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Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed,
This generous youth, too negligent of self
(A natural failing which maturer years
Would have subdued), took fearlessly-and kept-
His wonted station in the chilling flood,
Among a busy company convened

To wash his father's flock. Convulsions dire
Seized him, that self-same night; and through the space
Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched,
Till Nature rested from her work in death.
To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid
A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour
Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue,-
A golden lustre slept upon the hills:

And if by chance a stranger, wandering there,
From some commanding eminence had looked
Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen
A glittering spectacle; but every face

Was pallid; seldom hath that eye been moist
With tears that wept not then; nor were the few,
Who from their dwellings came not forth to join
In this sad service, less disturbed than we.
They started at the tributary peal

Of instantaneous thunder, which announced,
Through the still air, the closing of the grave
And distant mountains echoed with a sound
Of lamentation never heard before !"

The Pastor ceased. My venerable friend
Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye,
And, when that eulogy was ended, stood
Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived
The prolongation of some still response,
Sent by the ancient soul of this wide land-
The spirit of its mountains and its seas,
Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power,
Its rights and virtues-by that Deity
Descending and supporting his pure heart
With patriotic confidence and joy.
And, at the last of those memorial words,
The pining Solitary turned aside;
Whether through manly instinct to conceal
Tender emotions spreading from the heart
To his worn cheek; or with uneasy shame
For those cold humours of habitual spleen,
Which, fondly seeking in dispraise of man,
Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged
To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue.
Right towards the sacred edifice his steps
Had been directed; and we saw him now
Intent upon a monumental stone,

Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall,
Or rather seemed to have grown into the side
Of the rude pile; as ofttimes trunks of trees
Where Nature works in wild and craggy spots,

Are seen incorporate with the living rock;
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note
Of his employment, with a courteous smile
Exclaimed, The sagest antiquarian's eye

That task would foil." And with these added words,
He thitherward advanced: "Tradition tells
That, in Eliza's golden days, a knight
Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired,
And fixed his home in this sequestered vale.
'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath,
Or as a stranger reached this deep recess,
Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought
I sometimes entertain, that haply bound
To Scotland's court in service of his queen,
Or sent on mission to some northern chief
Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen
With transient observation; and thence caught
An image fair, which, brightening in his soul
When years admonished him of failing strength,
And he no more rejoiced in war's delights,
Had power to draw him from the world,--resolved
To make that paradise his chosen home,
To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned.
Vague thoughts are these; but if belief may rest
Upon unwritten story fondly traced

From sire to son, in this obscure retreat

The knight arrived, with pomp of spear and shield,
And borne upon a charger covered o'er

With gilded housings. And the lofty steed-
His sole companion, and his faithful friend,
Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range
In fertile pastures-was beheld with eyes
Of admiration and delightful awe,

By those untravelled dalesmen. With less pride,
Yet free from touch of envious discontent,

They saw a mansion at his bidding rise,
Like a bright star, amid the lowly band

Of their rude homesteads. Here the warrior dwelt,
And in that mansion children of his own,
Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree
That falls and disappears, the house is gone:
And, through improvidence, or want of love
For ancient worth and honourable things,

The spear and shield are vanished, which the knight
Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch
Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains
Of that foundation in domestic care

Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left
Of the mild-hearted champion, save this stone,
Faithless memorial! and his family name
Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang
From out the ruins of his stately lodge;
These, and the name and title at full length,-
Sir Alfred Irthing-with appropriate words
Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath

Or posy, girding round the several fronts
Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells,
That in the steeple hang, his pious gift."

"So falls, so languishes, grows dim, and dies,"
The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed,
"All that this world is proud of. From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings;
Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own. The man himself
Departs; and soon is spent the line of those
Who, in the bodily image, in the mind,
In heart or soul, in station or pursuit,
Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks,
Fraternities and orders-heaping high
New wealth upon the burthen of the old,
And placing trust in privilege confirmed
And re-confirmed-are scoffed at with a smile
Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand
Of desolation, aimed: to slow decline
These yield, and these to sudden overthrow;
Their virtue, service, happiness, and state
Expire; and Nature's pleasant robe of green,
Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps

Their monuments and their memory. The vast frame
Of social nature changes evermore

Her organs and her members, with decay
Restless, and restless generation, powers
And functions dying and produced at need,-
And by this law the mighty whole subsists:
With an ascent and progress in the main ;
Yet, oh how disproportioned to the hopes
And expectations of self-flattering minds!
The courteous knight, whose bones are here interred,
Lived in an age conspicuous as our own
For strife and ferment in the minds of men ;
Whence alteration, in the forms of things,
Various and vast. A memorable age!
Which did to him assign a pensive lot,
To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds,
That, on the steady breeze of honour, sailed
In long procession calm and beautiful.

