The liberty of nature; there he kept His mind in a just equipoise of love. By partial bondage. In his steady course, No wild varieties of joy and grief. Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned To sympathy with man, he was alive To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, He had no painful pressure from without That in our best experience he was rich, For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, Of many minds, of minds and bodies too; The history of many families; How they had prospered; how they were o'erthrown By passion or mischance, or such misrule Among the unthinking masters of the earth As makes the nations groan. This active course, But still he loved to pace the public roads And the wild paths; and, when the summer's warmth Invited him, would often leave his home And journey far, revisiting those scenes That to his memory were most endeared. -Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, untouched By worldly-mindedness or anxious care; The Scottish Church, both on himself and those With whom from childhood he grew up, had held The strong hand of her purity; and still Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. This he remembered in his riper age With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. But by the native vigour of his mind, By his habitual wanderings out of doors, By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, He had imbibed of fear or darker thought, Was melted all away; so true was this That sometimes his religion seemed to me Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; Who to the model of his own pure heart Framed his belief, as grace divine inspired, Or human reason dictated with awe. -And surely never did there live on earth A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports And teasing ways of children vexed not him; Nor could he bid them from his presence, With questions and importunate demand. Indulgent listener was he to the tongue tired Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's tale, To his fraternal sympathy addressed, Obtain reluctant hearing. Plain his garb; For Sabbath duties; yet he was a man Whom no one could have passed without remark. But had not tamed his eye; that, under brows To blend with knowledge of the years to come, So was He framed; and such his course of life, Who now with no appendage but a staff, The prized memorial of relinquished toils, Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, The shadows of the breezy elms above |