His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gift, His little smiling Grandchild, were no more.

'All gone, all vanished! he deprived and bare, How will he face the remnant of his life? 'What will become of him?' we said, and mused In sad conjectures- Shall we meet him now Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks? 'Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 'Striving to entertain the lonly hours

• With music?' (for he had not ceased to touch The harp or viol which himself had framed, For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 'What titles will he keep? will he remain Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, A planter, and a rearer from the seed?

A man of hope and forward-looking mind

Even to the last !'-Such was he, unsubdued.
But Heaven was gracious; yet a little while,
And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng
Of open projects, and his inward hoard
Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen,
Was overcome by unexpected sleep,

In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown
Softly and lightly from a passing cloud,
Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay
For noontide solace on the summer grass,
The warm lap of his mother earth and so,
Their lenient term of separation past,
That family (whose graves you there behold)
By yet a higher privilege once more
Were gathered to each other."

Calm of mind

And silence waited on these closing words;

Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear
Lest in those passages of life were some

That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend Too nearly, or intent to reinforce

His own firm spirit in degree deprest

By tender sorrow for our mortal state)

Thus silence broke :- “Behold a thoughtless Man
From vice and premature decay preserved
By useful habits, to a fitter soil

Transplanted ere too late.―The hermit, lodged
Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads,
With each repeating its allotted prayer,

And thus divides and thus relieves the time ;
Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could

string,

Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread

Of keen domestic anguish; and beguile
A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed;

Till gentlest death released him.

Far from us

Be the desire-too curiously to ask
How much of this is but the blind result
Of cordial spirits and vital temperament,
And what to higher powers is justly due.
But you, Sir, know that in a neighboring vale
A Priest abides before whose life such doubts
Fall to the ground; whose gifts of nature lie
Retired from notice, lost in attributes
Of reason, honorably effaced by debts

Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe,
And conquests over her dominion gained,

To which her forwardness must needs submit.
In this one Man is shown a temperance--proof
Against all trials; industry severe

And constant as the motion of the day;
Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade
That might be deemed forbidding, did not there
All generous feelings flourish and rejoice;
Forbearance, charity in deed and thought,
And resolution competent to take
Out of the bosom of simplicity

All that her holy customs recommend,
And the best ages of the world prescribe.
-Preaching, administering, in every work
Of his sublime vocation, in the walks
Of worldly intercourse between man and man,
And in his humble dwelling, he appears
A laborer, with moral virtue girt,

With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned."

"Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, "for whom
This portraiture is sketched. The great, the good,
The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise,—
These titles emperors and chiefs have borne,
Honor assumed or given: and him, the WONDERFUL
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,
Deservedly have styled.--From his abode
In a dependent chapelry that lies

Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild,
Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,
And, having once espoused, would never quit;
Into its graveyard will ere long be borne
That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone
May cover him; and by its help, perchance,

A century shall hear his name pronounced,
With images attendant on the sound;

Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close
In utter night; and of his course remain

No cognizable vestiges, no more

Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words To speak of him, and instantly dissolves."

The Pastor pressed by thoughts which round his theme

Still linger'd, after a brief pause, resumed;
"Noise is there not enough in doleful war,
But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth,
And lend the echoes of his sacred shell,
To multiply and aggravate the din?

Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love—
And, in requited passion, all too much
Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear-

But that the minstrel of the rural shade
Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse
The perturbation in the suffering breast,
And propagate its kind, far as he
may ?
-Ah who (and with such rapture as befits
The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate
The good man's purposes and deeds; retrace
His struggles, his discomfitures deplore,
His triumphs hail, and glorify his end;
That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds
Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain,
And like the soft infections of the heart,

By charm of measured words may spread o'er field,
Hamlet, and town; and piety survive

Upon the lips of men in hall or bower;

Not for reproof, but high and warm delight
And grave encouragement, by song inspired?
—Vain thought! but wherefore murmur or repine?
The memory of the just survives in heaven:
And, without sorrow, will the ground receive
That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best
Of what lies here confines us to degrees
In excellence less difficult to reach,

And milder worth: nor need we travel far
From those to whom our last regards were paid,
For such example.

Almost at the root

Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,
Oft stretches toward me, like a long straight path
Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath
A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies,
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up
From year to year in loneliness of soul;
And this deep mountain-valley was to him.
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep
With startling summons; not for his delight
The vernal cuckoo shouted: not for him
Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds
Were working the broad bosom of the lake
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,
The agitated scene before his eye
Was silent as a picture: evermore

Were all things silent, whereso'er he moved.