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, determined to erect, Upon its site, a dial, that might stand For public use preserved, and thus survive As their own private monument; for this Was the particular spot, in which they wish'd (And Heaven was pleased t' accomplish the desire) That, undivided, their remains should lie.
So, where the moulder'd tree had stood, was raised Yon structure, framing, with th' ascent of steps That to the decorated pillar lead,
Exchange the shepherd's frock of native gray For robes with regal purple tinged; convert The crook into a sceptre :-give the pomp Of circumstance, and here the tragic muse Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. Amid the groves, beneath the shadowy hills, The generations are prepared; the pangs, The internal pangs are ready; the dread strife Of poor humanity's afflicted will
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." "Though," said the priest in answer, "these be terms
Which a divine philosophy rejects, We, whose establish'd and unfailing trust Is in controlling providence, admit
That, through all stations, human life abounds With mysteries:-for, if faith were left untried, How could the might, that lurks within her, then Be shown? her glorious excellence-that ranks Among the first of powers and virtues-proved? Our system is not fashion'd to preclude That sympathy which you for others ask; And I could tell, not travelling for my theme Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes And strange disasters: but I pass them by, Loath to disturb what heaven hath hush'd in peace. Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat Of man degraded in his Maker's sight By the deformities of brutish vice: For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face And a course outside of repulsive life And unaffecting manners might at once
A work of art more sumptuous than might seem To suit this place; yet built in no proud scorn Of rustic homeliness: they only aim'd To ensure 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 for thee confirm'd." "Smooth verse, inspired by no unletter'd muse," Exclaim'd the skeptic, " and the strain of thought Accords with nature's language; the soft voice Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. If, then, their blended influence be not lost Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, E'en upon mine, the more are we required To feel for those among our fellow men, Who, offering no obeisance to the world, Are yet made desperate by too quick a sense Of constant infelicity,'-cut off From peace like exiles on some barren rock, Their life's appointed prison; not more free Than sentinels, between two armies, set, With nothing better, in the chill night air, Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say why Within this ground, were covetous of praise,
Be recognised by all-" "Ah! do not think," The wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaim'd, "Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, (Gain shall I call it ?-gain of what?-for whom?) Should breathe a word tending to violate Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look or In slight of that forbearance and reserve Which common human-heartedness inspires, And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else."
That ancient story of Prometheus chain'd? The vulture-the inexhaustible repast
"True," said the solitary, "be it far From us to infringe the laws of charity. Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced; This, self-respecting nature prompts, and this Wisdom enjoins; but, if the thing we seek Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling Colours as bright on exhalations bred By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, Or the pellucid lake."
"Of such illusion do we here incur ; Temptation here is none to exceed the truth No evidence appears that they who rest
Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. Green is the churchyard, beautiful and green,
Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge,
By Tantalus entail'd upon his race, And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes? Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, Tremendous truths! familiar to the men Of long past times, nor obsolete in ours.
A heaving surface-almost wholly free From interruption of sepulchral stones, And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf And everlasting flowers. These dalesmen trust The lingering gleam of their departed lives
To oral records and the silent heart;
Depository faithful, and more kind
Than fondest epitaphs: for, if that fail,
In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. Tall was her stature; her complexion dark And saturnine; her head not raised to hold
What boots the sculptured tomb? and who can Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards earth,
Who rather would not envy, men that feel This mutual confidence; if, from such source, The practice flow,-if thence, or from a deep And general humility in death?
Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring From disregard of time's destructive power, As only capable to prey on things
Of earth and human nature's mortal part. Yet-in less simple districts, where we see Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone In courting notice, and the ground all paved With commendations of departed worth; Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives, Of each domestic charity fulfill'd,
And sufferings meekly borne-I, for my part, Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, Among those fair recitals also range,
Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. And in the centre of a world whose soil Is rank with all unkindness, compass'd round With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, It was no momentary happiness
But in projection carried, as she walk'd For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes; Wrinkled and furrow'd with habitual thought Was her broad forehead; like the brow of one Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare Of overpowering light. While yet a child, She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale, Tower'd like the imperial thistle, not unfurnish'd With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking To be admired, than coveted and loved. E'en at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen Over her comrades; else their simple sports, Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, Had cross'd her, only to be shunn'd with scorn. O! pang of sorrowful regret for those Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthrall'd, That they have lived for harsher servitude, Whether in soul, in body, or estate!
Such doom was her's; yet nothing could subdue Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface Those brighter images-by books imprest Upon her memory, faithfully as stars That occupy their places-and, though oft
To have one enclosure where the voice that speaks Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimm'd by haze,
In envy or detraction is not heard ;
Which malice may not enter; where the traces
Of evil inclinations are unknown;
Where love and pity tenderly unite With resignation; and no jarring tone Intrudes the peaceful concert to disturb Of amity and gratitude."
"Thus sanction'd," The pastor said, "I willingly confine My narratives to subjects that excite Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem, And admiration lifting up a veil, A sunbeam introducing among hearts Retired and covert; so that ye shall have Clear images before your gladden'd eyes Of nature's unambitious underwood,
And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when I speak of such among my flock as swerved Or fell, those only will I single out Upon whose lapse, or error, something more Than brotherly forgiveness may attend; To such will we restrict our notice-else
Better my tongue were mute. And yet there are, I feel, good reasons why we should not leave Wholly untraced a more forbidding way, For strength to persevere and to support, And energy to conquer and repel ;- These elements of virtue, that declare The native grandeur of the human soul, Are ofttimes not unprofitably shown In the perverseness of a selfish course: Truth every day exemplified, no less In the gray cottage by the murmuring stream That in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, Or 'mid the factious senate, unappall'd While merciless proscription ebbs and flows. There," said the vicar, pointing as he spake, "A woman rests in peace; surpass'd by few
Are not to be extinguish'd, nor impair'd.
"Two passions, both degenerate, for they both
Began in honour, gradually obtain'd
Rule over her, and vex'd her daily life;
An unrelenting avaricious thrift;
And a strange thralden of maternal love, That held her spirit in its own despite, Bound-by vexation, and regret, and scorn, Constrain'd forgiveness, and relenting vows, And tears, in pride suppress'd, in shame conceal'd— To a poor dissolute son, her only child. Her wedded days had open'd with mishap, Whence dire dependence. What could she perform To shake the burden off? Ah! there was felt, Indignantly the weakness of her sex.
She mused-resolved, adhered to her resolve; The hand grew slack in almsgiving, the heart Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's blessing Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust In ceaseless pains and parsimonious care, Which got, and sternly hoarded each day's gain. "Thus all was re-establish'd, and a pile Constructed, that sufficed for every end Save the contentment of the builder's mind; A mind by nature indisposed to aught So placid, so inactive, as content; A mind intolerant of lasting peace, And cherishing the pang which it deplored. Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared To th' agitation of a brook that runs Down rocky mountains-buried now and lost In silent pools, now in strong eddies chain'd,- But never to be charm'd to gentleness; Its best attainment fits of such repose As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. "A sudden illness seized her in the strength Of life's autumnal season. Shall I tell How on her bed of death the matron lay,
To providence submissive, so she thought; But fretted, vex'd, and wrought upon-almost To anger, by the malady that griped Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb ? She pray'd, she moan'd-her husband's watch'd
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
Of the path worn by mournful tread of her Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved sister In virgin fearlessness, with step that seem'd Caught from the pressure of elastic turf Upon the mountains gemm'd 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, addrest to picture forth Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard Startling the golden hills. A wide spread elm Stands in our valley, named the Joyful Tree; 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.
Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs; And yet the very sound of that kind foot Was anguish to her ears! And must she rule,' This was the dying woman heard to say In bitterness, and must she rule and reign, Sole mistress of this house, when I am gone? Sit by my fire-possess what I possess'd- Tend what I tended-calling it her own!' Enough ;-I fear, too much. One vernal evening, While she was yet in prime of health and strength I well remember, while I pass'd her door, Musing with loitering step, and upward eye Turn'd towards the planet Jupiter that hung Above the centre of the vale, a voice Roused me, her voice; said, that glorious star In its untroubled element will shine As now it shines, when we are laid in earth And safe from all our sorrows.' She is safe, And her uncharitable acts, I trust, And harsh unkindnesses, are all forgiven; Though, in this vale remember'd with deep awe!"
