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 fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen
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. Oft 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,

Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 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 borno
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,

And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint,
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 towards 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 !
Oh! blest are they who live and die like these,

Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!
"That poor man taken hence to-day," replied

The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile,

Which did not please me, "must be deem'd, I fear,
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 loth 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,"
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
What stuff the dwellers in this solitude
(That seems by Nature framed to be the seat

And very 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 tairly claim, by niggard age enrich'd
In what it 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,
Had almost a forbidding nakedness;
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair,
Than it appear'd when from the valley's brink
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 gaily, "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 grey-hair'd friend,
As if to thank him; he return'd that look,
Cheer'd plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck
We had around us! scatter'd was the floor,
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf,
With books, maps, fossils, wither'd plants and flowers,
And tufts of mountain moss; and here and there,
Lay, intermix'd with these, mechanic tools,
And scraps of paper,-some I could perceive
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, curds, cheese, and cream,
And cakes of butter curiously emboss'd,
Butter that had imbibed a golden tinge,
A hue like that of yellow meadow flowers
Faintly reflected in a silent pool.

Nor lack'd, for more delight on that warm day,
Our table small parade of garden fruits,

And whortle-berries from the mountain-sides.
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.

In genial mood,

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, on which your eyes are cast,"
Exclaim'd our host, "if here you dwelt, would be
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, is the song
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,

More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault,
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."

With bright'ning face

The Wanderer heard him speaking thus, and said,

"Now for the tale with which you threaten'd us!"
"In truth the threat escaped me unawares,
And was forgotten. Let this challenge stand
For my excuse, if what I shall relate

Tire your attention. Outcast and cut off
As we seem here, and must have seem'd to you
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, was dependent for his bread
Upon the laws of public charity.

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 coarse 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,
Winningly 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 useful 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. From mid-noon the rain