From his youth up, and high as manhood's

noon,

115

(The hour of life to which he then was brought)
Had been irregular, I might say, wild;
By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care
Too little checked. An active, ardent mind;
A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme
To cheat the sadness of a rainy day;
Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games;
A generous spirit, and a body strong
To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl;
Had earned for him sure welcome, and the
rights

Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall

120

Of country 'squire; or at the statelier board
Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 125
Withdrawn,-to while away the summer hours
In condescension among rural guests.

130

"With these high comrades he had revelled long, Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk By hopes of coming patronage beguiled Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim Abandoning and all his showy friends, For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) He turned to this secluded chapelry; That had been offered to his doubtful choice 135 By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare They found the cottage, their allotted home; Naked without, and rude within; a spot With which the Cure not long had been

endowed :

And far remote the chapel stood,-remote, 140
And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable,
Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening
Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers

Frequented, and beset with howling winds.
Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang
On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 146
Or the necessity that fixed him here;
Apart from old temptations, and constrained
To punctual labour in his sacred charge.
See him a constant preacher to the poor! 150
And visiting, though not with saintly zeal,
Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will,
The sick in body, or distrest in mind;
And, by as salutary change, compelled
To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 155
With no engagement, in his thoughts, more
proud

Or splendid than his garden could afford,
His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock
ranged,

Or the wild brooks; from which he now
returned

Contented to partake the quiet meal

160

Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate
And three fair Children, plentifully fed
Though simply, from their little household
farm;

Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl
By nature yielded to his practised hand;- 165
To help the small but certain comings-in
Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less
Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs
A charitable door.

So days and years Passed on; the inside of that rugged house Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's

care,

And gradually enriched with things of price, Which might be lacked for use or ornament. What, though no soft and costly sofa there

171

175

181

Insidiously stretched out its lazy length, And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls, Yet were the windows of the low abode By shutters weather-fended, which at once Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar. Their snoww-white curtains hung in decent folds; Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants, That creep along the ground with sinuous trail, Were nicely braided; and composed a work Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace Lay at the threshold and the inner doors; 185 And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool But tinctured daintily with florid hues, For seemliness and warmth, on festal days, Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain

stone

189

With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid.

"Those pleasing works the Housewife's skill produced:

Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand Was busier with his task--to rid, to plant, To rear for food, for shelter, and delight; 195 A thriving covert! And when wishes, formed In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind, Restored me to my native valley, here To end my days; well pleased was I to see The once-bare cottage, on the mountain-side, 200 Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast; While the dark shadows of the summer leaves Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof. Time, which had thus afforded willing help To beautify with nature's fairest growths This rustic tenement, had gently shed, Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace;

205

The comeliness of unenfeebled age.

"But how could I say, gently? for he still Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 210 A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost; Generous and charitable, prompt to serve; And still his harsher passions kept their hold— Anger and indignation. Still he loved The sound of titled names, and talked in glee Of long-past banquetings with high-born

friends:

216

220

Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight
Uproused by recollected injury, railed
At their false ways disdainfully, and oft
In bitterness, and with a threatening eye
Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow.
-Those transports, with staid looks of pure
good-will,

226

230

And with soft smile, his consort would reprove. She, far behind him in the race of years, Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced Far nearer, in the habit of her soul, To that still region whither all are bound. Him might we liken to the setting sun As seen not seldom on some gusty day, Struggling and bold, and shining from the west With an inconstant and unmellowed light; She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung As if with wish to veil the restless orb; From which it did itself imbibe a ray Of pleasing lustre.—But no more of this; I better love to sprinkle on the sod That now divides the pair, or rather say, That still unites them, praises, like heaven's

dew,

235

240

Without reserve descending upon both.

"Our

very first in eminence of years
This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale!
And, to his unmolested mansion, death

Had never come, through space of forty years;
Sparing both old and young in that abode. 246
Suddenly then they disappeared: not twice
Had summer scorched the fields; not twice had
fallen,

On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow,
Before the greedy visiting was closed,

2.50

And the long-privileged house left empty— swept

As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague
Had been among them; all was gentle death,
One after one, with intervals of peace.
A happy consummation! an accord

255

Sweet, perfect, to be wished for! save that here Was something which to mortal sense might

sound

Like harshness,—that the old grey-headed Sire,
The oldest, he was taken last, survived
When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 260
His Daughter, and that late and high-prized

gift,

His little smiling Grandchild, were no more.

"All gone, all vanished! he deprived and

264

bare, How will he face the remnant of his life? What will become of him ?' we said, and mused In sad conjectures Shall we meet him now Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks? Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, Striving to entertain the lonely hours With music?' (for he had not ceased to touch