"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:

66

“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,

T'han 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 inclosure 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 meagre person, tall, and 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. 66
-
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: no shadow on his brow

Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.

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, of the sad appearance which at once
Had vanished, much was come and coming back —
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 wherefore; - but the boy to-day

Perhaps, is shedding orphan's tears; you also

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:

"From yon crag,

Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, We heard the hymn they sang,

a solemn sound

Heard anywhere; but in a place like this
"T is 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. Oft on my way have I
Stood still, though but a casual passenger,
So much I felt the awfulness of life,

In that one moment when the corse is lifted
Lu silence, with a hush of decency;
Then from the threshold moves with song of
peace,
And confidential yearnings, towards its home,
Its final home on earth. What traveller, who,
(How far soe'er a stranger,) does not own
The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them ge,
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

In silent grief their unuplifted heads,

And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful

plaint,

And that most awful Scripture which declares
We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed!
-Have I not seen -ye likewise may have seen-
Son, husband, brothers brothers side by side,
And son and father also side by side,

Rise from that posture: and in concert move,
On the green turf following the vested Priest,
Four dear supporters of one senseless weight,
From which they do not shrink, and under which
They faint not, but advance towards the open grave
Step after step together, with their firm
Unhidden faces: he that suffers most,

He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps,

The most serene, with most undaunted eye! —
O, blest are they who live and die with these,
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow
mourned!"

“That poor Man taken hence to-day,” replied The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile Which did not please me," must be deemed, I fear, Of the unblest; for he will surely sink