We had looked down upon it. All within, As left by the departed company,
Was silent, save the solitary clock
That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.— Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs And reached a small apartment dark and low, Which was no sooner entered than our Host Said gaily, "This is my domain, my cell, My hermitage, my cabin, what you will- I love it better than a snail his house. But now ye shall be feasted with our best."
So, with more ardor than an unripe girl Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, He went about his hospitable task.
My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend, As if to thank him; he returned that look, Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck Had we about us! scattered was the floor,
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers,
And tufts of mountain moss.
Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some Scribbled with verse: a broken angling-rod And shattered telescope, together linked By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook; And instruments of music, some half-made, Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; A feast before us, and a courteous Host Inviting us in glee to sit and eat.
A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board; And was itself half-covered with a store
Of dainties,-oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream; And cakes of butter curiously embossed,
Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers A golden hue, delicate as their own Faintly reflected in a lingering stream.
Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, Our table, small parade of garden fruits, And whortle-berries from the mountain side. The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, Was now a help to his late comforter,
And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, Ministering to our need.
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate Fronting the window of that little cell, I could not, ever and anon, forbear
To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, That from some other vale peered into this. "Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, "if here It were your lot to dwell, would soon become Your prized companions.-Many are the notes Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores;
And well those lofty brethren bear their part In the wild concert-chiefly when the storm Rides high; then all the upper air they fill With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, Like smoke, along the level of the blast, In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song
Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, Methinks that I have heard them echo back The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's laws Left them ungifted with a power to yield Music of finer tone; a harmony,
So do I call it, though it be the hand
Of silence, though there be no voice;-the clouds, The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, Motions of moonlight, all come thither-touch, And have an answer-thither come, and shape A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits :-there the sun himself, At the calm close of summer's longest day Rests his substantial orb ;-between those heights And on the top of either pinnacle,
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man Than the mute agents stirring there :—alone Here do I sit and watch.-"
Regretted like the nightingale's last note,
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of
Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said:
"Now for the tale with which you threatened us !" "In truth the threat escaped me unawares : Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind,
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed When ye looked down upon us from the crag, Islanders mid a stormy mountain sea,
We are not so ;-perpetually we touch Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world; And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread Upon the laws of public charity.
The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains As might from that occasion be distilled, Opened, as she before had done for me, Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner ; The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare Which appetite required-a blind dull nook, Such as she had, the kennel of his rest! This, in itself not ill, would yet have been Ill borne in earlier life; but his was now The still contentedness of seventy years. Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree Of his old age; and yet less calm and meek, Winningly meek or venerably calm, Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise A penalty, if penalty it were,
For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. I loved the old Man, for I pitied him! A task it was, I own, to hold discourse
With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes; Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way,
And helpful to his utmost power: and there
Our housewife knew full well what she possessed!
He was her vassal of all labor, tilled
Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine; And, one among the orderly array
Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun Maintained his place; or heedfully pursued
His course, on errands bound, to other vales, Leading sometimes an inexperienced child Too young for any profitable task.
So moved he like a shadow that performed Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn For what reward!-The moon her monthly round Hath not completed since our dame, the queen Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, Into my little sanctuary rushed-- Voice to a rueful treble humanized, And features in deplorable dismay.
I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! It is most serious: persevering rain
Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain tops Were hidden, and black vapors coursed their sides; This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake, Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend- Who at her bidding, early and alone,
Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf For winter fuel-to his noontide meal Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights Lay at the mercy of this raging storm.
• Inhuman !'——said I, ‘was an old Man's life Not worth the trouble of a thought ?—alas! This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw Her husband enter-from a distant vale. We sallied forth together; found the tools Which the neglected veteran had dropped, But through all quarters looked for him in vain, We shouted-but no answer! Darkness fell Without remission of the blast or shower, And fears for our own safety drove us home.
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