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."
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
(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
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 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!
Oh! blest are they who live and die like 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
Into his mother earth without such pomp
Of grief, depart without occasion given
By him for such array of fortitude.
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark!
This simple Child will mourn his one short hour,
And I shall miss him; scanty tribute! yet,
This wanting, he would leave the sight of men,
If love were his sole claim upon their care,
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls
Without a hand to gather it." At this
I interposed, though loth to speak, and said,
“Can it be thus, among so small a band
As ye must needs be here? In such a place
I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight
Of a departing cloud!" ""Twas not for love,"
Answered the sick man with a careless voice,
"That I came hither; neither have I found
Among Associates who have power of speech,
Nor in such other converse as is here,
Temptation so prevailing as to change
That mood, or undermine my first resolve.”
Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said
To my benign Companion, "Pity 'tis
That fortune did not guide you to this house
A few days earlier; then would you have seen
What stuff the Dwellers in a Solitude,
That seems by Nature hollowed out to be
The seat and bosom of pure innocence,
Are made of; an ungracious matter this!
Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too
Of past discussions with this zealous Friend
And Advocate of humble life, I now
Will force upon his notice; undeterred
By the example of his own pure course,
And that respect and deference which a Soul
May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched
In what she values most-the love of God
And his frail creature man; but ye shall hear -
I talk, and ye are standing in the sun,
Without refreshment!"
Towards the Cottage; - homely was the spot;
And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door,
Had almost a forbidding nakedness;
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair
Than it appeared when from the beetling rock
|