And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound Was wasted on the good man's living ear, Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;
And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.
"Soul-cheering light, most bountiful of things!
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter!
Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and heaven We all too thanklessly participate,
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complain'd; Ask of the channell❜d rivers if they held A safer, easier, more determined course. What terror doth it strike into the mind To think of one, who cannot see, advancing Towards some precipice's airy brink!
But, timely warn'd, he would have stay'd his steps; Protected, say enlighten'd, by his ear,
And on the very brink of vacancy
Not more endanger'd than a man whose eye Beholds the gulf beneath. No flow'ret blooms Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills, Or in the woods, that could from him conceal Its birthplace; none whose figure did not live Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth Enrich'd with knowledge his industrious mind; The ocean paid him tribute from the stores Lodged in her bosom; and by science led, His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. Methinks I see him; how his eyeballs roll'd Beneath his ample brow, in darkness pair'd,- But each instinct with spirit; and the frame Of the whole countenance alive with thought, Fancy, and understanding; while the voice Discoursed of natural and moral truth With eloquence, and such authentic power, That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood Abash'd, and tender pity overawed."
"A noble, and, to unreflecting minds, A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, "Beings like these present! But proofs abound Upon the earth that faculties, which seem Extinguish'd, do not, therefore, cease to be. And to the mind among her powers of sense This transfer is permitted,-not alone That the bereft may win their recompense; But for remoter purposes of love And charity; not last nor least for this, That to the imagination may be given A type and shadow of an awful truth, How, likewise, under sufferance divine, Darkness is banish'd from the realms of death,
By man's imperishable spirit, quell'd. Unto the men who see not as we see, Futurity was thought, in ancient times, To be laid open, and they prophesied. And know we not that from the blind have flow'd The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre; And wisdom married to immortal verse?'
Among the humbler worthies, at our feet Lying insensible to human praise,
Love, or regret-whose lineaments would next Have been portray'd, I guess not; but it chanced That near the quiet churchyard where we sate, A team of horses, with a pond'rous freight Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope, Whose sharp descent confounded their array, Came at that moment, ringing noisily.
"Here," said the Pastor, "do we muse, and mourn The waste of death; and lo! the giant oak Stretch'd on his bier!-that massy timber-wain; Nor fail to note the man who guides the team."
He was a peasant of the lowest class : Grey locks profusely round his temples hung In clust'ring curis, like ivy, which the bite Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged Within his cheek, as light within a cloud; And he return'd our greeting with a smile. When he had pass'd, the Solitary spake: "A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident to-morrows; with a face Not worldly-minded; for it bears too much Of Nature's impress,-gaiety and health, Freedom and hope; but keen, withal, and shrewd. His gestures note,-and hark! his tones of voice Are all vivacious as his mien and looks."
The Pastor answer'd: "You have read him well Year after year is added to his store
With silent increase: summers, winters-past, Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say, Ten summers and ten winters of the space That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix The obligation of an anxious mind, A pride in having, or a fear to lose; Possess'd like outskirts of some large domain, By any one more thought of than by him Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord! Yet is the creature rational-endow'd
With foresight; hears, too, every Sabbath day, The Christian promise with attentive ear, Nor disbelieves the tidings which he hears. Meanwhile the incense offer'd up by him Is of the kind which beasts and birds present
In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul, From trepidation and repining free. How many scrupulous worshippers fall down Upon their knees, and daily homage pay Less worthy, less religious even, than his !
