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f Iu undecaying beauty were preserved; Mute register, to him, of time and place, And various fluctuations in the breast; To her, a monument of faithful Love Conquered, and in tranquillity retained

« Close to his destined habitation lies One who achieved a humbler victory, Though marvellous in its kind. A Place there is High in these mountains, that allured a Band Of keen Adventurers to unite their pains In search of precious orc; who tried, were foiled And all desisted, all, save him alone. He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, And trusting only to his own weak hands, Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, Unseconded, uncountenanced; then, as time Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found No recompense, derided; and, at length, By many pitied, as insane of mind; Iy others dreaded as the luckless Thrall Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope By various mockery of sight and sound; Hope, after hope, encouraged and destroyed. —But when the Lord of seasons had matured The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, The mountain's entrails offered to his view And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward. Not with more transport did Columbus greet A world, his rich discovery! But our Swain, A very Hero till his point was gained, Proved all unable to support the weight Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked With an unsettled liberty of thought, Of schemes and wishes; in the daylight walked Giddy and restless; ever and anon Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups; And truly might be said to die of joy! He vanished; but conspicuous to this day The Path remains that linked his Cottage-door To the Mine's mouth : a long, and slanting track, Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, Worn by his daily visits to and from The darksome centre of a constant hope. This vestige, neither force of beating rain, Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away; And it is named, in memory of the event, The PATH of Perseven ANCE.”

• Thou, from whom

Man has his strength,” exclaimed the Wanderer, “oll'
Do Thou direct it!—to the Virtuous grant
The penetrative eye which can perceive
In this blind world the guiding vein of hope,
That, like this Labourer, such may dit; their way,
* Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified;
Grant to the Wise his firmness of resolve!”

* That prayer were not superfluous,” said the Priest, 'And the Owl's Prey; from these bare Haunts, to which

« Amid the noblest relics, proudest Dust, That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds, Within the bosom of her awful Pile, Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh, which wafts that prayer to Heaven, is due to all, Wherever laid, who living fell below Their virtue's humbler mark; a sigh of pain

If to the opposite extreme they sank. How would you pity Her who yonder rests; Ilim, farther off; the Pair, who here are laid; But, above all, that mixture of Earth's Mould Whom sight of this green Hilclok to my mind Recalls!—He lived not till his locks were nipped By seasonable frost of age; nor died Before his temples, prematurely forced To mix the manly brown with silver grey, Gave obvious instance of the sad effect Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped The natural crown that sage Experience wears. –Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed Or could perform; a zealous actor—hired Into the troop of mirth, a soldier—sworn Into the lists of giddy enterprise— Such was he; yet, as if within his frame Two several souls alternately had lodged, Two sets of manners could the Youth put on ; And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird That writles and chatters in her wiry cage, Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still As the mute Swan that thoats adown the stream, Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, | Anchors her placid beauty. Not a Leaf, | That flutters on the bough, more light than lie; | And not a Flower, that droops in the green shade, More winningly reserved. If ye inquire How such consummate elegance was bred Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice, "T was Nature's will; who sometimes undertakes, For the reproof of human vanity, Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. Hence, for this Favourite, lavishly endowed With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, | While both, enabellishing cach other, stood

Yet farther recommended by the charm

Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song.
And skill in letters, every fancy shaped
Fair expectations; nor, when to the World's
Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there
Were he and his attainments overlooked,
Or scantily rewarded; but all hopes,
Cherished for him, he suffered to depart,
Like blighted buds; or clouds that mimicked land
| Before the Sailor's eye; or diamond drops
That sparkling decked the morning grass; or anght
That was attractive—and hath ceased to be!
—Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites
Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed,
Who, by humiliation undeterred,
Songht for his weariness a place of rest
Within his Father's gates.—Whence came He?—clothed
In tattered garb, from hovels where abides
Necessity, the stationary Host
of vagrant Poverty; from rifted barns
Where no one dwells but the wide-staring Owl

| Ile had descended from the proud Saloon, He came, the Ghost of beauty and of health. The Wreck of gaiety lout soon revived in strength, in power refitted, he renewed Ilis suit to Fortune; and she smiled again Upon a sickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose,

