And now distinctly could I recognise
These words: Shall in the grave thy love be known, In death thy faithfulness?'- "God rest his soul!" The Wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence,- "He is departed, and finds peace at last!"
This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band Of rustic persons, from behind the hut Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which They shaped their course along the sloping side 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-coloured earthen-ware, Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise
One of those petty structures. "Gracious Heaven!” The Wanderer cried, “it 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
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— "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 tall and meagre person, 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."
More might have followed-but my honoured Friend Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank
And cordial greeting.-Vivid was the light That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes; He was all fire: the sickness from his face Passed like a fancy that is swept away; Hands joined he with his Visitant,—a grasp, An eager grasp; and many moments' space,—
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