Said I,

« As, mid some happy Valley of the Alps,» << once happy, ere tyrannic Power, Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss,

Destroyed their unoffending Commonwealth,
A popular equality reigns here,

Save for one House of State beneath whose roof
A rural Lord might dwell.»
«No feudal pomp,"
Replied our Friend, a Chronicler who stood
Where'er he moved upon familiar ground,
« Nor feudal power is there; but there abides,
In his allotted Home, a genuine Priest,
The Shepherd of his Flock; or, as a King
Is styled, when most affectionately praised,
The Father of his People. Such is he;

And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice
Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed
To me some portion of a kind regard;
And something also of his inner mind
Hath he imparted—but I speak of him
As he is known to all. The calm delights
Of unambitious piety he chose,
And learning's solid dignity; though born
Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends.
Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew
From academic bowers. He loved the spot,
Who does not love his native soil? he prized
The ancient rural character, composed
Of simple manners, feelings unsuppressed
And undisguised, and strong and serious thought;
A character reflected in himself,

With such embellishment as well beseems

His rank and sacred function. This deep vale
Winds far in reaches hidden from our eyes,
And one a turreted manorial Hall
Adorns, in which the good Man's Ancestors
Have dwelt through ages-Patrons of this Cure.
To them, and to his own judicious pains,
The Vicar's Dwelling, and the whole Domain,
Owes that presiding aspect which might well
Attract your notice; statelier than could else

Was occupied by oaken benches, ranged
In seemly rows; the chancel only shewed
Some inoffensive marks of earthly state
And vain distinction. A capacious pew

Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined;
And marble Monuments were here displayed
Thronging the walls; and on the floor beneath
Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small
And shining effigies of brass inlaid.

-The tribute by these various records claimed,
Without reluctance did we pay; and read
The ordinary chronicle of birth,
Office, alliance, and promotion--all
Ending in dust; of upright Magistrates,

Grave Doctors strenuous for the Mother Church,
And uncorrupted Senators, alike

To King and People true. A brazen plate,
Not easily deciphered, told of One
Whose course of earthly honour was begun
In quality of page among the Train

Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas
His royal state to shew, and prove his strength
In tournament, upon the fields of France.
Another Tablet registered the death,

And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight
Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles.
Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed;
And, to the silent language giving voice,
I read,-how in his manhood's earlier day
He, mid the afflictions of intestine War
And rightful Government subverted, found
One only solace-that he had espoused
A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved

This said, oft halting we pursued our way;

Nor reached the Village Church-yard till the sun, Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen Above the summits of the highest hills,

And round our path darted oppressive beams.

As chanced, the Portals of the sacred Pile
Stood open,
and we entered. On my frame,
At such transition from the fervid air,
A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike
The heart, in concert with that temperate awe
And natural reverence, which the Place inspired.
Not raised in nice proportions was the Pile,
But large and massy; for duration built;
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately crossed,

Like leafless underboughs, mid some thick grove,
All withered by the depth of shade above.
Admonitory Texts inscribed the walls,
Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed,
Each also crowned with winged heads-a pair
Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,

To Youth or Maiden gone before their time,
And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old;
Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed
In modest panegyric. «These dim lines,

What would they tell?» said I,-but, from the task

Of puzzling out that faded Narrative,

With whisper soft my venerable Friend

Called me; and, looking down the darksome aisle,

I saw the Tenant of the lonely Vale

Standing apart; with curvèd arm reclined
On the baptismal Font; his pallid face
Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost
In some abstraction;-gracefully he stood,
The semblance bearing of a sculptured Form
That leans upon a monumental Urn
In peace,

from morn to night, from year to year.

Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse; Who entered, humming carelessly a tune, Continuation haply of the notes

That had beguiled the work from which he came,
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung,
To be deposited, for future need,
In their appointed place. The pale Recluse
Withdrew; and straight we followed,-to a spot

Where sun and shade were intermixed; for there
A broad Oak, stretching forth its leafy arms
From an adjoining pasture, overhung

Small space of that green church-yard with a light
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall
My ancient Friend and I together took
Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake,
Standing before us. « Did you note the mien

Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted Churl,

Here interposing fervently I said,

<«< Rites which attest that Man by nature lies
Bedded for good and evil in a gulf
Fearfully low; nor will your judgment scorn
Those services, whereby attempt is made
To lift the Creature tow'rd that eminence
On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty
He stood; or if not so, whose top serene
At least he feels 't is given him to descry;

Or wraps an old Acquaintance up in clay,

As unconcerned as when he plants a tree?
I was abruptly summoned by his voice
From some affecting images and thoughts,
And from the company of serious words.
Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes
For future states of Being; and the wings
Of speculation, joyfully outspread,
Hovered above our destiny on earth :—
But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul
In sober contrast with reality,

And Man's substantial life. If this mute earth
Of what it holds could speak, and every grave
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable

Of yielding its contents to eye and car,

We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame,
To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill
That which is done accords with what is known
To reason, and by conscience is enjoined;
How idly, how perversely, Life's whole course,
To this conclusion, deviates from the line,
Or of the end stops short, proposed to all
At her aspiring outset. Mark the Babe
Not long accustomed to this breathing world;
One that hath barely learned to shape a smile;
Though yet irrational of Soul to grasp
With tiny fingers-to let fall a tear;
And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves,
To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem,
The outward functions of intelligent Man;
A grave Proficient in amusive feats
Of puppetry, that from the lap declare
His expectations, and announce his claims
To that inheritance which millions rue
That they were ever born to! In due time
A day of solemn ceremonial comes;
When they, who for this Minor hold in trust
Rights that transcend the humblest heritage
Of mere Humanity, present their Charge,
For this occasion daintily adorned,
At the baptismal Font. And when the
And consecrating element hath cleansed
The original stain, the Child is there received
Into the second Ark, Christ's Church, with trust
That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float
Over the billows of this troublesome world
To the fair land of everlasting Life.
Corrupt affections, covetous desires,

pure

Are all renounced; high as the thought of man
Can carry virtue, virtue is professed;
A dedication made, a promise given
For due provision to control and guide,
And unremitting progress to ensure
In holiness and truth.»

You cannot blame,»

Returning, and injunctions from within
Doubt to cast off and weariness, in trust
That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost,
May be, through pains and persevering hope,
Recovered; or, if hitherto unknown,

Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained »

<< I blame them not,» he calmly answered-e no; The outward ritual and established forms With which Communities of Men invest These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows To which the lips give public utterance Are both a natural process; and by me Shall pass uncensured; though the issue prove, Bringing from age to age its own reproach, Incongruous, impotent, and blank.—But, oh! If to be weak is to be wretched-miserable, As the lost Angel by a human voice Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, Far better not to move at all than move By impulse sent from such illusive Power, That finds and cannot fasten down; that grasps And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps; That tempts, emboldens-doth a while sustain, And then betrays; accuses and inflicts Remorseless punishment; and so retreads The inevitable circle: better far

Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace, By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed!

<< Philosophy! and thou more vaunted name,
Religion with thy statelier retinue,
Faith, Hope, and Charity-from the visible world
Chuse for your Emblems whatsoe'er ye find
Of safest guidance and of firmest trust,—
The Torch, the Star, the Anchor; nor except
The Cross itself, at whose unconscious feet
The Generations of Mankind have knelt
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears,
And through that conflict seeking rest-of you,
High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask,
Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky
In faint reflection of infinitude

Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet
A subterraneous magazine of bones,

In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid,
Where are your triumphs? your dominion where?
And in what age admitted and confirmed?
-Not for a happy Land do I inquire,
Island or Grove, that hides a blessed few
Who, with obedience willing and sincere,
Το your serene authorities conform;
But whom, I ask, of individual Souls,
Have
ye withdrawn from Passion's crooked ways,
Inspired, and thoroughly fortified?—If the Heart
Could be inspected to its inmost folds