- sank as willingly. For He, whose nerves

Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp,
By 1he nice finger of fair Ladies, touched
In glittering Halls, was able to derive
Not less enjoyment from an abject choice.
Who happier for the moment—who more blithe
Than this fallen Spirit 1 in those dreary Holds
His Talents lending to exalt the freaks
Of merry-making Beggars, now, provoked
To laughter multiplied in louder peals
By his malicious wit; then, all enchained
With mute astonishment, thenselves to see
In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed,
As by the very presence of the Fiend
Wino dictates and inspires illusive feats,
For knavish purposes! The City, too,
(With shame 1 speak it) to her guilty bowers
Ailured him, sunk so low in self-respect
As there to linger, there to eat his bread,
Hired Minstrel of voluptuous blandishment;
Charming the air with skill of hand or voice,
Listen who would, be wrought upon who might,
Sincerely wretched Ilearts, or falsely gay.
—Such the too frequent tenor of his boast
In ears that relished the report:-but all
Was from his Parents happily concealed;
Who saw enough for blame and pitying love.
They also were permitted to receive
II is last, repentant breath; and closed his eyes,
No more to open on that irksome world
where he had long existed in the state
Of a young Fowl beneath one Mother hatched,
Though from another sprung—of different kind
Where he had lived, and could not cease to live,
Distracted in propensity; content
with neither element of good or ill;
And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest;
Of contradictious infinite the slave,
Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him
One with Ilimself, and one with them who sleep, a

* T is strange,” observed the Solitary, “strange It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, That in a Land where Charity provides For all that can no longer feed themselves, A Man like this should chuse to bring his shame To the parental door; and with his sighs Infect the air which he had freely breathed In happy infancy. He could not pine, Through lack of converse; no, he must have found Abundant exercise for thought and speech In his dividual Being, self-reviewed, Self-catechised, self-punished.—Some there are Who, drawing near their final Home, and much And daily longing that the same were reached, would rather shun than seek the fellowship of kindred mould.—Such haply here are laid?”

“Yes,” said the Priest, “ the Genius of our Hills, who seems, by these stupcndous barriers cast Round his Domain, desirous not alone To keep his own, but also to exclude All other progeny, doth sometimes lure, Even by this studied depth of privacy, The unhappy Alieu hopins; to obtain

Concealment, or seduced by wish to find

In place from outward molestation free,

Helps to internal ease. Of many such
Could I discourse; but as their stay was brief,
So their departure only left behind
Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace
Survives, for worthy mention, of a Pair
Who, from the pressure of their several fates,
Meeting as Strangers, in a petty Town
Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach
Of this far-winding Vale, remained as Friends
True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust
To this loved Cemetery, here to lodge
With unescutcheoned privacy interred
Far from the Family-vault.—A Chieftain One
By right of birth; within whose spotless breast
The fire of ancient Caledonia burned.
Ile, with the foremost whose inpatience hailed
The Stuart, landing to resume, by force
Of arms, the crown which Bigotry had lost,
Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their head,
With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent
Culloden's fatal overthrow.—Escaped
From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores
He fled; and when the lenient hand of Time
Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gaincil,
For his obscured condition, an obscure
Retreat, within this nook of English tround.
—The Other, born in Britain's southern tract,
Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed
His gentler sentiments of love and hate.

There, where they placed them who in conscience prized

The new succession, as a line of Kings
Whose oath had virtue to protect the Land
Against the dire assaults of l'apacy
And arbitrary Rule. But launch thy Bark
On the distempered flood of public life,
And cause for most rare triumph will be thine
If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand,
The Stream, that bears thee forward, prove uot, soon
Or late, a perilous Master. He, who oft,
Under the battlements and stately trees
That round his Mansion cast a solver gloom,
Had moralized on this, and other truths
of kindred import, pleased and satisfied,
Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh

Ileaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness,

When he had crushed a plentiful estate
By ruinous Contest, to obtain a Seat
In Britain's Senate. Fruitless was the attempt:
And while the uproar of that desperate strife
Continued yet to vibrate on his ear,
The vanquished Whig, beneath a borrowed name,
(For the mere sound and echo of his own
Haunted him with sensations of disgust
That he was glad to lose) slunk from the World
To the deep shade of these untravelled Wilds;
In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed
An undisturbed Abode.—Here, then, they met,
Two doughty Champions; slaming Jacobite
And sullen Hanoverian! You might think
That losses and vexations, less severe

Than those which they had severally sustained,

would have inclined each to abate his zeal For his ungrateful canse; no-I have heard My reverend Father tell that, mid the calm of that small Town encountering thus, they filled.


