Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold It was an Entry, narrow as a door; A passage whose brief windings opened out And one old moss-grown wall;-a cool Recess, Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been framed And overlaying them with mountain sods; Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 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 Who, having entered, carelessly looked round, 66 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. 66 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 He sometimes played with them; and here hath sate Far oftener by himself. This Book, I guess, Hath been forgotten in his careless way; Left here when he was occupied in mind ; "Me, said I, most doth it surprize, to find Such Book in such a place!" "A Book it is," He answered, " to the Person suited well, Nor, with the knowledge which my mind possessed, I grant, and stranger still had been to see Grieved shall I be-less for my sake than your's; " 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 L 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 A kerchief sprinkled with his Master's blood, Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, For full in view, approaching through the gate Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead! A tall and meagre person, in a garb Not rustic, dull and faded like himself! He saw us not, though distant but few steps; Which on a leaf he carried in his hand, Strings of ripe currants; gift by which he strove, To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping Are bearing him, my little One,” he said, Glad was my Comrade now, though he at first, I doubt not, had been more surprized than glad. But now, recovered from the shock and calm, He soberly advanced; and to the Man |