The vicar paused; and toward a seat advanced, A long stone seat, fix'd in the churchyard wall; Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part Offering a sunny resting place to them Who seek the house of worship, while the bells Yet ring with all their voices, or before The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. Under the shade we all sate 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 distain'd The spotless ether of a maiden life;
If these may make a hallow'd spot of earth More holy in the sight of God or man; Then, o'er that mould, 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, could 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 day, a weeping Magdalene.
"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 burden; 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 toward 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 descrted to the heart;-I speak Of what I know, and what we feel within. Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt Stands a tall ash tree; to whose topmost twig A thrush resorts, and annually chants, Amorn and evening from that naked percb, While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, A time-beguiling ditty, for delight
Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. Ah, why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself,
Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge; And nature that is kind in woman's breast, And reason that in man is wise and good, And fear of Him who is a righteous judge, Why do not these prevail for human life, To keep two hearts together, that began Their spring-time with one love, and that have need Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet To grant, or be received; while that poor bird- O come and hear him! thou who hast to me Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature,
One of God's simple children that yet know not The universal Parent, how he sings As if he wish'd the firmament of heaven Should listen, and give back to him the voice Of his triumphant constancy and love; The proclamation that he makes, how far His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!" "Such was the tender passage, not by me Repeated without loss of simple phrase, Which I perused, even as the words had been Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand To the blank margin of a valentine,
Their slender means; so, to that parent's care Trusting her child, she left their common home And with contented spirit undertook A foster-mother's office.
Unknown to you that in these simple vales The natural feeling of equality
Is by domestic service unimpair'd;
Yet, though such service be, with us, removed From sense of degradation, not the less Th' ungentle mind can easily find means T'impose severe restraints and laws unjust,
Bedropp'd with tears. "Twill please you to be told Which hapless Ellen now was doom'd to feel;
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, When she could slip into the cottage barn, And find a secret oratory there; Or, in the garden, under friendly veil Of their long twilight, pore 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 Th' unconquerable pang of despised love.
For (blinded by an over-anxious dread Of such excitement and divided thought As with her office would but ill accord) The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, Forbad her all communion with her own; Week after week, the mandate they enforced. So near! yet not allow'd, upon that sight To fix her eyes-alas! 'twas hard to bear! But worse affliction must be borne-far worse; For 'tis Heaven's will-that, after a disease Begun and ended within three days' space, Her child should die; as Ellen now exclaim'd, Her own-deserted child! Once, only once, She saw it in that mortal malady;
And, on the burial day, could scarcely gain Permission to attend its obsequies. She reach'd the house-last of the funeral train; And some one, as she enter'd, having chanced To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, storm,Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit Of anger never seen in her before,
"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 livelier than bewilder'd traveller feels Amid a perilous waste, that all night long Hath harass'd him-toiling through fearful When he beholds the first pale speck serene Of dayspring, in the gloomy east reveal'd, And greets it with thanksgiving. Thus, in her mother's hearing Ellen spake, There was a stony region in my heart; But He, at whose command the parched rock Was smitten, and pour'd forth a quenching stream, Hath soften'd that obduracy, and made Unlook'd for gladness in the desert place,
To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I look Upon the light with cheerfulness, for thee, My infant and for that good mother dear,
Nay, ye must wait my time!' and down she sate And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, Upon the last sweet slumber of her child, Until at length her soul was satisfied.
"You see the infant's grave; and to this spot, The mother, oft as she was sent abroad, And whatsoe'er the errand, urged her steps: Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt In the broad day-a rueful Magdalene! So call her; for not only she bewail'd
Who bore me, and hath pray'd for me in vain ;- A mother's loss, but mourn'd in bitterness Yet not in vain, it shall not be in vain.' She spake, nor was th' assurance unfulfill'd, And if heartrending thoughts would oft return, They stay'd not long. The blameless infant grew; The child whom Ellen and her mother loved They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed, A soothing comforter, although forlorn; Like a poor singing bird from distant lands; Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by With vacant mind, not seldom may observe Fair flowering in a thinly peopled house, Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns.
