Forgetfully; uncall'd upon to pay
The common penalties of mortal life,
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain."
On these and other kindred thoughts intent,
In silence by my comrade's side I lay,
He also silent: when, from out the heart
Of that profound abyss, a solemn voice,
Or several voices in one solemn sound,
Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow
The cadence, as of psalms-a funeral dirge!
We listen'd, looking down towards the hut,
But seeing no one: meanwhile from below
The strain continued, spiritual as before;
And now distinctly could I recognize
These words:"Shall in the grave thy love be known,
In death thy faithfulness?" "God rest his soul !"
The Wand'rer cried, abruptly breaking silence;
"He is departed, and finds peace at last!"
This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains
Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band
Of rustic persons from behind the hut,
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which
They shaped their course along the sloping side
Of that small valley, singing as they moved;
A sober company and few, the men
Bareheaded, and all decently attired.
Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge
Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued
Recovering, to my friend I said, "You spake,
Methought, with apprehension that these rites
Are paid to him upon whose shy retreat
This day we purposed to intrude."
But let us hence, that we may learn the truth.
Perhaps it is not he, but some one else,
For whom this pious service is perform'd;
Some other tenant of the solitude."
So, to a steep and difficult descent
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag,
Where passage could be won; and, as the last
Of the mute train upon the heathy top
Of that off-sloping outlet disappear'd,
I, more impatient in the course I took,
Had landed upon easy ground, and there
Stood waiting for my comrade. When, behold
An object that enticed my steps aside!
It was an entry, narrow as a door,
A passage whose brief windings open'd out
Into a platform, that lay, sheepfold-wise,
Inclosed between a single mass of rock
And one old moss-grown wall; a cool recess,
And fanciful! For, where the rock and wall
Met in an angle, hung a tiny roof,
Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been iramed
By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall
And overlaying them with mountain sods;
To weather-fend a little turf-built seat,
Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;
But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands!
Whose simple skill had throng'd the grassy floor
With work of frame less solid, a proud show
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged;
Nor wanting ornament of walks between,
With mimic trees inserted in the turf,
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight,
I could not choose but beckon to my guide,
Who, having enter'd, carelessly look'd round,
And now would have pass'd on, when I exclaim'd,
"Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth
A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss,
And wreck of particolour'd earthenware,
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise
One of those petty structures.
The Wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his,
And he is gone!" The book, which in my hand
Had open'd of itself (for it was swoln
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain
To th' injurious elements exposed
From week to week), I found to be a work
In the French tongue, a novel of Voltaire,
His famous "Optimist." Unhappy man!"
Exclaim'd my friend; "here, then, has been to him Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place
Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,
And loved the haunts of children; here, no doubt,
He sometimes play'd with them; and here hath sate
Far oft'ner by himself. This book, I guess,
Hath been forgotten in his careless way,
Left here when he was occupied in mind,
And by the cottage children has been found.
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work;
To what odd purpose have the darlings turn'd
This sad memorial of their hapless friend !"
"Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find
Such book in such a place!" "A book it is,"
He answer'd, "to the person suited well,
Though little suited to surrounding things;
Nor, with the knowledge which my mind possess'd,
Could I behold it undisturb'd: 'tis strange,
I grant, and stranger still had been to see
The man who was its owner dwelling here
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,
As from these intimations I forbode,
Grieved shall I be-less for my sake than yours,
And least of all for him who is no more."
By this, the book was in the old man's hand;
And he continued, glancing on the leaves
An eye of scorn: The lover," said he, "doom'd
To love when hope hath fail'd him, whom no depth
Of privacy is deep enough to hide,
Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair,
And that is joy to him. When change of times
Hath summon'd kings to scaffolds, do but give
The faithful servant, who must hide his head
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may,
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood,
And he too hath his comforter.
How poor
Beyond all poverty, how destitute,
Must that man have been left, who, hither driven,
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him
No dearer relique, and no better stay,
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,
Impure conceits discharging from a heart
Harden'd by impious pride! I did not fear
To tax you with this journey," mildly said
My venerable friend, as forth we stepp'd
Into the presence of the cheerful light;
"For I have knowledge that you do not shrink
From moving spectacles; but let us on.
So speaking, on he went, and at the word
I follow'd, till he made a sudden stand;
For full in view, approaching through the gate,
That open'd from the inclosure of green fields
Into the rough uncultivated ground,
Behold the man whom he had fancied dead!
I knew, from the appearance and the dress,
That it could be no other: a pale face,
A tall and meagre person, in a garb
Not rustic,-dull and faded like himself!
He saw us not, though distant but few steps;
For he was busy dealing from a store,
Which on a leaf he carried in his hand,
Strings of ripe currants; gift by which he strove,
With intermixture of endearing words,
To soothe a child who walk'd beside him, weeping
As if disconsolate. "They to the grave
Are bearing him, my little one," he said-
"To the dark pit, but he will feel no pain;
His body is at rest, his soul in heaven."
Glad was my comrade now, though he at first,
I doubt not, had been more surprised than glad.
But now, recover'd from the shock, and calm,
He soberly advanced, and to the man
Gave cordial greeting. Vivid was the light
Which flash'd at this from out the other's eyes;
He was all fire: the sickness from his face
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