Were wanting; and simplicity of life; And reverence for himself; and, last and best, Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of him Before whose sight the troubles of this world Are vain as billows in a tossing sea.
"The glory of the times fading away, The splendour, which had given a festal air To self-importance, hallow'd it, and veil'd From his own sight,-this gone, he forfeited All joy in human nature; was consumed, And vex'd, and chafed, by levity and scorn, And fruitless indignation; gall'd by pride; Made desperate by contempt of men who throve Before his sight in power or fame, and won, Without desert, what he desired; weak men, Too weak e'en for his envy or his hate! Tormented thus, after a wandering course Of discontent, and inwardly opprest With malady-in part, I fear, provoked By weariness of life, he fix'd his home, Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells, And wastes the sad remainder of his hours In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want Its own voluptuousness; on this resolved, With this content, that he will live and die Forgotten, at safe distance from a world Not moving to his mind.""
Closed the preparatory notices That served my fellow traveller to beguile The way, while we advanced up that wide vale. Diverging now (as if his quest had been Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall Of water or some boastful eminence, Renown'd for splendid prospect far and wide) We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, A steep ascent; and reach'd a dreary plain, With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops Before us; savage region! which I paced Dispirited when, all at once, behold! Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale, A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high Among the mountains; even as if the spot Had been, from eldest time by wish of theirs, So placed, to be shut out from all the world! Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn; With rocks encompass'd, save that to the south Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close: A quiet, treeless nook, with two green fields, A liquid pool that glitter'd in the sun, And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more! It seem'd the home of poverty and toil, Though not of want: the little fields, made green By husbandry of many thrifty years, Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house. There crows the cock, single in his domain : The small birds find in spring no thicket there To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. Ah! what a sweet recess, thought I, is here! Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease Upon a bed of heath;-full many a spot Of hidden beauty have I chanced t' espy
Among the mountains; never one like this; So lonesome, and so perfectly secure : Not melancholy-no, for it is green, And bright, and fertile, furnish'd in itself With the few needful things that life requires. In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie, How tenderly protected! Far and near We have an image of the pristine earth, The planet in its nakedness; were this Man's only dwelling, sole appointed sea, First, last, and single in the breathing world, It could not be more quiet: peace is here Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale Of public news or private; years that pass Forgetfully; uncall'd upon to pay The common penalties of mortal life, Sickness or accident, or grief, or pain.
On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay In silence musing by my comrade's side, He also silent: when from out the heart Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, Or several voices in one solemn sound, Was heard-ascending: mournful, deep, and slow The cadence, as of psalms-a funeral dirge; We listen'd, looking down upon the hut, But seeing no one meanwhile from below The strain continued, spiritual as before. And now distinctly could I recognise These words:"Shall in the grave thy love be known,
In death thy faithfulness ?"-" God rest his soul !" The wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence,- "He is departed, and finds peace at last!"
This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band Of rustic persons, from behind the hut Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which They shaped their course along the sloping side Of that small valley; singing as they moved; A sober company and few, the men Bareheaded, and all decently attired! Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued Recovering, to my friend I said, "You spake, Methought, with apprehension that these rites Are paid to him upon whose shy retreat This day we purposed to intrude."-" I did so, But let us hence, that we may learn the truth: Perhaps it is not he but some one else For whom this pious service is perform'd; Some other tenant of the solitude." So, to a steep and difficult descent Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, Where passage could be won; and, as the last Of the mute train, upon the heathy top Of that off-sloping outlet, disappear'd, I, more impatient in my downward course, Had landed upon easy ground; and there Stood waiting for my comrade. When behold An object that enticed my steps aside! A narrow, winding entry open'd out Into a platform-that lay, sheepfold wise, Enclosed between an upright mass of rock And one old moss-grown wall;-a cool recess And fanciful! For, where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed,
By thrusting two rude staves into the wall And overlaying them with mountain sods; To weather-fend a little turf-built seat Whereon a full grown man might rest, nor dread The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands! Whose skill had throng'd the floor with a proud show Of baby-houses, curiously arranged; Nor wanting ornaments of walks between, With mimic trees inserted in the turf,
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, I could not choose but beckon to my guide, Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, Impatient to pass on, when I exclaim'd,
No dearer relic, and no better stay, Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen, Impure conceits discharging from a heart Harden'd by impious pride! I did not fear To tax you with this journey ;"-mildly said My venerable friend, as forth we stepp'd Into the presence of the cheerful light- "For I have knowledge that you do not shrink From moving spectacles ;-but let us on."
