Had moralized on this and other truths
Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied,
Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh
Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness,
When he had crush'd a plentiful estate
By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat
In Britain's senate. Fruitless was th' attempt;
And while the uproar of that desperate strife
Continued yet to vibrate on his ear,
The vanquish'd Whig, beneath a borrow'd name
(For the mere sound and echo of his own
Haunted him with sensations of disgust
Which he was glad to lose), slunk from the world
To the deep shade of these untravell'd wilds;
In which the Scottish laird had long possess'd
An undisturb'd abode. Here, then, they met,
Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite
And sullen Hanoverian! You might think
That losses and vexations less severe
Than those which they had severally sustain'd,
Would have inclined each to abate his zeal
For his ungrateful cause; no, I have heard
My reverend father tell that, 'mid the calm
Of that small town encountering thus, they fill'd,
Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife;
Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church,
And vex'd the market-place. But in the breasts
Of these opponents gradually was wrought,
With little change of general sentiment,
Such change towards each other, that their days
By choice were spent in constant fellowship;
And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke,
Those very bickerings made them love it more.
'A favourite boundary to their lengthen'd walks
This churchyard was. And whether they had come
Treading their path in sympathy, and link'd
In social converse, or by some short space
Discreetly parted to preserve the peace
One spirit seldom fail'd to extend its sway
Over both minds, when they awhile had mark'd
The visible quiet of this holy ground,
And breathed its soothing air the spirit of hope
And saintly magnanimity that, spurning
The field of selfish difference and dispute,
And every care which transitory things,
Earth, and the kingdoms of the earth create,
Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness,
Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarr'd
Which else the Christian virtue might have claim'd.
There live who yet remember here to have seen
Their courtly figures, seated on the stump
Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place.
But, as the remnant of the long-lived tree
Was disappearing by a swift decay,
They, with joint care, determin’d to erect,
Upon its site, a dial, which should stand
For public use; and also might survive,
As their own private monument; for this
Was the particular spot in which they wish'd,
(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire)
That undivided, their remains should lie.
So, where the moulder'd tree had stood, was raised
Yon structure, framing with the ascent of steps
That to the decorated pillar lead,
A work of art, more sumptuous, as might seem,
Than suits this place; yet built in no proud scorn
Of rustic homeliness; they only aim'd
To insure for it respectful guardianship.
Around the margin of the plate, whereon
The shadow falls, to note the stealthy hours,
Winds an inscriptive legend.' At these words
Thither we turn'd; and gather'd as we read,
The appropriate sense, in latin numbers couch'd :
'Time flies; it is his melancholy task
To bring, and bear away delusive hopes,
And reproduce the troubles he destroys.
But, while his blindness thus is occupied,
Discerning mortal, do thou serve the will
Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace,
Which the world wants, shall be confirm'd !'
The Vicar paused, and tow'rds a seat advanced, A long stone seat, framed in the churchyard wall ; Part under shady sycamore, and part
Offering a place of rest, in pleasant sunshine,
Even as may suit the comers, old or young,
Who seek the house of worship, while the bells
Yet ring with all their voices, or before
The last hath ceased its solitary knell.
To this commodious resting-place he led ;
Where, by his side, we all sat down; and there
His office, uninvited, he resumed.
'As, on a sunny bank, a tender lamb
Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March,
Screen'd by its parent, so that little mound
Lies guarded by its neighbour; the small heap
Speaks for itself; an infant there doth rest,
The sheltering hillock is the mother's grave.
If mild discourse, and manners that conferr'd
A natural dignity on humblest rank;
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks
That for a face not beautiful did more
Than beauty for the fairest face can do ;
And if religious tenderness of heart,
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears
Shed when the clouds had gather'd and disstain'd
The spotless ether of a maiden life;
If these may make a hallow'd spot on earth
More holy in the sight of God or man;
Then, on that mound a sanctity shall brood,
Till the stars sicken at the day of doom.
'Ah! what a warning for a thoughtless man,
Could field or grove, or any spot of earth,
Show to his eye an image of the pangs
Which it hath witness'd render back an echo
Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
There, by her innocent baby's precious grave
Yea, doubtless on the turf that roofs her own,
The mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel
In the broad daylight, a weeping Magdalene.
Now she is not; the swelling turf_reports
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears
Is silent; nor is any vestige left
Upon the pathway of her mournful tread ;
Nor of that pace with which she once had moved
In virgin fearlessness, a step that seem'd
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf
Upon the mountain wet with morning dew,
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs.
Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet,
By reconcilement exquisite and rare,
The form, port, motions of this cottage girl
Were such as might have quicken'd and inspired
A Titian's hand, address'd to picture forth
Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade
When first the hunter's startling horn is heard
Upon the golden hills. A spreading elm
Stands in our valley, call'd "the Joyful Tree;'
An elm distinguish'd by that festive name,
From dateless usage which our peasants hold
Of giving welcome to the first of May
By dances round its trunk. And if the sky
Permit, like honours, dance and song are paid
To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars
Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports,
If not in beauty yet in sprightly air,
Was hapless Ellen. No one touch'd the ground
So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks
Less gracefully were braided; but this praise,
Methinks, would better suit another place.
She loved, and fondly deem'd herself beloved.
The road is dim the current unperceived,
The weakness painful and most pitiful,
By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth,
May be deliver'd to distress and shame.
Such fate was hers. The last time Ellen danced
Among her equals round “the Joyful Tree,”
She bore a secret burthen; and full soon
Was left to tremble for a breaking vow,
Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow,
Alone, within her widow'd mother's house.
It was the season sweet of budding leaves.
Of days advancing towr'ds their utmost length
And small birds singing to their happy mates.
Wild is the music of the autumnal wind
Among the faded woods; but these blithe notes
Strike the deserted to the heart; I speak
Of what I know, and what we feel within.
Twill please you to be told
That studiously withdrawing from the eye
Of all companionship, the sufferer yet
In lonely reading found a meek resource.
How thankful for the warmth of summer days,
And their long twilight! — friendly to that stealth
With which she slipp'd into the cottage barn,
And found a secret oratory there;
Or, in the garden, pored upon her book
By the last lingering help of open sky,
Till the dark night dismiss'd her to her bed.
Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
'A kindlier passion open'd on her soul
When that poor child was born. Upon its face
She look'd as on a pure and spotless gift
Of unexpected promise, where a grief
Or dread was all that had been thought of- joy
Far sweeter than bewilder'd traveller feels
Upon a perilous waste, where all night long
Through darkness he hath toil'd and fearful storm,
When he beholds the first pale speck serene
Of day-spring in the gloomy east reveal'd
And greets it with thanksgiving. "Till this hour,"
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