"This qualified respect, the old man's due, Is paid without reluctance; but in truth" (Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile) "I feel at times a motion of despite
Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill, As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part In works of havoc; taking from these vales, One after one, their proudest ornaments. Full oft his doings leave me to deplore
Tall ash-tree sown by winds, by vapours nursed, In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks; Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge, Transparent texture, framing in the east. A veil of glory for the ascending moon; And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damp'd, And on whose forehead inaccessible
The raven lodged in safety. Many a ship Launch'd into Morecamb Bay, hath owed to him Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears The loftiest of her pendants. Help he gives To lordly mansion rising far or near;
The enormous wheel that turns ten thousand spindles, And the vast engine labouring in the mine, Content with meaner prowess, must have lack'd The trunk and body of their marvellous strength, If his undaunted enterprise had fail'd Among the mountain coves, or keen research In forest, park, or chase. Yon household fir, A guardian planted to fence off the blast, But towering high the roof above, as if Its humble destination were forgot; That sycamore, which annually holds Within its shade, as in a stately tent On all sides open to the fanning breeze, A grave assemblage, seated while they shear The fleece-encumber'd flock-the 'Joyful Elm,'" Around whose trunk the lasses dance in May,
And the 'Lord's Oak' would plead their several rights In vain, if he were master of their fate. Not one would have his pitiful regard, For prized accommodation, pleasant use, For dignity, for old acquaintance sake, For ancient custom or distinguish'd name. His sentence to the axe would doom them all. But green in age and lusty as he is, And promising to stand from year to year, Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men Than with the forest's more enduring growth,
His own appointed hour will come at last; And like the haughty spoilers of the world, This keen destroyer, in his turn, must fall.
"Now from the living, pass we once again; From age," the Priest continued, "turn your thoughts ;From age, that often unlamented drops,
And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long. Seven lusty sons sate daily round the board Of Gold-rill side; and when the hope had ceased Of other progeny, a daughter then
Was given, the crowning glory of the whole ! Welcomed with joy, whose penetrating power Was not unfelt amid that heavenly calm With which by nature every mother's soul Is stricken, in the moment when her throes Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry Which tells her that a living child is born, And she lies conscious in a blissful rest, That the dread storm is weather'd by them both.
"The father-him at this unlook'd-for gift A bolder transport seizes. From the side Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, And from the laurel-shaded seat thereby, Day after day the gladness is diffused To all that come, and almost all that pass; Invited, summon'd, to partake the cheer Spread on the never-empty board, and drink Health and good wishes to his new-born girl, From cups replenish'd by his joyous hand. Those seven fair brothers variously were moved Each by the thoughts best suited to his years: But most of all, and with most thankful mind, The hoary grandsire felt himself enrich'd; A happiness that ebb'd not, but remain'd' To fill the total measure of the soul ! From the low tenement, his own abode, Whither, as to a little private cell,
He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, To spend the sabbath of old age in peace, Once every day he duteously repair'd To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe: For in that female infant's name he heard The silent name of his departed wife; Heart-stirring music! hourly heard that name Full blest he was, 'Another Margaret Green,' Oft did he say, · was come to Gold-rill side."
"Oh! pang unthought of, as the precious boo Itself had been unlook'd-for-oh! dire stroke Of desolating anguish for them all!
Just as the child could totter on the floor,
And by some friendly finger's help upstay'd,
Range round the garden-walk, whose low ground-flowers
Were peeping forth, shy messengers of spring,- Even at that hopeful time,-the winds of March, One sunny day, smiting insidiously,
Raised in the tender passage of the throat Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarn'd, The household lost their hope and soul's delight. But Providence, that gives and takes away By his own law, is merciful and just;
Time wants not power to soften all regrets,
And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears Fail not to spring from either parent's eye Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own, Yet this departed little one, too long The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps In what may now be call'd a peaceful grave.
"On a bright day, the brightest of the year, These mountains echo'd with an unknown sound, A volley, thrice repeated o'er the corse Let down into the hollow of that grave, Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth! Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods, That they may knit together, and therewith Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness! Nor so the valley shall forget her loss. Dear youth, by young and old alike beloved, To me as precious as my own!-Green herbs May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) Over thy last abode, and we may pass Reminded less imperiously of thee:- The ridge itself may sink into the breast Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more; Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, Thy image disappear. The mountain-ash, Deck'd with autumnal berries that outshine Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show, Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen By a brook-side, or solitary tarn,
How she her station doth adorn,-the pool Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks Are brighten'd round her. In his native valo Such and so glorious did this youth appear; A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, By all the graces with which Nature's hand Had bounteously array'd him. As old barde Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, Pan or Apollo, veil'd in human form; Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade, Discover'd in their own despite to sense Of mortals (if such fables without blame
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