And in the wisdom of our daily life. For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, He had observed the progress and decay Of many minds, of minds and bodies too; The history of many families;
How they had prosper'd; how they were o'erthrown By passion or mischance; or such misrule Among the unthinking masters of the earth As makes the nations groan. This active course, Chosen in youth, through manhood he pursued, Till due provision for his modest wants
Had been obtain'd; and, thereupon, resolved To pass the remnant of his days untask'd With needless services, from hardship free. His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: But still he loved to pace the public roads
And the wild paths; and, when the summer's warmth Invited him, would often leave his home And journey far, revisiting those scenes That to his memory were most endear'd. Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, untouch'd By worldly-mindedness or anxious care; Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refresh'd By knowledge gather'd up from day to day ;- Thus had he lived a long and innocent life.
The Scottish Church, both on himself and those With whom from childhood he grew up, had held The strong hand of her purity; and still Had watch'd him with an unrelenting eye. This he remember'd in his riper age With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. But by the native vigour of his mind, By his habitual wanderings out of doors, By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, Whate'er in docile childhood or in youth He had imbibed of fear or darker thought, Was melted all away: so true was this, That sometimes his religion seem'd to me Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; Who to the model of his own pure heart Framed his belief, as grace divine inspired, Or human reason dictated with awe. -And surely never did there live on earth A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports And teasing ways of children vex'd not him; Nor could he bid them from his presence, tired With questions and importunate demand. Indulgent listener was he to the tongue Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's tale. To his fraternal sympathy address'd, Obtain reluctant hearing.
Plain his garb, Such as might suit a rustic sire, prepared
"And, from the cheerless spot
Withdrawing. straightway to the shade returned Where sate the old inan on the cottage-bench."
For Sabbath duties; yet he was a man
Whom no one could have pass'd without remark, Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs And his whole figure breathed intelligence. Time had compress'd the freshness of his cheek Into a narrower circle of deep red;
But had not tamed his eye, that under brows Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought From years of youth; which, like a being made Of many beings, he had wondrous skill
To blend with knowledge of the years to come, Human, or such as lie beyond the grave.
So was he framed and such his course of life, Who now, with no appendage but a staff, The prized memorial of relinquish'd toils, Upon that cottage bench reposed his limbs, Screen'd from the sun. Supine the wanderer lay, His eyes as if in drowsiness half-shut, The shadows of the breezy elms above Dappling his face. He had not heard my steps As I approach'd, and near him did I stand Unnoticed in the shade some minutes' space. At length I hail'd him, seeing that his hat Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim Had newly scoop'd a running stream. He rose, And ere the pleasant greeting that ensued Was ended, "Tis," said I, a burning day; My lips are parch'd with thirst, but you, I guess, Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, Pointing towards a sweet-brier, bade me climb The fence hard by, where that aspiring shrub Look'd out upon the road. It was a plot Of garden-ground run wild, its matted weeds
Mark'd with the steps of those, whom, as they pass'd, The gooseberry-trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants hanging from their leafless stems
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap The broken wall. I look'd around, and there, Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs Join'd in a cold damp nook, espied a well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade return'd Where sate the old man on the cottage bench; And while, beside him, with uncover'd head, I yet was standing, freely to respire, And cool my temples in the fanning air, Thus did he speak :-"I see around me here Things which you cannot see: we die, my friend Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth, Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left.
The poets, in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn. And senseless rocks; nor idly-for they speak, In these their invocations, with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, That steal upon the meditative mind,
And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood And eyed its waters till we seem'd to feel One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up In mortal stillness; and they minister'd To human comfort. As I stoop'd to drink, Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, Green with the moss of years; a pensive sight That moved my heart, recalling former days, When I could never pass that road but she Who lived within these walls, at my approach, A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her As my own child. O sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a passenger Hath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken spring; and no one came But he was welcome; no one went away But that it seem'd she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguish'd of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandon'd to decay,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave!
"I speak," continued he, "of one whose stock Of virtues bloom'd beneath this lowly roof. She was a woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love, Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy Of her own thoughts: by some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A being, who, by adding love to peace, Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded partner lack'd not on his side The humble worth that satisfied her heart; Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would te That he was often seated at his loom, In summer, ere the mower was abroad Among the dewy grass,-in early spring, Ere the last star had vanish'd. They who pass'd At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply,
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