45.

At such an hour when Dobrizhoffer stood Beside her bed, oh! how unlike, he thought, This voice to that which ringing through the wood Had led him to the secret bower he sought! And was it then for this that he had brought That harmless household from their native shade? Death had already been the mother's lot; And this fair Mooma, was she form'd to fade So soon,... so soon must she in earth's cold lap be laid?

46.

Yet he had no misgiving at the sight;

And wherefore should he? he had acted well,
And deeming of the ways of God aright,
Knew that to such as these, whate'er befell
Must needs for them be best. But who could dwell

Unmoved upon the fate of one so young,

So blithesome late? What marvel if tears fell, From that good man as over her he hung, And that the prayers he said came faltering from his tongue!

47.

She saw him weep, and she could understand The cause thus tremulously that made him speak. By his emotion moved she took his hand; A gleam of pleasure o'er her pallid cheek. Past, while she look'd at him with meaning meek, And for a little while, as loth to part, Detaining him, her fingers lank and weak, Play'd with their hold; then letting him depart She gave him a slow smile that touch'd him to the heart.

48.

Mourn not for her! for what hath life to give That should detain her ready spirit here? Thinkest thou that it were worth a wish to live, Could wishes hold her from her proper sphere? That simple heart, that innocence sincere

The world would stain. Fitter she ne'er could be For the great change; and now that change is near, Oh who would keep her soul from being free? Maiden beloved of Heaven, to die is best for thee!

49.

She hath past away, and on her lips a smile
Hath settled, fix'd in death. Judged they aright,
Or suffered they their fancy to beguile

The reason, who believed that she had sight
Of Heaven before her spirit took its flight;
That Angels waited round her lowly bed;
And that in that last effort of delight,
When lifting up her dying arms, she said,

I come! a ray from heaven upon her face was shed?

50.

St. Joachin's had never seen a day

Of such profuse and general grief before, As when with tapers, dirge, and long array The Maiden's body to the grave they bore. All eyes, all hearts, her early death deplore; Yet wondering at the fortune they lament, They the wise ways of Providence adore, By whom the Pastor surely had been sent When to the Mondai woods upon his quest he went.

51.

This was, indeed, a chosen family,

For Heaven's especial favour mark'd, they said; Shut out from all mankind they seem'd to be,

Yet mercifully there were visited,

That so within the fold they might be led,

Then call'd away to bliss. Already two In their baptismal innocence were dead; The third was on the bed of death they knew, And in the appointed course must presently ensue.

52.

Theymarvell'd, therefore, when the youth once more Rose from his bed and walk'd abroad again; Severe had been the malady, and sore The trial, while life struggled to maintain Its seat against the sharp assaults of pain: But life in him was vigorous; long he lay Ere it could its ascendancy regain, Then when the natural powers resumed their All trace of late disease past rapidly away.

53.

sway

The first inquiry when his mind was free,
Was for his sister. She was gone, they said,
Gone to her Mother, evermore to be

With her in Heaven. At this no tears he shed,

Nor was he seen to sorrow for the dead;
But took the fatal tidings in such part

As if a dull unfeeling nature bred

His unconcern; for hard would seem the heart

To which a loss like his no suffering could impart.

54.

How little do they see what is, who frame Their hasty judgement upon that which seems! Waters that babble on their way proclaim

A shallowness: but in their strength deep streams Flow silently. Of death Yeruti deems

Not as an ill, but as the last great good, Compared wherewith all other he esteems Transient and void: how then should thought in

trude

Of sorrow in his heart for their beatitude?

55.

While dwelling in their sylvan solitude
Less had Yeruti learnt to entertain

A sense of age than death. He understood
Something of death from creatures he had slain;
But here the ills which follow in the train

...

Of age had first to him been manifest, .. The shrunken form, the limbs that move with pain, The failing sense, infirmity, unrest, . . That in his heart he said to die betimes was best.

56.

...

Nor had he lost the dead: they were but gone Before him, whither he should shortly go. Their robes of glory they had first put on; He, cumber'd with mortality, below Must yet abide awhile, content to know He should not wait in long expectance here. What cause then for repining, or for woe? Soon shall he join them in their heavenly sphere, And often, even now, he knew that they were near.

57.

'T was but in open day to close his eyes,
And shut out the unprofitable view
Of all this weary world's realities,

And forthwith, even as if they lived anew,
The dead were with him; features, form and hue,
And looks and gestures were restored again :
Their actual presence in his heart he knew;
And when their converse was disturb'd, oh then
How flat and stale it was to mix with living men!

58.

But not the less, whate'er was to be done,
With living men he took his part content,
At loom, in garden, or a-field, as one
Whose spirit wholly on obedience bent,
Το every task its prompt attention lent.
Alert in labour he among the best;

And when to church the congregation went, None more exact than he to cross his breast, And kneel, or rise, and do in all things like the rest.

59.

Cheerful he was, almost like one elate

With wine, before it hath disturb'd his power Of reason. Yet he seem'd to feel the weight Of time; for always when from yonder tower He heard the clock tell out the passing hour, The sound appeared to give him some delight: And when the evening shades began to lower, Then was he seen to watch the fading light As if his heart rejoiced at the return of night.