Tempt me to add, in praise of humble worth,
Their brief and unobtrusive history.

One hillock, ye may note, is small and low,
Sunk almost to a level with the plain

By weight of time; the others, undepress'd,
Are bold and swelling. There a husband sleeps,
Deposited, in pious confidence

Of glorious resurrection with the just,
Near the loved partner of his early days;
And, in the bosom of that family mould,
A second wife is gather'd to his side;
The approved assistant of an arduous course
From his mid-noon of manhood to old age!
He also of his mate deprived, was left
Alone-'mid many children; one a babe
Orphan'd as soon as born. Alas! 'tis not
In course of nature that a father's wing
Should warm these little ones; and can he feed?
That was a thought of agony more keen.

For, hand in hand with death, by strange mishap
And chance encounter on their diverse road,
The ghastlier shape of poverty had enter'd
Into that house, unfear'd and unforeseen.
He had stepp'd forth in time of urgent need,
The generous surety of a friend; and now
The widow'd father found that all his rights
In his paternal fields were undermined:
Landless he was and penniless. The dews
Of night and morn, that wet the mountain sides,
The bright stars twinkling on their dusky tops,
Were conscious of the pain that drove him forth
From his own door, he knew not when to range-
He knew not where; distracted was his brain,
His heart was cloven; and full oft he pray'd,
In blind despair, that God would take them all,
-But suddenly, as if in one kind moment
To encourage and reprove, a gleam of light
Broke from the very bosom of that cloud
Which darken'd the whole prospect of his days.
For he, who now possess'd the joyless right
To force the bondsman from his house and lands,
In pity, and by admiration urged

Of his unmurmuring and considerate mind,
Meekly submissive to the law's decree,
Lighten'd the penalty with liberal hand.

The desolate father raised his head, and look'd
On the wide world in hope. Within these walls,
In course of time was solemnized the vow
Whereby a virtuous woman, of grave years
And of prudential habits, undertook
The sacred office of a wife to him,
Of mother to his helpless family.

Nor did she fail-in nothing did she fail,
Through various exercise of twice ten years,

Save in some partial fondness for that child
Which at the birth she had received, the babe
Whose heart had known no mother but herself.
-By mutual efforts, by united hopes,
By daily-growing help of boy and girl,
Train'd early to participate that zeal
Of industry, which runs before the day
And lingers after it; by strong restraint
Of an economy which did not check

The heart's more generous motions tow'rds themselves
Or to their neighbours; and by trust in God,
This pair insensibly subdued the fears

And troubles that beset their life: and thus
Did the good father and his second mate
Redeem at length their plot of smiling fields.
These, at this day, the eldest son retains:
The younger offspring, through the busy world,
Have all been scatter'd wide, by various fates;
But each departed from the native vale,
In beauty flourishing, and moral worth!"

BOOK VII.

THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS-CONTINUED. Impression of these narratives upon the author's mind-Pastor invited to give account of certain graves that lie apart-Clergyman and his family-Fortunate influence of change of situation-Activity in extreme old age-Another clergyman, a character of resolute virtue-Lamentations over mis-directed applause-Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man-Elevated character of a blind man-Reflection upon blindness-Interrupted by a peasant who passes-His animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity-He occasions a digression on the fail of beautiful and interesting trees-A female infant's grave: joy at her birth; sorrow at her departure-A youthful peasant-His patriotic enthusiasm Distinguished qualities-And untimely death-Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this picture-Solitary how affected-Monument of a knight-Traditions concerning him-Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things and the revolutions of society-Hints at his own past calling-Thanks the Pastor.

WHILE thus from theme to theme the historian pass'd,
The words he utter'd, and the scene that lay
Before our eyes, awaken'd in my mind

Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours,
When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale
(What time the splendour of the setting sun
Lay beautiful on Snowdon's craggy top,
On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur),
A wandering youth, I listen'd with delight
To pastoral melody or warlike air,

Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp
By some accomplish'd master; while he sate
Amid the quiet of the green recess,

And there did inexhaustibly dispense

An interchange of soft or solemn tunes,

Tender or blithe; now, as the varying mood
Of his own spirit urged,-now, as a voice
From youth or maiden, or some honour'd chief
Of his compatriot villagers (that hung

Around him, drinking in the impassion'd notes
Of the time-hallow'd minstrelsy) required

For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power
Were they, to seize and occupy the sense;
But to a higher mark than song can reach
Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream
Which overflow'd the soul was pass'd away,
A consciousness remain'd that it had left,
Deposited upon the silent shore

Of memory, images and precious thoughts,
That shall not die, and cannot be destroy'd.

