Of many helpless Children. I begin With words which 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 filled 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; He gives it-the boon produce of a soil Which our endeavours have refused to till, And hope hath never watered. The Abode, Whose grateful owner can attest these truths, Even were the objects nearer to our sight, Would seem in no distinction to surpass The rudest habitations. Ye might think That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown Out of the living rock, to be adorned
By nature only; but, if thither led,
Ye would discover, then, a studious work Of many fancies prompting many hands.
Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon Roof-high; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall, And with the flowers are intermingled stones Sparry and bright, the scatterings of the hills. These ornaments, that fade not with the year, A hardy Girl continues to provide;
Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him All that a boy could do, but with delight More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she, Within the garden, like the rest, a bed
For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space, By sacred charter, holden for her use. -These, and whatever else the garden bears Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not,
I freely gather; and my leisure draws
A not unfrequent pastime from the sight
Of the bees murmuring round their sheltered hives In that inclosure: while the mountain rill, That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice To the pure course of human life which there Flows on in solitude from year to year.
-But at the closing-in of night, then most This Dwelling charms me. Covered by the gloom, Then, in my walks, I oftentimes stop short, (Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight With prospect of the company within,
Laid open through the blazing window:-there I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel Spinning amain, as if to overtake
The never-halting time; or, in her turn, Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood That skill in this or other household work, Which from her Father's honoured hand, herself, While she was yet a little one, had learned. Mild Man! he is not gay, but they are gay; And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. -Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed, The Wife who rests beneath that turf, from which I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, And how, her Spirit yet survived on earth!
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. CONTINUED.
Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind-Pastor invited to give account of certain Graves that lie apart-Clergyman and his Family-Fortunate influence of change of situation-Activity in extreme old age-Another Clergyman, a character of resolute Virtue-Lamentations over mis-directed applause-Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man-Elevated character of a blind man -Reflection upon Blindness-Interrupted by a Peasant who passes -his animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity-He occasions a digression on the fall of beautiful and interesting Trees-A female Infant s Grave; Joy at her birth-Sorrow at her departure-A youthful Peasant-his patriotic enthusiasm-distinguished qualities-and untimely death-Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this PictureSolitary how affected-Monument of a Knight-Traditions concerning him-Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things and the revolutions of society-Hints at his own past CallingThanks to the Pastor.
WHILE thus from theme to theme the historian passed, The words he uttered, and the scene that lay Before our eyes, awakened in my mind
Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours, When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, (What time the splendour of the setting sun Lay beautiful on Snowden's craggy top, On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) A wandering Youth, I listened with delight To pastoral melody or warlike air,
Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp By some accomplished Master, while he sate Amid the quiet of the green recess, And there did inexhaustibly dispense An interchange of soft and solemn tunes, Tender or blithe; now, as the varying mood Of his own spirit urged,-now, as a voice From youth or maiden, or some honoured chief Of his compatriot villagers (that hung Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power Were they, to seize and occupy the sense; But to a higher mark than song can reach Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left, Deposited upon the silent shore
Of memory, images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
"The grassy heaps lie amicably close," Said I, "like surges heaving in the wind Upon the surface of a mountain pool; Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold Five graves, and only five, that lie apart,
Unsociable company and sad;
And, furthermore, appearing to encroach
On the smooth play-ground of the village-school?"
The Vicar answered,-" No disdainful pride In them who rest beneath, nor any course Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped To place those hillocks in that lonely guise. -Once more look forth, and follow with your eyes The length of road which from yon mountain's base Through bare inclosures stretches, 'till its line Is lost among a little tuft of trees;
Then, re-appearing in a moment, quits The cultured fields; and up the heathy waste, Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine, Towards an easy outlet of the vale. That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, By which the road is hidden, also hides A cottage from our view; though I discern (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees The smokeless chimney-top.
And naked stood that lowly Parsonage (For such in truth it is, and appertains To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) When hither came its last Inhabitant. Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads
By which our northern wilds could then be crossed;
And into most of these secluded vales Was no access for wain, heavy or light. So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived With store of household goods, in panniers slung On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells, And on the back of more ignoble beast; That, with like burthen of effects most prized Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. Young was I then, a school-boy of eight years; But still, methinks, I see them as they passed In order, drawing tow'rds their wished-for home. -Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight, Each in his basket nodding drowsily;
Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers, Which told it was the pleasant month of June; And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, A woman of soft speech and gracious smile, And with a lady's mien.-From far they came, Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs had been A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered
By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest;
And freak put on, and arch word dropped-to swell The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise
That gathered round the slowly-moving train.
Whence do they come? and with what errand charged? Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe
'Who pitch their tents beneath the green-wood tree?
'Or are they Strollers, furnished to enact
'Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood,
'And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set forth
"The lucky venture of sage Whittington,
'When the next village hears the show announced 'By blast of trumpet?' Plenteous was the growth Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen On many a staring countenance portrayed Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. And more than once their steadiness of face Was put to proof, and exercise supplied To their inventive humour, by stern looks, And questions in authoritative tone, From some staid guardian of the public peace, Checking the sober steed on which he rode, In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still, By notice indirect, or blunt demand
From traveller halting in his own despite, A simple curiosity to ease:
Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered Their grave migration, the good pair would tell, With undiminished glee, in hoary age.
A Priest he was by function; but his course From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon,
(The hour of life to which he then was brought) Had been irregular, I might say, wild; By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care Too little checked. An active, ardent mind; A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme To cheat the sadness of a rainy day; Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games; A generous spirit, and a body strong
To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl; Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall
Of country 'squire; or at the statelier board Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp Withdrawn,-to while away the summer hours In condescension among rural guests.
With these high comrades he had revelled long, Had frolicked many a year; a simple Clerk By hopes of coming patronage beguiled And vexed, until the weary heart grew sick; And so, abandoning each higher aim And all his showy friends, at length he turned For a life's stay, though slender, yet assured, To this remote and humble chapelry; Which had been offered to his doubtful choice By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare They found the cottage, their allotted home; Naked without, and rude within; a spot With which the scantily-provided cure Not long had been endowed; and far remots The chapel stood, divided from that house By an unpeopled tract of mountain waste. Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice Or the necessity that fixed him here; Apart from old temptations, and constrained To punctual labour in his sacred charge, See him a constant preacher to the poor; And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will, The sick in body, or distress'd in mind; And, by as salutary change, compelled To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud Or splendid than his garden could afford,
His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, Or those wild brooks; from which he now returned Contentedly to take a temperate meal
At his own board, where sat his gentle Mate And three fair Children, plentifully fed,
Though simple, from their little household farm, With acceptable treat of fish or fowl
By nature yielded to his practised hand;
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