He, who had seen his own bright order fade,
And its devotion gradually decline

(While War, relinquishing the lance and shield,
Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws),
Had also witnessed, in his morn of life,
That violent commotion, which o'erthrew,
In town, and city, and sequestered glen,
Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof,
And old religious house-pile after pile;
And shook the tenants out into the fields,

Like wild beasts without home! Their hour was come;
But why no softening thought of gratitude,

No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt?

Benevolence is mild; nor borrows help,

Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force,
Fitliest allied to anger and revenge.
But human-kind rejoices in the might
Of mutability, and airy hopes,

Dancing around her, hinder and disturb
Those meditations of the soul which feed
The retrospective virtues. Festive songs
Break from the maddened nations at the sight
Of sudden overthrow; and cold neglect
Is the sure consequence of slow decay.

"Even," said the Wanderer, "as that courteous knight,
Bound by his vow to labour for redress
Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact
By sword and lance the law of gentleness,
If I may venture of myself to speak,
Trusting that not incongruously I blend
Low things with lofty, I too shall be doomed
To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem
Of the poor calling which my youth embraced
With no unworthy prospect. But enough;
Thoughts crowd upon me-and 'twere seemlier now
To stop, and yield our gracious teacher thanks
For the pathetic records which his voice
Hath here delivered: words of heartfelt truth,
Tending to patience when affliction strikes;
To hope and love; to confident repose

In God; and reverence for the dust of man."

BOOK VIII.

THE PARSONAGE.

Pastor's apprehensions that he might have detained his auditors too long-Invitation to his house-Solitary disinclined to comply-Rallies the Wanderer-And somewhat playfully draws a comparison between his itinerant profession and that of the knight-errant which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in the country from the manufacturing spirit-Favourable effects-The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler classes-Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if unsupported by moral worth-Gives instances-Physical science unable to support itself-Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among the humbler classes of society-Picture of a child employed in a cotton-mill-Ignorance and degrada tion of children among the agricultural population reviewed-Conversation broken off by a renewed invitation from the Pastor-Path leading to his house-Its appearance de. scribed-His daughter-His wife-His son (a boy) enters with his companion - Their happy appearance-The Wanderer how affected by the sight of them.

THE pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale

To those acknowledgments subscribed his own,
With a sedate compliance, which the Priest
Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said :-

"If ye, by whom invited, I commenced
Those narratives of calm and humble life,
Be satisfied, 'tis well,-the end is gained;
And, in return for sympathy bestowed,
And patient listening, thanks accept from me.
-Life, death, eternity! momentous themes
Are these and might demand a seraph's tongue,
Were they not equal to their own support;
And therefore no incompetence of mine
Could do them wrong. The universal forms
Of human nature, in a spot like this,

Present themselves at once to all men's view:
Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make
The individual known and understood;
And such as my best judgment could select
From what the place afforded, have been given;
Though apprehensions crossed me, in the course
Of this self-pleasing exercise, that ye

My zeal to his would liken, who, possessed
Of some rare gems, or pictures finely wrought,
Unlocks his cabinet, and draws them forth
One after one-soliciting regard

To this, and this, as worthier than the last,
Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased
More than th' exhibitor himself, becomes
Weary and faint, and longs to be released.
-But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight,
And there-"

At this the Solitary shrunk With backward will; but, wanting not address That inward motion to disguise, he said To his compatriot, smiling as he spake,"The peaceable remains of this good knight Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, If consciousness could reach him where he lies That one, albeit of these degenerate times, Deploring changes past, or dreading change Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, The fine vocation of the sword and lance With the gross aims and body-bending toil Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. Yet, by the good knight's leave, the two estates Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, Exiles and wanderers; and the like are these, Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. What though no higher recompense they seek Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil Full oft procured, yet such may claim respect Among the intelligent, for what this course Enables them to be and to perform, Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, While solitude permits the mind to feel;

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