Of that small valley, singing as they moved;
A sober company and few, the men
Bare-headed, and all decently attired!

Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge
Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued
Recovering, to my Friend I said, “You spake,
Methought, with apprehension that these rites
Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat
This day we purposed to intrude."-" I did so,
But let us hence, that we may learn the truth:
Perhaps it is not he but some one else
For whom this pious service is performed;
Some other tenant of the solitude."

So, to a steep and difficult descent Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, Where passage could be won; and, as the last Of the mute train, behind the heathy top Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared, I, more impatient in my downward course, Had landed upon easy ground; and there Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold An object that enticed my steps aside ! A narrow, winding entry opened out Into a platform-that lay, sheepfold-wise, Enclosed between an upright mass of rock And one old moss-grown wall;—a cool recess, And fanciful! For where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed By thrusting two rude staves into the wall And overlaying them with mountain sods; To weather-fend a little turf-built seat Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread

The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;

But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands!
Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged;

Nor wanting ornament of walks between,
With mimic trees inserted in the turf,

And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight,
I could not choose but beckon to my Guide,
Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance,
Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,

"Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth
A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss
And wreck of party-colored earthenware,
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise
One of those petty structures. "His it must be !"
Exclaimed the Wanderer, "cannot but be his,
And he is gone!" The book, which in my
hand
Had opened of itself (for it was swoln
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain.
To the injurious elements exposed

From week to week,) I found to be a work
In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire,
His famous Optimist. "Unhappy Man!"
Exclaimed my Friend: "here then has been to him
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place
Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,

And loved the haunts of children: here, no doubt,
Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports,
Or sate companionless; and here the book,
Left and forgotten in his careless way,

Must by the cottage-children have been found:
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work!

To what odd purpose have the darlings turned
This sad memorial of their hapless friend !"

"Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find
Such book in such a place!”—“ A book it is,"
He answered, "to the Person suited well,
Though little suited to surrounding things:
'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been
To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here,
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!—
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,
As from these intimations I forebode,

Grieved shall I be--less for my sake than yours,
And least of all for him who is no more."

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand; And he continued, glancing on the leaves

An eye

of scorn - The lover," said he, "doomed To love when hope hath failed him--whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide,

Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair,

And that is joy to him. When change of times
Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give
The faithful servant, who must hide his head
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may,
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood,
And he too hath his comforter. How poor,
Beyond all poverty how destitute,

Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven,
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him
No dearer relique, and no better stay,
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,
Impure conceits discharging from a heart

Hardened by impious pride!-I did not fear
To tax you with this journey ;"-mildly said
My venerable friend, as forth we stepped
Into the presence of the cheerful light—

66

For I have knowledge that you do not shrink From moving spectacles;-but let us on."

So speaking, on he went, and at the word
I followed, till he made a sudden stand:
For full in view, approaching through a gate
That opened from the enclosure of green fields
Into the rough uncultivated ground,

Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead!
I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress,
That it could be no other; a pale face,
A meagre person, tall, and in a garb
Not rustic-dull and faded like himself!
He saw us not, though distant but few steps;
For he was busy, dealing, from a store
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings
Of red-ripe currants; gift by which he strove,
With intermixture of endearing words,

To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping As if disconsolate." They to the grave

Are bearing him, my Little-one,” he said,

To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain;

His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven.",

He was all fire: no shadow on his brow
Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.
Hands joined he with his Visitant,-
-a grasp,
An eager grasp; and many moments' space-
When the first glow of pleasure was no more,
And, of the sad appearance which at once
Had vanished, much was come and coming back-
An amicable smile retained the life
Which it had unexpectedly received,

Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, "Nor could your coming have been better timed; For this, you see, is in our narrow world A day of sorrow. I have here a charge' And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child— "A little mourner, whom it is my task To comfort;-but how came ye ?—if yon track (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) Conducted hither your most welcome feet, Ye could not miss the funeral train-they yet Have scarcely disappeared." "This blooming Child," Said the old Man, is of an age to weep

At any grave or solemn spectacle,

Inly distressed or overpowered with awe,
He knows not wherefore ;-but the boy to-day,
Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you also
Must have sustained a loss."- The hand of Death,
He answered, has been here; but could not well
Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen
Upon myself."-The other left these words
Unnoticed, thus continuing.-

"From yon crag,

Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale,