Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. I failed not to remind them that they erred; For holy nature might not thus be crossed,
Thus wronged in woman's breast: in vain I pleaded- But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped, And the flower dropped; as every eye could see, It hung its head in mortal languishment.
Aided by this appearance, I at length
Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, she went Home to her mother's house. The youth was fled : The rash betrayer could not face the shame
Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused; And little would his presence, or proof given Of a relenting soul, have now availed;
For, like a shadow, he was passed away
From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to her mind For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love,
Save only those which to their common shame,
And to his moral being appertained:
Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought A heavenly comfort; there she recognised
An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need;
There, and, as seemed, there only.-She had built. Her for.d maternal heart had built, a nest, In blindness all too near the river's edge; That work a summer flood with hasty swell Had swept away; and now her spirit longed For its last flight to heaven's security. The bodily frame was wasted day by day; Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, And much she read; and brooded feelingly Upon her own unworthiness.—To me, As to a spiritual comforter and friend,
Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared To mitigate, as gently as I could,
The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth : In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate,
The ghastly face of cold decay put on
A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine! May I not mention-that, within those walls,
In due observance of her pious wish,
The congregation joined with me in prayer For her soul's good? Nor was that office vain. Much did she suffer: but, if any friend, Beholding her condition, at the sight
Gave way to words of pity or complaint,
She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 'He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; And, when I fail, and can endure no more,
Will mercifully take me to himself.'
So, through the cloud of death, her spirit passed Into that pure and unknown world of love, Where injury cannot come :-and here is laid The mortal body by her infant's side.'
The vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known That each had listened with his inmost heart.
For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong Or less benign than that which I had felt When, seated near my venerable friend, Beneath those shady elms, from him I heard The story that retraced the slow decline Of Margaret sinking on the lonely heath,
With the neglected house to which she clung.
I noted that the Solitary's cheek
Confessed the power of nature.-Pleased though sad,
More pleased than sad, the gray-haired Wanderer sate; Thanks to his pure imaginative soul,
Capacious and serene, his blameless life,
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love
Of human kind! He it was who first broke
The pensive silence, saying, "Blest are they
Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong
Than to do wrong, although themselves have erred. This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals With such, in their affliction.-Ellen's fate,
Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart,
Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard Of one who died within this vale, by doom Heavier, as his offence was heavier far.
Where, sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?"-The vicar answered, "In that green nook, close by the churchyard wall, Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself In memory and for warning, and in sign
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, Of reconcilement after deep offence, There doth he rest.-No theme his fate supplies For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world; Nor need the windings of his devious course Be here retraced ;-enough that, by mishap And venial error, robbed of competence, And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, He craved a substitute in troubled joy;
Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow. That which he had been weak enough to do Was misery in remembrance; he was stung,
Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles
Of wife and children stung to agony.
Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad;
Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, Asked comfort of the open air, and found
No quiet in the darkness of the night,
No pleasure in the beauty of the day.
His flock he slighted: his paternal fields
Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished
To fly, but whither? And this gracious church, That wears a look so full of peace, and hope,
And love, benignant mother of the vale, How fair amid her brood of cottages! She was to him a sickness and reproach.
Much to the last remained unknown: but this
Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died; Though pitied among men, absolved by God, He could not find forgiveness in himself; Nor could endure the weight of his own shame.
"Here rests a mother. But from her I turn, And from her grave. -Behold-upon that bridge, That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, Carries into the centre of the vale
Its rocks and woods-the cottage where she dwelt, And where yet dwells her faithful partner, left (Ful eight years past) the solitary prop
Of many helpless children. I begin
With words that 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! Depressed, 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 object 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, rough 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. But, when the gloom Of night is falling round my steps, then most This dwelling charms me; often I 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 survives on earth."
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 situationActivity in extreme old age-Another clergyman, a character of resolute virtue-Lamentations over misdirected applause-Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man-Elevated character of a blind man-Reflection upon blindness-Interrupted by a peasant who passesHis 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 deathExultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this picture-Solitary, 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 calling-Thanks the Pastor.
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
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 Snowdon's sovereign brow, 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 or 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.
"These 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 rise together Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching On the smooth playground 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 sight The length of road that from yon mountain's base Through bare inclosures stretches, till its line Is lost within a little tuft of trees,-
Then, reappearing 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.-All unembowered 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
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