Daily, its Bowling-green with harmless strife;
Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the Church;
And vexed the Market-place. But in the breasts
Of these Opponents gradually was wrought,
With little change of general sentiment,
Such change towards each other, that their days
By choice were spent in constant fellowship;
And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke,
Those very bickerings made them love it more.

• A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come Treading their path in sympathy and linked In social converse, or by some short space Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, One Spirit seldom failed to extend its sway Over both minds, when they awhile had marked The visible quiet of this holy ground, And breathed its soothing air;-the Spirit of hope And saintly magnanimity; that, spurning The field of selfish difference and dispute, And every care which transitory things, Earth, and the kingdoms of the earth, create, Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred, Which else the Christian Virtue might have claimed. —There live who yet remember here to have seen Their courtly Figures,-seated on the stump Of an old Yew, their favourite resting-place. But, as the Remnant of the long-lived Tree Was disappearing by a swift decay, They, with joint care, determined to erect, Upon its site, a Dial, that might stand For public use preserved, and thus survive As their own private monument; for this was the particular spot, in which they wished, (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) That, undivided, their Remains should lie. So, where the mouldered Tree had stood, was raised You Structure, framing, with the ascent of steps That to the decorated Pillar lead, A work of art more sumptuous than might seem To suit this Place; yet built in no proud scorn Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed To ensure for it respectful guardianship. Around the margin of the Plate, whereon The Shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, Winds an inscriptive Legend o.—At these words Thither we turnca ; and, gathered, as we read, The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched,— Time flies; it is his melancholy task To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, And re-produce the troubles he destroys. But, while his blindness thus is occupied, Discerning Mortal! do thou serve the will of Time's eternal Master, and that peace Which the World wants, shall be for Thee confirmed.»

“Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse, n Exclaimed the Sceptic, “ and the strain of thought Accords with Nature's language;—the soft voice Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. If, then, their blended insluence be not lost Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, Even upon mine, the more are we required

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To feel for those, among our fellow-men,
Who, offering no obeisance to the world,
Are yet made desperate by “too quick a sense
Of constant infelicity’ — cut off
From peace like Exiles on some barren rock,
Their life's appointed prison; not more free
Than Sentinels, between two armies, set,
With nothing better, in the chill night air,
Than their own thoughts to comfort them.–Say why
That ancient story of Prometheus chained:
The Vulture—the inexhaustible repast
Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes
By Tantalus entailed upon his race,
And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes?
Fictions in form, but in their substance truths,
Tremendous truths' familiar to the men
Of long-past times; nor obsolete in ours.
—Exchange the Shepherd's frock of native grey
For robes with regal purple tinged; convert
The crook into a sceptre;—give the pomp
Of circumstance, and here the tragic Muse
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art.
—Amid the groves, beneath the shadowy hills,
The generations are prepared; the pangs,
The internal pangs are ready; the dread strife
Of poor humanity's afflicted will
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.”

“Though,” said the Priest in answer, “ these be terms Which a divine philosophy rejects, We, whose established and unfailing trust Is in controlling Providence, admit That, through all stations, human life abounds with mysteries;–for, if Faith were left untried, How could the might, that lurks within her, then Be shewn her glorious excellence—that ranks Among the first of Powers and Virtues—proved? Our system is not fashioned to preclude That sympathy which you for others ask: And I could tell, not travelling for my theme Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes And strange disasters; but I pass them by, Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in Peace. —Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat of Man degraded in his Maker's sight By the deformities of brutish vice : For, in such Portraits, though a vulgar face And a coarse outside of repulsive life And unaffecting manners might at once He recognized by all »-e Ah! do not think,” The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, a wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, (Gain shall I call it?—gain of what?—for whom !) Should breathe a word tending to violate Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for In slight of that forbearance and reserve Which common human-heartedness inspires, And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else.”