So speaking, on he went, and at the word I follow'd, till he made a sudden stand: For full in view, approaching through a gate That open'd from the enclosure of green fields Into the rough uncultivated ground,
"Lo! what is here?" and stooping down, drew Behold the man whom he had fancied dead!
A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss And wreck of party-colour'd earthenware Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise One of those petty structures. "Gracious heaven!" The wanderer cried, " it cannot but be his, And he is gone?" The book, which in my hand Had open'd of itself, (for it was swoln With searching damp, and seemingly had lain To the injurious elements exposed From week to week,) I found to be a work
In the French tongue, a novel of Voltaire, His famous optimist. Unhappy man!"
Exclaim'd my friend: "here then has been to him His body is at rest, his soul in heaven."
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering place
Within how deep a shelter! He had fits, E'en to the last, of genuine tenderness,
And loved the haunts of children here, no doubt. Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, Or sate companionless; and here the book, Left and forgotten in his careless way, Must by the cottage children have been found: Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work! To what odd purpose have the darlings turn'd This sad memorial of their hapless friend!"
"Me," said I," most doth it surprise to find Such book in such a piace !"-" A book it is," He answered," to the person suited well, Though little suited to surrounding things; 'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been To see the man who own'd it, dwelling here, With one poor shepherd, far from all the world! Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, As from these intimations I forbode, Grieved shall I be-less for my sake than yours; And least of all for him who is no more.
By this, the book was in the old man's hand; And he continued, glancing on the leaves An eye of scorn. "The lover," said he, " doom'd To love when hope hath fail'd him—whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide, Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, And that is joy to him. When change of times Hath summon'd kings to scaffolds, do but give The faithful servant, who must hide his head Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, And he too hath his comforter. How poor, Beyond all poverty how destitute,
Must that inan have been left, who, hither driven, Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him
More might have follow'd-but my honour'd friend
Broke in upon the speaker with a frank And cordial greeting.-Vivid was the light That flash'd and sparkled from the other's eyes: He was all fire: the sickness from his face Pass'd like a fancy that is swept away; Hands join'd he with his visitant,—a grasp, An eager grasp; and many moments' space, When the first glow of pleasure was no more, And much of what had vanish'd was return'd, An amicable smile retain'd the life Which it had unexpectedly received, Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, "Nor could your coming have been better timed: For this, you see, is in our narrow world A day of sorrow. I have here a charge"-- And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly The sunburnt forehead of the weeping child- "A little mourner, whom it is my task To comfort;-but how came ye ?-if yon track (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) Conducted hither your most welcome feet, Ye could not miss the funeral train-they yet Have scarcely disappear'd." "This blooming child," Said the old man, "is of an age to weep At any grave or solemn spectacle, Inly distress'd or overpower'd with awe, He knows not why ;-but he, perchance, this day, Is shedding orphan's tears; and you yourself Must have sustain'd a loss."-" The hand of death," He answer'd," has been here; but could not well Have fall'n more lightly, if it had not fall'n Upon myself."-The other left these words Unnoticed, thus continuing.-
"From yon crag Down whose steep sides we dropp'd into the vale,
We heard the hymn they sang-a solemn sound Heard anywhere, but in a place like this 'Tis more than human! Many precious rites And customs of our rural ancestry
Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, Will last for ever. Often have I stopp❜d
When on my way, I could not choose but stop, So much I felt the awfulness of life,
In that one moment when the corse is lifted
In silence, with a hush of decency,
Answer'd the sick man with a careless voice- "That I came hither; neither have I found Among associates who have power of speech, Nor in such other converse as is here, Temptation so prevailing as to change That mood, or undermine my first resolve."— Then speaking in like careless sort, he said To my benign companion,-" Pity 'tis That fortune did not guide you to this house A few days earlier; then would you have seen
Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, What stuff the dwellers in a solitude,
And confidential yearnings, to its home,
Its final home in earth. What traveller-who- (How far soe'er a stranger) does not own
The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, A mute procession on the houseless road; Or passing by some single tenement
Or cluster'd dwellings, where again they raise The monitory voice? But most of all It touches, it confirms, and elevates, Then, when the body, soon to be consign'd Ashes to ashes, dust bequeath'd to dust,
Is raised from the church aisle, and forward borne Upon the shoulders of the next in love, The nearest in affection or in blood;
Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt
Beside the coffin, resting on its lid
In silent grief their unuplifted heads,
That seems by nature hollow'd out to be The seat and bosom of pure innocence, Are made of; an ungracious matter this! Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too Of past discussions with this zealous friend And advocate of humble life, I now Will force upon his notice; undeterr'd By the example of his own pure course, And that respect and deference which a soul May fairly claim, by niggard age enrich'd In what she values most-the love of God And his frail creature, man:-but ye shall hear. I talk and ye are standing in the sun Without refreshment!"
Saying this, he led Towards the cottage ;-homely was the spot; And, to my feeling, ere we reach'd the door,
And heard meanwhile the psalmist's mournful Had almost a forbidding nakedness;
And that most awful scripture which declares We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed! Have I not seen ?-Ye likewise may have seen- Son, husband, brothers-brothers side by side, And son and father also side by side, Rise from that posture ;-and in concert move, On the green turf following the vested priest, Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, From which they do not shrink, and under which They faint not, but advance toward the grave Step after step-together, with their firm Unhidden faces; he that suffers most, He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, The most serene, with most undaunted eye! O! blest are they who live and die like these, Loved with such love, and with such sorrow
"That poor man taken hence to-day," replied The solitary, with a faint, sarcastic smile
Less fair, I grant, e'en painfully less fair, Than it appear'd when from the beetling rock We had look'd down upon it. All within, As left by the departed company, Was silent; and the solitary clock Tick'd, as I thought, with melancholy sound.— Following our guide, we clomb the cottage stairs And reach'd a small apartment dark and low, Which was no sooner enter'd than our host Said gayly, "This is my domain, my cell, My hermitage, my cabin,-what you will- I love it better than a snail his house. But now ye shall be feasted with our best." So, with more ardour than an unripe girl Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, He went about his hospitable task. My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, And pleased I look'd upon my gray-hair'd friend, As if to thank him: he return'd that look, Cheer'd, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck
Which did not please me, “must be deem'd, I fear, Had we around us! scatter'd was the floor,
Of the unblest; for he will surely sink
Into his mother earth without such pomp Of grief, depart without occasion given
By him for such array of fortitude.
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark! This simple child will mourn his one short hour And I shall miss him; scanty tribute! yet, This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, If love were his sole claim upon their care, Like a ripe date which in the desert falls Without a hand to gather it." At this I interposed, though loath to speak, and said, "Can it be thus among so small a band As ye must needs be here? in such a place I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight Of a departing cloud."-" "Twas not for love,"
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, With books, maps, fossils, wither'd plants and
And tufts of mountain moss: mechanic tools Lay intermix'd with scraps of paper, some Scribbled with verse; a broken angling-rod And shatter'd telescope, together link'd By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook; And instruments of music, some half made, Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls.- But speedily the promise was fulfill'd;
A feast before us, and a courteous host
Inviting us in glee to sit and eat.