By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, Who shall be named-in the resplendent line Of Sages, Martyrs, Confessors-the Man

Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced
On humble life, forbid the judging mind
To trust the smiling aspect of this fair

For one day's little compass, has preserved

From painful and discreditable shocks
Of contradiction, from some vague desire
Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse
To some unsanctioned fear?>>

« If this be so,
And Man,» said I, « he in his noblest shape
Thus pitiably infirm; then, He who made,
And who shall judge the Creature, will forgive.
-Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint
Is all too true; and surely not misplaced:

For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thoughts
Rise to the notice of a serious Mind

By natural exhalation. With the Dead
In their repose, the Living in their mirth,
Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round
Of smooth and solemnized complacencies,
By which, on Christian Lands, from age to age
Profession mocks Performance. Earth is sick,
And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words
Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk
Of truth and justice. Turn to private life
And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves;
A light of duty shines on every day

For all; and yet how few are warmed or cheered!
How few who mingle with their fellow-men
And still remain self-governed, and apart,
Like this our honoured Friend; and thence acquire
Right to expect his vigorous decline,
That promises to the end a blest old age!»

«Yet,» with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed
The Solitary, «< in the life of Man,
If to the poetry of common speech
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass
A true reflection of the circling year,
With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there,
In spite of many a rough untoward blast,
Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers;
Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day,
That ought to follow faithfully expressed?
And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit,
Where is she imaged? in what favoured clime
Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence?
-Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse
In Man's autumnal season is set forth
With a resemblance not to be denied,
And that contents him; bowers that hear no more
The voice of gladness, less and less supply
Of outward sunshine and internal warmth;
And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves,
Foretelling total Winter, blank and cold.

How gay the Habitations that bedeck
This fertile Valley! Not a House but seems
To give assurance of content within;
Embosomed happiness, and placid love;
As if the sunshine of the day were met

With answering brightness in the hearts of all

Who walk this favoured ground. But chance-regards, And notice forced upon incurious ears;

These, if these only, acting in despite

Of Mountaineers (by Nature's self removed
From foul temptations, and by constant care
Of a good Shepherd tended as themselves
Do tend their flocks) partake Man's general lot
With little mitigation. They escape,
Perchance, guilt's heavier woes; and do not feel
The tedium of fantastic idleness;

Yet life, as with the multitude, with them,
Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale;
That on the outset wastes its gay desires,
Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes,
And pleasant interests-for the sequel leaving
Old things repeated with diminished grace;

And all the laboured novelties at best

Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power
Evince the want and weakness whence they spring.»

While in this serious mood we held discourse, The reverend Pastor tow'rd the Church-yard gate Approached; and, with a mild respectful air Of native cordiality, our Friend Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. Awhile they stood in conference, and I Guess That He, who now upon the mossy wall Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish Could have transferred him to his lonely House Within the circuit of those guardian rocks. -For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased : Nature had framed them both, and both were marked By circumstance, with intermixture fine Of contrast and resemblance. To an Oak Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten Oak, Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, One might be likened flourishing appeared, Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, The Other-like a stately Sycamore, That spreads, in gentler pomp, its honied shade.

A general greeting was exchanged; and soon
The Pastor learned that his approach had given
A welcome interruption to discourse
Grave, and in truth too often sad.-« Is Man
A Child of hope? Do generations press
On generations, without progress made?
Halts the Individual, ere his hairs be grey,
Perforce? Are we a Creature in whom good
Preponderates, or evil? Doth the Will
Acknowledge Reason's law? A living Power
Is Virtue, or no better than a name,
Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound?
So that the only substance which remains,
(For thus the tenor of complaint hath run)
Among so many shadows, are the pains
And penalties of miserable life,

Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust!
-Our cogitations this way have been drawn,

These are the points,» the Wanderer said, « on which
Our Inquest turns.--Accord, good Sir! the light

Of your experience, to dispel this gloom :

By your persuasive wisdom shall the Heart

That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered,»