« True, o said the Solitary, a be it far From us to infringe the laws of charity. Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced: This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this wisdom enjoins; but, if the thing we seek Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind

How, from his lofty throne, the Sun can fling
Colours as bright on exhalations bred
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp,
As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs,
Or the pellucid Lake. "

“Small risk, n said I,
* Of such illusion do we here incur;
Temptation here is none to exceed the truth;
No evidence appears that they who rest
Within this ground, were covetous of praise,
Or of remembrance even, deserved or not.
Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green;
Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge :
A heaving surface—almost wholly free
From interruption of sepulchral stones,
And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf
And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust
The lingering gleam of their departed Lives
To oral records and the silent heart;
Depository faithful, and more kind
Than fondest Epitaphs: for, if that fail,
what boots the sculptured Tomb? and who can blame,
who rather would not envy, men that feel
This mutual confidence; if, from such source,
The practice flow, if thence, or from a deep
And general humility in death
Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring
From disregard of Time's destructive power,
As only capable to prey on things
Of earth, and human nature's mortal part.
Yet—in less simple districts, where we see
Stone lift its forehead cnulous of stone
In courting notice, and the ground all paved
with commendations of departed worth;
Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives,
of each domestic charity fulfilled,
And sufferings meekly borne—I, for my part,
Though with the silence pleased that here prevails,
Among those fair recitals also range,
soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe.
And, in the centre of a world whose soil
is rank with all unkindness, compassed round
with such Memorials, I have sometimes felt
That 't was no momentary happiness

To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks

In envy or detraction is not heard; which m lice may not enter; where the traces Of evil inclinations are unknown;

where love and pity tenderly unite

With resignation ; and no jarring tone

Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb

of amity and gratitude.”

• Thus sanctioned,” The Pastor said, “I willingly confine My narratives to subjects that excite Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem. And admiration; lifting up a veil, A sunbeam introducint; among hearts Retired and covert; so that ye shall have Clear images before your gladdened eyes Of Nature's unambitious underwood, And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when I speak of such among my flock as swerved Or fell, those only will I single out

. Upon whose lapse, or error, something more

Than brotherly forgiveness may attend :
To such will we restrict our notice; else
Better my tongue were mute. And yet there are,
I feel, good reasons why we should not leave
Wholly untraced a more forbidding way.
For strength to persevere and to support,
And energy to conquer and repel;-
These eleinents of virtue, that declare
The native grandeur of the human Soul,
Are oft-times not unprofitably shewn
In the perverseness of a selfish course :
Truth every day exemplified, no less
In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream
Than in fantastic Conqueror's roving camp,
Or 'mid the factious Senate, unappalled
While merciless proscription ebbs and flows.
—There,” said the Vicar, pointing as he spake,
“A Woman rests in peace; surpassed by few
In power of mind, and eloquent discourse.
Tall was her stature; her complexion dark
And saturnine: her head not raised to hold
Converse with Heaven, nor yet deprest tow'rds earth,
siut in projection carried, as she walked
For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes;
Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought
Was her broad forehead; like the brow of One
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare
Of overpowering light.—While yet a Child,
She, 'mid the humble Flowerets of the vale,
Towered like the imperial Thistle, not unfurnished
With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking
To be admired, than coveted and loved.
Even at that age, she ruled as sovereign Queen.
Mid her Companions; else their simple sports,
Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind,
Ilad crossed her, only to be shunned with scorn.
—Oh' pang of sorrowful regret for those
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled,
That they have lived for harsher servitude,
Whether in soul, in body, or estate!
Such doom was hers; yet nothing could subdue
Her keen desire of knowledge; nor efface
Those brighter images—by books impressed
Upon her memory; faithfully as stars
That occupy their places, and, though oft
Ilidden by clouds, and of bedimmed by haze,
Are not to be extinguished, or impaired.