Her own transgression, penitent sincere As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye. At length the parents of the foster child, Noting that in despite of their commands She still renew'd and could not but renew Those visitations, ceased to send her forth; Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. I fail'd not to remind them that they err'd; For holy nature might not thus be cross'd, Thus wrong'd in woman's breast: in vain I pleaded-
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapp'd,
Through four months' space the infant drew its And the flower droop'd; as every eye could see,
From the maternal breast; then scruples rose; Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and cross'd
The sweet affection. She no more could bear By her offence to lay a twofold weight
On a kind parent willing to forget
It hung its head in mortal languishment. Aided by this appearance, I at length Prevail'd; and from those bonds released, she went Home to her mother's house. The youth was fled; The rash betrayer could not face the shame Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused; And little would his presence, or proof given
Of a relenting soul, have now avail'd; For, like a shadow, he was pass'd away From Ellen's thoughts; had perish'd to her mind For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love,
Save only those which to their common shame, And to his moral being appertain❜d:
This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals With such, in their affliction. Ellen's fate, Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard
Of one who died within this vale, by doom Heavier, as his offence was heavier far.
Hope from that quarter would, I know, have Where, sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones
A heavenly comfort: there she recognised An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need:
Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?" The vicar answer'd,
In that green nook, close by the churchyard wall, Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself
There, and, as seem'd, there only. She had built, In memory and for warning, and in sign
Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest In blindness all too near the river's edge; That work a summer flood with hasty swell Had swept away; and now her spirit long'd For its last flight to heaven's security. The bodily frame was wasted day by day; Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, Her mind she strictly tutor'd to find peace And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, And much she read; and brooded feelingly Upon her own unworthiness. To me, As to a spiritual comforter and friend,
Her heart she open'd; and no pains were spared To mitigate, as gently as I could,
The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. Meek saint! through patience glorified on earth! In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, The ghastly face of cold decay put on A sun-like beauty, and appear'd divine! May I not mention-that, within those walls, In due observance of her pious wish, The congregation join'd with me in prayer For her soul's good? Nor was that office vain. Much did she suffer: but, if any friend, Beholding her condition, at the sight Gave way to words of pity or complaint,
She still'd them with a prompt reproof, and said, He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; And, when I fail, and can endure no more, Will mercifully take me to himself."
So, through the cloud of death, her spirit pass'd Into that pure and unknown world of love Where injury cannot come :-and here is laid The mortal body by her infant's side."
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, Of reconcilement after deep offence, There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies For the smooth glozings of th' indulgent world; Nor need the windings of his devious course Be here retraced; enough that, by mishap And venial error, robb'd of competence, And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, He craved a substitute in troubled joy ; Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving Divine displeasure, broke the marriage vow. That which he had been weak enough to do Was misery in remembrance; he was stung, Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles Of wife and children stung to agony. Wretched at home, he gain'd no peace abroad; Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, Ask'd comfort of the open air, and found No quiet in the darkness of the night, No pleasure in the beauty of the day. His flock he slighted: his paternal fields Became a clog to him, whose spirit wish'd To fly, but whither! And this gracious church, That wears a look so full of peace and hope And love, benignant mother of the vale, How fair amid her brood of cottages! She was to him a sickness and reproach. Much to the last remain'd unknown: but this Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died; Though pitied among men, absolved by God, He could not find forgiveness in himself; Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. "Here rests a mother. But from her I turn, And from her grave. Behold-upon that ridge,
The vicar ceased; and downcast looks made That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, known
That each had listen'd with his inmost heart. For me, th' emotion scarcely was less strong Or less benign than that which I had felt When, seated near my venerable friend, Beneath those shady elms, from him I heard The story that retraced the slow decline Of Margaret sinking on the lonely heath, With the neglected house to which she clung. I noted that the solitary's cheek Confess'd the power of nature. Pleased though sad, More pleased than sad, the gray-hair'd wanderer sate;
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul Capacious and serene, his blameless life,
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love Of human kind! He was it who first broke The pensive silence, saying, "Blest are they Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong
Carries into the centre of the vale
Its rocks and woods-the cottage where she dwelt And where yet dwells her faithful partner, left (Full eight years past) the solitary prop Of many helpless children. I begin With words that might be prelude to a tale Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel
No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes See daily in that happy family. Bright garland form they for the pensive brow Of their undrooping father's widowhood. Those six fair daughters, budding yet-not one, Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower! Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once That father was, and fill'd with anxious fear, Now, by experience taught, he stands assured, That God, who takes away, yet takes not half Of what he seems to take; or gives it back, Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer;
Than to do wrong, although themselves have err'd. He gives it-the boon produce of a soil
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