Of open schemes, and all his inward hoard Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, Was overcome by unexpected sleep,
In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay For noontide solace on the summer grass, The warm lap of his Mother Earth: and so, Their lenient term of separation past, That family (whose graves you there behold) By yet a higher privilege once more Were gathered to each other."
And silence waited on these closing words;
Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear Lest in those passages of life were some
That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend Too nearly, or intent to reinforce
His own firm spirit in degree deprest
By tender sorrow for our mortal state)
Thus silence broke: "Behold a thoughtless Man From vice and premature decay preserved
By useful habits, to a fitter soil
Transplanted ere too late. The Hermit, lodged
In the untrodden desert, tells his beads,
With each repeating its allotted prayer,
And thus divides and thus relieves the time; Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could string Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread
Of keen domestic anguish, and beguile
solitude, unchosen, unprofessed;
Till gentlest death released him. Far from us
Be the desire too curiously to ask
How much of this is but the blind result
Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, And what to higher powers is justly due. But you, Sir, know that in a neighboring Vale A Priest abides before whose life such doubts Fall to the ground; whose gifts of Nature lie Retired from notice, lost in attributes
Of Reason-honorably effaced by debts Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe And conquests over her dominion gained,
To which her forwardness must needs submit. In this one Man is shown a temperance - proof Against all trials; industry severe
And constant as the motion of the day; Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade That might be deemed forbidding, did not there All generous feelings flourish and rejoice; Forbearance, charity in deed and thought, And resolution competent to take Out of the bosom of simplicity
All that her holy customs recommend, And the best ages of the world prescribe. -Preaching, administering, in every work Of his sublime vocation, in the walks Of worldly intercourse 'twixt man and man, And in his humble dwelling, he appears A Laborer, with moral virtue girt,
With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned.”
"Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, "for whom This Portraiture is sketched. The Great, the Good, The Well-beloved, the Fortunate, the Wise, These Titles Emperors and Chiefs have borne, Honor assumed or given: and Him, the Wonderful Our simple Shepherds, speaking from the heart, Deservedly have styled. From his Abode
In a dependent Chapelry, that lies Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, And, having once espoused, would never quit, Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good Man Will be conveyed. An unelaborate Stone May cover him; and by its help, perchance, A century shall hear his name pronounced, With images attendant on the sound; Then, shall the slowly gathering twilight close In utter night; and of his course remain No cognizable vestiges, no more
Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words To speak of him, and instantly dissolves.
- Noise is there not enough in doleful war, But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, To multiply and aggravate the din?
Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love- And, in requited passion, all too much Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear
But that the Minstrel of the rural shade Must tune his pipe insidiously to nurse The perturbation in the suffering breast, And propagate its kind, far as he may?
Ah, who (and with such rapture as befits The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate The good Man's deeds and purposes; retrace His struggles, his discomfiture deplore, His triumphs hail, and glorify his end? That Virtue, like the fumes and vapory clouds Through Fancy's heat redounding in the brain, And like the soft infections of the heart,
By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, Hamlet, and town; and Piety survive
Upon the lips of Men in hall or bower; Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, And grave encouragement, by song inspired
- Vain thought! but wherefore murmur or repine? The memory of the just survives in Heaven: And, without sorrow, will this ground receive That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best Of what it holds confines us to degrees In excellence less difficult to reach,
And milder worth: nor need we travel far From those to whom our last regards were paid, For such example.
Of that tall Pine, the shadow of whose bare And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, Oft stretches tow'rds me, like a long straight path Traced faintly in the green-sward; there, beneath A plain blue Stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn The precious gift of hearing. He grew up From year to year, in loneliness of soul; And this deep mountain Valley was to him Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep With startling summons; not for his delight The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him
Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds Were working the broad bosom of the lake Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, The agitated scene before his eye Was silent as a picture: evermore
Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved.
Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts Upheld, he duteously pursued the round Of rural labors; the steep mountain-side Ascended with his staff and faithful dog; The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed; And the ripe corn before his sickle fell Among the jocund reapers. For himself, All watchful and industrious as he was,
He wrought not; neither field nor flock he owned No wish for wealth had place within his mind; Nor husband's love, nor farther's hope or care. Though born a younger Brother, need was none That from the floor of his paternal home He should depart, to plant himself anew. And when, mature in manhood, he beheld His Parents laid in earth, no loss ensued Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased, By the pure bond of independent love An inmate of a second family,
The fellow-laborer and friend of him
To whom the small inheritance had fallen.
Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight That pressed upon his Brother's house, for books Were ready comrades whom he could not tire, Of whose society the blameless Man
Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, Even to old age, with unabated charm
Beguiled his leisure hours, refreshed his thoughts Beyond its natural elevation raised
His introverted spirit; and bestowed
Upon his life an outward dignity
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, The stormy day, had each its own resource;
Song of the muses, sage historic tale,
Science severe, or word of Holy Writ
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