* Two passions, both degenerate, for they both ; Began in honour, gradually obtained Rule over her, and vexed her daily life; An unrelenting, avaricious thrift ; And a strange thraldom of maternal love, That held her spirit, in its own despite, Bound—by vexation, and regret, and scorn, Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows, And tears, in pride suppressed, in shatne concealedTo a poor dissolute Son, her only Child. —Her wedded days had opened with mishap, whence dire dependence.—What could she perform To shake the burthen off Ah! there was felt Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. She mused—resolved, adhered to her resolve; | The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart Closed by degrees to charity; heav m’s blessing

Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust
In ceaseless pains and parsimonious care,
Which got, and sternly hoarded each day's gain.

“Thus all was re-established, and a pile Constructed, that sufficed for every end, Save the contentment of the Builder's mind; A Mind by nature indisposed to aught So placid, so inactive, as content; A Mind intolerant of lasting peace, And cherishing the pang which it deplored. Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared To the agitation of a brook that runs Down rocky mountains—buried now and lost

In silent pools, and now in eddies chained,—

But never to be charmed to gentleness;
Its best attainment fits of such repose
As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming.

• A sudden illness seized her in the strength Of life's autumnal season.—Shall I tell How on her bed of death the Matron lay, To Providence submissive, so she thought; But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon—almost To anger, by the malady, that griped Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, As the fierce Eagle fastens on the Lamb” She prayed, she moaned—her Husband's Sister watched Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs; And yet the very sound of that kind foot Was anguish to her ears!—“And must she rule,' This was the dying Woman heard to say In bitterness," and must she rule and reign, Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone? Sit by my fire—possess what I possessed— Tend what I tended—calling it her own" Enough;-I fear, too much.-One vernal evening, While she was yet in prime of health and strength, I well remember, while 1 passed her door: Musing with loitering step, and upward eye Turned tow'rds the planet Jupiter, that hung Above the centre of the Vale, a voice Roused me, her voice ; it said, “That glorious Star In its untroubled element will shine As now it shines, when we are laid in earth, And safe from all our sorrows.-She is safe, And her uncharitable acts, I trust, And harsh unkindnesses, are all forgiven; Though, in this Vale, remembered with deep awe!»

The Vicar paused; and tow'rds a seat advanced,
A long stone-seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall;
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part
Offering a sunny resting-place to them
Who seek the House of worship, while the Bells
Yet ring with all their voices, or before
The last hath ceased its solitary knoll.
Under the shade we all sate down; and there
His office, uninvited, he resumed.

* As on a sunny bank, a tender Lamb Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, Screened by its Parent, so that little mound Lies guarded by its neighbour; the small heap

Speaks for itself;-an Infant there doth rest,
The sheltering Hillock is the Mother's grave.
If mild discourse, and manners that conferred
A natural dignity on humblest rank;
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks,
That for a face not beautiful did more
Than beauty for the fairest face can do:
And if religious tenderness of heart,
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears
Shed when the clouds had gathered and distained
The spotless ether of a maiden life;
If these may make a hallowed spot of earth
More holy in the sight of God or Man;
Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood,
Till the stars sicken at the day of doom.

« Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless Man, Could field or grove, or any spot of earth, Shew to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed; render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod' There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, Yea, doubtless, on the turf that roofs her own, The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. Now she is not; the swelling turf reports Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears Is silent; nor is any vestige left Of the path worm by mournful tread of Her Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed Caught from the pressure of elastic turf Upon the mountains gemuned with morning dew, In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. —Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet, By reconcilement exquisite and rare, The form, port, motions of this Cottage-girl Were such as might have quickened audiuspired A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade What time the Hunter's earliest horn is heard Startling the golden hills. A wide spread Elm Stands in our Valley, named rar joyful Tree; From dateless usage which our Peasants hold Of giving welcome to the first of May By dances, round its trunk.-And if the sky Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid To the Twelfth Night; beneath the frosty Stars Or the clear Moon. The Queen of these gay sports, If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, Was hapless Ellen.—No one touched the ground So deftly, and the nicest Maiden's locks Less gracefully were braided;—but this praise, Methinks, would better suit another place.

« She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved. — The road is dim, the current unperceived, The weakness painful and most pitiful, By which a virtuous Woman, in pure youth, May be delivered to distress and shame. Such fate was hers.-The last time Ellen danced. Among her Equals, round the joyful Tase, She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow, Alone, within her widowcd Mother's house.

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