A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook By which it had been bleach'd, o'erspread the board; And was itself half cover'd with a load
Of dainties,―oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream. Upon the laws of public charity.
And cakes of butter curiously emboss'd, Butter that had imbibed from meadow flowers A golden hue, delicate as their own, Faintly reflected in a lingering stream;
Nor lack'd, for more delight on that warm day, Our table, small parade of garden fruits, And whortleberries from the mountain side. The child, who long ere this had still'd his sobs Was now a help to his late comforter, And moved, a willing page, as he was bid, Ministering to our need.
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate Fronting the window of that little cell, I could not, ever and anon, forbear
To glance an upward look on two huge peaks, That from some other vale peer'd into this. "Those lusty twins," exclaim'd our host, "if here It were your lot to dwell, would soon become Your prized companions.-Many are the notes Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores;
And well those lofty brethren bear their part In the wild concert-chiefly when the storm Rides high; then all the upper air they fill With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, Like smoke, along the level of the blast, In mighty current; theirs, too, Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, Methinks that I have heard them echo back The thunder's greeting:-nor have nature's laws Left them ungifted with a power to yield Music of finer tone; a harmony,
So do I call it, though it be the hand
Of silence, though there be no voice ;-the clouds, The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, Motions of moonlight, all come thither-touch, And have an answer-thither come, and shape A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits :-there the sun himself, At the calm close of summer's longest day, Rests his substantial orb ;-between those heights And on the top of either pinnacle,
The housewife, tempted by such slender gains As might from that occasion be distill'd, Open'd, as she before had done for me, Her doors t' admit this homeless pensioner; The portion gave of course but wholesome fare Which appetite required-a blind, dull nook Such as she had-the kennel of his rest! This, in itself not ill, would yet have been Ill borne in earlier life, but his was now The still contentedness of seventy years. Calm did he sit beneath the wide-spread tree Of his old age; and yet less calm and meek. Willingly meek or venerably calm, Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise A penalty, if penalty it were,
For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. I loved the old man, for I pitied him! A task it was, I own, to hold discourse With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes; Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way, And helpful to his utmost power: and there Our housewife knew full well what she possess'd! He was her vassal of all labour, till'd
Her garden, from the pasture fetch'd her kine; And, one among the orderly array
Of haymakers, beneath the burning sun Maintain'd his place: or heedfully pursued His course, on errands bound, to other vales, Leading sometimes an inexperienced child, Too young for any profitable task.
So moved he like a shadow that perform'd Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn For what reward! The moon her monthly round Hath not completed since our dame, the queen Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, Into my little sanctuary rush'd- Voice to a rueful treble humanized, And features in deplorable dismay-
I treat the matter lightly, but, alas!
It is most serious: persevering rain Had fall'n in torrents; all the mountain tops Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides; This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake, Was wholly ignorant that my ancient friend,
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Who at her bidding, early and alone,
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud.
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man
Than the mute agents stirring there:-alone Here do I sit and watch."-
Regretted like the nightingale's last note, Had scarcely closed this high-wrought rhapsody Ere with inviting smile the wanderer said,
Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf For winter fuel, to his noontide meal Return'd not, and now, haply, on the heights Lay at the mercy of this raging storm.
Inhuman-said I, was an old man's life Not worth the trouble of a thought ?—alas? This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw Her husband enter-from a distant vale.