"These grassy heaps lie amicably close,"
Said I, "like surges heaving in the wind
Upon the surface of a mountain pool:
Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold
Five graves, and only five, that lie apart,
Unsociable company and sad;

And, furthermore, appearing to encroach

On the smooth playground of the village-school? "
The Vicar answer'd: "No disdainful pride
In them who rest beneath, nor any course
Of strange or tragic accident, hath help'd
To place those hillocks in that lonely guise.

-Once more look forth, and follow with your eyes
The length of road which from yon mountain's base
Through bare inclosures stretches, till its line
Is lost among a little tuft of trees;

Then, reappearing in a moment, quits

The cultured fields, and up the heathy waste,
Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine,
Towards an easy outlet of the vale.
That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft,
By which the road is hidden, also hides
A cottage from our view; though I discern
(Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees

The smokeless chimney-top. All unembower'd
And naked stood that lowly parsonage
(For such in truth it is, and appertains
To a small chapel in the vale beyond)
When hither came its last inhabitant.

"Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads By which our northern wilds could then be cross'd; And into most of these secluded vales

Was no access for wain, heavy or light.

So, at his dwelling-place the priest arrived

With store of household goods, in panniers slung
On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells,
And on the back of more ignoble beast,

That, with like burthen of effects most prized

Or easiest carried, closed the motley train.
Young was I then, a school-boy of eight years;
But still, methinks, I see them as they pass'd
In order, drawing tow'rds their wish'd-for home.
-Rock'd by the motion of a trusty ass

Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight,
Each in his basket nodding drowsily;

Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers,
Which told that 'twas the pleasant month of June;
And, close behind, the comely matron rode,
A woman of soft speech and gracious smile,
And with a lady's mien.-From far they came,
Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs had been
A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheer'd
By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest;

And freak put on, and arch word dropp'd, to swell
The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise

That gather'd round the slowly-moving train.

Whence do they come? and with what errand charged? Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe

Who pitch their tents beneath the green-wood tree?

Or are they strollers, furnish'd to enact

Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood,

And, by that whisker'd tabby's aid, set forth
The lucky venture of sage Whittington,

When the next village hears the show announced
By blast of trumpet?' Plenteous was the growth
Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen
On many a staring countenance portray'd
Of boor or burgher, as they march'd along.
And more than once their steadiness of face
Was put to proof, and exercise supplied
To their inventive humour, by stern looks,
And questions in authoritative tone,

From some staid guardian of the public peace,
Checking the sober steed on which he rode,
In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still
By notice indirect, or blunt demand
From traveller halting in his own despite,
A simple curiosity to ease:

Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheer'd
Their grave migration, the good pair would tell,
With undiminish'd glee, in hoary age.

"A priest he was by function; but his course
From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon
(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 check'd. 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 earn'd for him sure welcome, and the rights
Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall

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

"With these high comrades he had revell'd long,
Had frolick'd many a year; a simple clerk
By hopes of coming patronage beguiled
And vex'd, until the weary heart grew sick;
And so, abandoning each higher aim
And all his showy friends, at length he turn'd
For a life's stay, though slender, yet assured,
To this remote and humble chapelry;
Which had been offer'd to his doubtful choice
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 scantily-provided cure
Not long had been endow'd; and far remote
The chapel stood, divided from that house
By an unpeopled tract of mountain waste.
Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang
On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice
Or the necessity that fix'd him here;
Apart from old temptations, and constrain'd
To punctual labour in his sacred charge.
See him a constant preacher to the poor!
And visiting, though not with saintly zeal,
Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will,
The sick in body, or distress'd in mind;
And, by as salutary change compell'd,
Month after month, in that obscure abode
To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day
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 these wild brooks; from which he now return'd
Contentedly to make a temperate meal

At his own board, where sat his gentle mate
And three fair children plentifully fed,

Though simply, from their little household farm ;
With acceptable treat of fish or fowl

By nature yielded to his practised hand;-
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
Pass'd on ;-the inside of that rugged house
Was trimm'd and brighten'd by the matron's care,
And gradually enrich'd with things of price,
Which might be lack'd for use or ornament.
What, though no soft and costly sofa there
Insidiously stretch'd out its lazy length,