beasts and birds present
In grove or pasture-cheerfulness of soul,
From trepidation and repining free.
How many scrupulous worshippers fall down
Upon their knees, and daily homage pay
Less worthy, less religious even, than his!
"This qualified respect, the old man's due,
Is paid without reluctance; but in truth"
(Said the good vicar with a fond half-smile)
"I feel at times a motion of despite
Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill,
As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part
In works of havoc; taking from these vales,
One after one, their proudest ornaments.
Full oft his doings leave me to deplore
Tall ash tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed,
In the dry crannies of the pendant rocks;
Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge,
A veil of glory for th' ascending moon;
Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm
With which by nature every mother's soul
Is stricken, in the moment when her throes
Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry
Which tells her that a living child is born,
And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest,
That the dread storm is weather'd by them both.
"The father-him at this unlook'd-for gift
A bolder transport seizes. From the side
Of his bright hearth, and from his open door,
Day after day the gladness is diffused
To all that come, and almost all that pass;
Invited, summon'd, to partake the cheer
Spread on the never-empty board, and drink
Health and good wishes to his new-born girl,
From cups replenish'd by his joyous hand.
Those seven fair brothers variously were moved
Each by the thoughts best suited to his years
But most of all and with most thankful mind
The hoary grandsire felt himself enrich'd ;
A happiness that ebb'd not, but remain'd
To fill the total measure of the soul!
Whither, as to a little private cell,
And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damp'd, From the low tenement, his own abode,
And on whose forehead inaccessible
The raven lodged in safety. Many a ship
Launch'd into Morecamb Bay, to him hath owed
Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears
The loftiest of her pendants. He, from park
Or forest, fetch'd the enormous axletree
That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles:
And the vast engine labouring in the mine,
Content with meaner prowess, must have lack'd
The trunk and body of its marvellous strength,
If his undaunted enterprise had fail'd
Among the mountain coves.
Yon household fir,
A guardian planted to fence off the blast.
But towering high the roof above, as if
Its humble destination were forgot;
That sycamore, which annually holds
Within its shade, as in a stately tent
On all sides open to the fanning breeze,
A grave assemblage, seated while they shear
The fleece-encumber'd flock; the joyful elm,
Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May;
And the lord's oak,-would plead their several
rights
In vain, if he were master of their fate:
His sentence to the axe would doom them all.
But, green in age and lusty as he is,
And promising to keep his hold on earth
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men
Than with the forest's more enduring growth,
His own appointed hour will come at last;
And, like the haughty spoilers of the world,
This keen destroyer in his turn must fall.
"Now from the living pass we once again; From age," the priest continued, "turn your thoughts;
From age, that often unlamented drops,
And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long!
Seven lusty sons sate daily round the board
Of Gold-rill side; and, when the hope had ceased
Of other progeny, a daughter then
Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole;
And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy
He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise,
To spend the Sabbath of old age in peace,
Once every day he duteously repair'd
To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe:
For in that female infant's name he heard
The silent name of his departed wife;
Heart-stirring music! hourly heard that name;
Full blest he was, Another Margaret Green,'
Oft did he say, ' was come to Gold-rill side.'
Oh! pang unthought of, as the precious boon
Itself had been unlook'd for; oh! dire stroke
Of desolating anguish for them all!
Just as the child could totter on the floor,
And, by some friendly finger's help upstay'd,
Range round the garden walk, while she perchance
Was catching at some novelty of spring,
Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell
Drawn by the sunshine-at that hopeful season
The winds of March, smiting insidiously,
Raised in the tender passage of the throat
Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarn'd,
The household lost their pride and soul's delight.
But time hath power to soften all regrets,
And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears
Fail not to spring from either parent's eye
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own,
Yet this departed little one, too long
The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps
In what may now be call'd a peaceful grave.
"On a bright day, the brightest of the year,
These mountains echo'd with an unknown sound,
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the corse
Let down into the hollow of that grave,
Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould.
Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth!
Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods,
That they may knit together, and therewith
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness !
Nor so the valley shall forget her loss.
Dear youth, by young and old alike beloved,
To me as precious as my own! Green herbs
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