Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his Companion, he would pray that both
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
So prayed he :-as our Chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit numbered his last days,
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend,
Those holy Men both died in the same hour.

LINES

Written with a pencil upon a stone in the wall of the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To somewhat of a closer fellowship

With the ideal grace. Yet as it is

Do take it in good part; for he, the
Vitruvius of our village, had no help

poor

From the great City; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed

The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts

Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.
It is a homely Pile, yet to these walls

The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here

The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.

And hither does one Poet sometimes row

His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled

With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts

Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool

Lie round him, even as if they were a part

Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He through that door-place looks toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep,

Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.

To a SEXTON.

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy Bone-house bone on bone?

"Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

-These died in peace each with the other,

Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform eight feet square

Take not even a finger-joint :

Andrew's whole fire-side is there.

Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly Daughter lies,

From weakness, now, and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride-
How he glories, when he sees

Roses, Lilies, side by side,

Violets in families!

By the heart of Man, his tears,

By his hopes and by his fears,

Thou, old Gray-beard! art the Warden

Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,

Let them all in quiet lie,

Andrew there and Susan here,

Neighbours in mortality.