Where passage could be won; and, as the last
Of the mute train, upon 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, sheep-foldwise,
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 ornaments 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 parti-colored 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
An eye 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 relic, 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, choisest 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 honored 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,
When the first glow of pleasure was no more,
And much of what had vanished was returned,
An amicable smile retained the life
Which it had unexpectedly received,
Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind,” he said,
"Nor could your coming have been better timed;
For this, you see, is in our narrow world
A day of sorrow. I have here a Charge,"
And speaking thus, he patted tenderly
The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping Child -
"A little Mourner, whom it is my task
To comfort. But how came Ye?-if yon track
(Which doth at once befriend us and betray)
Conducted hither your most welcome feet,
Ye could not miss the Funeral Train; they yet
Have scarcely disappeared." "This blooming Child," Said the Old Man, "is of an age to weep
At any grave or solemn spectacle,
Inly distressed or overpowered with awe,
He knows not why;- but he, perchance, this day Is shedding Orphan's tears; and you yourself
Must have sustained a loss." "The hand of Death,"
He answered, "has been here; but could not well
Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen
Upon myself." The Other left these words
Unnoticed, thus continuing:-
Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, We heard the hymn they sang - a solemn sound Heard any where, but in a place like this
'Tis more than human! Many precious rites
And customs of our rural ancestry
Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope,
Will last for ever. Often have I stopped
When on my way, I could not choose but stop,
So much I felt the awfulness of Life,
In that one moment when the Corse is lifted
In silence, with a hush of decency,
Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, And confidential yearnings, to its home,
Its final home in earth. What traveller-who(How far soe'er a Stranger) does not own
The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go,
A mute Procession on the houseless road;
Or passing by some single tenement
Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise
The monitory voice? But most of all
It touches, it confirms, and elevates,
Then, when the Body, soon to be consigned
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust,
Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne
Upon the shoulders of the next in love,
The nearest in affection or in blood;
Yea, by the very Mourners who had knelt
Beside the Coffin, resting on its lid
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