In changeful April, when, as he is wont,
Winter has reassumed a short-lived sway
And whiten'd all the surface of the fields,
If, from the sullen region of the north,
Towards the circuit of this holy ground,
Your walk conducts you, ere the vigorous sun,
High climbing, hath attain'd his noon-tide height,
These mounds, transversely lying side by side
From east to west, before
you will
appear
A dreary plain of unillumined snow,
With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back;
On the same circuit of this churchyard ground
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light,
Of life, of love, and gladness, doth dispense
His beams, which unexcluded in their fall,
Upon the southern side of every grave
Have gently exercised a melting power,
Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye,
All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright,
Hopeful and cheerful
vanish'd is the snow,

Vanish'd or hidden; and the whole domain,
To some, too highly minded, might appear
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours.
This contrast, not unsuitable to life,
Is to that other state more apposite,
Death, and its twofold aspect; wintry one,
Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out
The other, which the ray divine hath touch'd,
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring.'

The Recluse chimes in with some remarks with which
the Wanderer, as usual, does not accord, and he there-
fore makes reply.

'That which we feel we utter: as we think
So have we argued : reaping for our pains
No visible recompense. For our relief,
You,' to the Pastor turning thus he spake,
'Have kindly interposed. May I entreat

Your further help? The mine of real life
Dig for us; and present us, in the shape
Of virgin ore, that gold which we by pains
Fruitless as those of aëry alchemists,

Seek from the torturing crucible. Their lies
Around us a domain where you have long
Held spiritual sway, have guided and consoled,
And watch'd the outward course and inner heart.
Give us, for our abstraction solid facts;

For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man
He is who cultivates yon hanging field;
What qualities of mind she bears, who comes,
For morn and evening service, with her pail,
To that green pasture; place before our sight
The family who dwell within yon house
Fenced round with glittering laurel; or in that
Below, from which the curling smoke ascends.
Or rather, as we stand on holy earth,

And have the dead around us, take from them
Your instances; for they are both best known,
And by frail man most equitably judged.
Epitomize the life; pronounce, you can,
Authentic epitaphs on some of these

Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought,
Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet.
So, by your record, may our doubts be solved;
And so, not searching higher, we may learn
To prize the breath we share with human kind,
And look upon the dust of man with awe.'

The Pastor acknowledges his fitness for the task, but before speaking of those laid at rest in the churchyard, gives one picture of the living, and points out a small spot of cultivated ground on the mountain's brow, the dwelling of a humble pair whose moral quality he extols. The mention of this worthy couple recalls to the memory of the Wanderer an adventure which befel him.

'Much was I pleased,' the grey-hair'd Wanderer said,

'When to those shining fields our notice first
You turn'd; and yet more pleased have from your lips
Gather'd this fair report of those who dwell
In that retirement; whither, by such course
Of evil hap and good as oft awaits

A lone wayfaring man, I once was brought.
Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell
While I was traversing yon mountain-pass
And night succeeded with unusual gloom,
So that my feet and hands at length became
Guides better than mine eyes- until a light
High in the gloom appear'd, too high, methought,
For human habitation; but I long'd

To reach it, destitute of other hope.

I look'd with steadiness as sailors look

On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp,
And saw the light, now fix'd, and shifting now,
Not like a dancing meteor, but in line
Of never-varying motion, to and fro.
"It is no night-fire of the naked hills,"
Said I"some friendly covert must be near.'
With this persuasion thitherward my steps
I turn, and reach at last the guiding light;
Joy to myself! but to the heart of her
Who there was standing on the open hill
(The same kind matron whom your tongue hath
praised),

Alarm and disappointment! The alarm

Ceased, when she learn'd through what mishap I came And by what help had gain'd those distant fields. Drawn from her cottage on that open height,

Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood,

Or paced the ground, to guide her husband home,
By that unwearied sigual, kenn'd afar;
An anxious duty! which the lofty site,
Far from all public road or beaten way,
And traversed only by a few faint paths,
Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance

(Such chance is rare) detains him till the night
Falls black upon the hills. But come," she said,

66

"Come let me lead you to our poor abode :
Behind those rocks it stands, as if it shunn'd
In churlishness, the eye of all mankind;
But the few guests who seek the door receive
Most hearty welcome." Entering I beheld
A blazing fire-beside a cleanly hearth
Sate down; and to her office, with leave ask'd
The dame return'd. Before that glowing pile
Of mountain turf required the builder's hand
Its wasted splendour to repair, the door
Open'd and she re-enter'd with glad looks,
Her helpmate following. Hospitable fare,
Frank conversation, made the evening's treat:
Need a bewilder'd traveller wish for more?
But more was given; the eye, the mind, the heart,
Found exercise in noting as we sate

By the bright fire, the good man's face — composed
Of features elegant; an open brow

Of undisturb'd humanity; a cheek

Suffused with something of a feminine hue;
Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ;
But, in the quicker turns of the discourse,
Expression slowly varying, that evinced
A tardy apprehension. From a fount
Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time,
But honour'd once, these features and that mien
May have descended, though I see them here.
In such a man, so gentle and subdued,
Withal so graceful in his gentleness,
A race illustrious for heroic deeds,
Humbled, but not degraded, may expire.
This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld
By sundry recollections of such fall
From high to low, ascent from low to high,
As books record, and even the careless mind
Cannot but notice among men and things)
Went with me to the place of my repose.

'Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, I yet had risen too late to interchange

A morning salutation with my host,
Gone forth already to the far-off seat

Of his day's work. "Three dark mid-winter months
Pass" said the matron," and I never see,

Save when the sabbath brings its kind release,
My helpmate's face by light of day. He quits
His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns.
And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the
bread

For which we pray; and for the wants provide
Of sickness, accident, and helpless age.
Companions have I many; many friends,
Dependants, comforters: my wheel, my fire,
All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear,
The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood,
And the wild birds, that gather round my porch.
This honest sheep-dog's countenance I read ;
With him can talk; nor seldom waste a word
On creatures less intelligent and shrewd.
And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds,
Care not for me, he lingers round my door,
And makes me pastime when our tempers suit:
But, above all, my thoughts are my support."
The matron ended, nor could I forbear
To exclaim, "O happy! yielding to the law
Of these privations, richer in the main :

While thankless thousands are oppress'd and clogg'd
By ease and leisure; by the very wealth

And pride of opportunity made poor;

While tens of thousands falter in their path,

And sink, through utter want of cheering light;
For you the hours of labour do not flag;
For you each evening hath its shining star,
And every Sabbath-day its golden sun.”

"Yes!' said the Solitary, with a smile That seem'd to break from an expanding heart, 'The untutor'd bird may found, and so construct, And with such soft materials line, her nest, Fix'd in the centre of a prickly brake,