"Now for the tale with which you threaten'd us!" We sallied forth together; found the tools
"In truth the threat escaped me unawares; Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand For my excuse. Dissever'd from mankind, As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seem'd When ye look'd down upon us from the crag, Islanders of a stormy mountain sea. We are not so ;-perpetually we touch Upon the vulgar ordinance of the world, And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day Relinquish'd, lived dependent for his bread
Which the neglected veteran had dropp'd, But through all quarters look'd for him in vain. We shouted-but no answer! Darkness fell Without remission of the blast or shower, And fears for our own safety drove us home. I, who weep little, did I will confess, The moment I was seated here alone, Honour my little cell with some few tears Which anger and resentment could not dry. All night the storm endured; and soon as help
Had been collected from the neighbouring vale, With morning we renew'd our quest; the wind Was fall'n, the rain abated, but the hills Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist; And long and hopelessly we sought in vain. Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass A heap of ruin, almost without walls,
And wholly without roof, (the bleach'd remains Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, The peasants of these lonely valleys used To meet for worship on that central height)— We there espied the object of our search, Lying full three parts buried among tufts Of heath plant, under and above him strewn, To baffle, as he might, the watery storm: And there we found him breathing peaceably, Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 'Mid a green haycock in a sunny field. We spake he made reply, but would not stir At our entreaty; less from want of power Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts. So was he lifted gently from the ground, And with their freight the shepherds homeward moved
Through the dull mist, I following-when a step, A single step, that freed me from the skirts Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul! Th' appearance, instantaneously disclosed, Was of a mighty city-boldly say A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth, Far sinking into splendour-without end! Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes, and silver spires. And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed; there towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars-illumination of all gems!
By earthly nature had the effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified; on them, and on the coves And mountain steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded, taking there Their station under a cerulean sky.
O, 'twas an unimaginable sight!
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, Molten together, and composing thus, Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, In fleecy folds voluminous inwrapp'd. Right in the midst, where interspace appear'd Of open court, an object like a throne Beneath a shining canopy of state Stood fix'd; and fix'd resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use,
But vast in size, in substance glorified; Such as by Hebrew prophets were beheld In vision-forms uncouth of mightiest power For admiration and mysterious awe.
Below me was the earth; this little vale Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible- I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the reveal'd abode Of spirits in beatitude: my heart Swell'd in my breast. I have been dead,' I cried, And now I live! O! wherefore do I live?' And with that pang I pray'd to be no more! But I forget our charge, as utterly
I then forgot him :-there I stood and gazed; The apparition faded not away,
And I descended. Having reach'd the house, I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, And in serene possession of himself, Beside a genial fire; that seem'd to spread A gleam of comfort o'er his pallid face. Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly Was glad to find her conscience set at ease; And not less glad, for sake of her good name, That the poor sufferer had escaped with life. But, though he seem'd at first to have received No harm, and uncomplaining as before Went through his usual tasks, a silent change Soon show'd itself; he linger'd three short weeks; And from the cottage hath been borne to-day.
"So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am That it is ended." At these words he turn'd- And, with blithe air of open fellowship, Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, My gray-hair'd friend said courteously-"Nay, nay, You have regaled us as a hermit ought; Now let us forth into the sun !"-Our host Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went.
BOOK III. DESPONDENCY.
ARGUMENT.
Images in the valley. Another recess in it entered and described. Wanderer's sensations. Solitary's excited by the same objects. Contrast between these. Despondency of the solitary gently reproved. Conversation exhibiting the solitary's past and present opinions and feelings, till he enters upon his own history at length. His domestic felicity. Afflictions. Dejection. Roused by the French revolution. Disappointment and disgust. Voyage to America. Disappointment and disgust pursue him. His return. His languor and depression of mind, from want of faith in the great truths of religion, and want of confidence in the virtue of mankind.
A HUMMING bee-a little tinkling rill- A pair of falcons, wheeling on the wing, In clamorous agitation, round the crest Of a tall rock, their airy citadel- By each and all of these the pensive ear Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, When through the cottage threshold we had pass'd, And, deep within that lonesome valley stood Once more, beneath the concave of a blue And cloudless sky. Anon! exclaim'd our host Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt The shade of discontent which on his brow Had gather'd," Ye have left my cell,-but see How nature hems you in with friendly arms! And by her help ye are my prisoners still
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