On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene,
Now in its morning purity array'd.

"As, 'mid some happy valley of the Alps,"
Said I," once happy, ere tyrannic power
Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss,
Destroy'd their unoffending commonwealth,
A popular equality reigns here,

Save for one house of state beneath whose roof
A rural lord might dwell."
"No feudal pomp,"
Replied our friend, a chronicler who stood
Where'er he moved upon familiar ground,
"Nor feudal power is there; but there abides,
In his allotted home, a genuine priest,
The shepherd of his flock; or, as a king
Is styled, when most affectionately praised,
The father of his people. Such is he;

And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice
Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed
To me some portion of a kind regard;
And something also of his inner mind
Hath he imparted-but I speak of him
As he is known to all. The calm delights
Of unambitious piety he chose,
And learning's solid dignity; though born
Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends.
Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew
From academic bowers. He loved the spot,
Who does not love his native soil? he prized
The ancient rural character, composed
Of simple manners, feelings unsuppress'd
And undisguised, and strong and serious thought;
A character reflected in himself,

This deep vale

With such embellishment as well beseems
His rank and sacred function.
Winds far in reaches hidden from our eyes,
And one a turreted manorial hall
Adorns, in which the good man's ancestors
Have dwelt through ages, patrons of this cure.
To them, and to his own judicious pains,
The vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain,
Owes that presiding aspect which might well
Attract your notice; statelier than could else
Have been bestow'd, through course of common
chance,

On an unwealthy mountain benefice."

This said, oft halting we pursued our way;
Nor reach'd the village churchyard till the sun,
Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen
Above the summits of the highest hills,
And round our path darted oppressive beams.
As chanced, the portals of the sacred pile
Stood open, and we enter'd. On my frame,
At such transition from the fervid air,

A grateful coolness fell, that seem'd to strike
The heart, in concert with that temperate awe
And natural reverence, which the place inspired.
Not raised in nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy; for duration built;
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately cross'd,

Like leafless underboughs, 'mid some thick grove,
All wither'd by the depth of shade above.
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls,
Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed,
Each also crown'd with winged heads, a pair
Of rudely painted cherubim. The floor

Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,
Was occupied by oaken benches, ranged
In seemly rows; the chancel only show'd
Some inoffensive marks of earthly state
And vain distinction. A capacious pew

Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined;
And marble monuments were here display'd
Thronging the walls; and on the floor beneath
Sepulchral stones appear'd, with emblems graven
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small
And shining effigies of brass inlaid.

The tribute by these various records claim'd,
Without reluctance did we pay; and read
The ordinary chronicle of birth,

Office, alliance, and promotion, all
Ending in dust; of upright magistrates,
Grave doctors strenuous for the mother church,
And uncorrupted senators, alike

To king and people true. A brazen plate,
Not easily decipher'd, told of one
Whose course of earthly honour was begun
In quality of page among the train

Of the eighth Henry, when he cross'd the seas
His royal state to show, and prove his strength
In tournament, upon the fields of France.
Another tablet register'd the death,

And praised the gallant bearing, of a knight
Tried in the sea fights of the second Charles.
Near this brave knight his father lay entomb'd;
And, to the silent language giving voice,

I read, how in his manhood's earlier day
He, 'mid th' aillictions of intestine war
And rightful government subverted, found
One only solace; that he had espoused
A virtuous lady tenderly beloved

For her benign perfections; and yet more
Endear'd to him, for this, that in her state
Of wedlock richly crown'd with Heaven's regard,
She with a numerous issue fill'd his house,
Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm
That laid their country waste. No need to speak
Of less particular notices assign'd

To youth or maiden gone before their time,
And matrons and unwedded sisters old;
Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed
In modest panegyric. "These dim lines,
What would they tell?" said I; but from the task
Of puzzling out that faded narrative,

With whispers soft my venerable friend

Call'd me; and, looking down the darksome aisle

I saw the tenant of the lonely vale
Standing apart; with curvèd arm reclined
On the baptismal font; his pallid face
Upturn'd, as if his mind were wrapt, or lost
In some abstraction; gracefully he stood,
The semblance bearing of a sculptured form
That leans upon a monumental urn
In peace, from morn to night, from year to year.
Him from that posture did the sexton rouse;
Who enter'd, humming carelessly a tune,
Continuation haply of the notes

That had beguiled the work from which he came,
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung,
To be deposited, for future need,
In their appointed place. The pale recluse
Withdrew; and straight we follow'd, to a spot

Where sun and shade were intermix'd; for there
A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms
From an adjoining pasture, overhung

Small space of that green churchyard with a light
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall
My ancient friend and I together took
Our seats; and thus the solitary spake,
Standing before us. "Did you note the mien
Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl,
Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbour's
grave,

Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay,
As unconcern'd as when he plants a tree?
I was abruptly summon'd by his voice
From some affecting images and thoughts,
And from the company of serious words.
Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes
For future states of being; and the wings
Of speculation, joyfully outspread,
Hover'd above our destiny on earth;

But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul
In sober contrast with reality,

And man's substantial life. If this mute earth
Of what it holds could speak, and every grave
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable
Of yielding its contents to eye and ear,
We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame
To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill
That which is done accords with what is known
To reason, and by conscience is enjoin'd;
How idly, how perversely, life's whole course,
To this conclusion, deviates from the line,
Or of the end stops short, proposed to all
At her aspiring outset. Mark the babe
Not long accustom'd to this breathing world;
One that hath barely learn'd to shape a smile;
Though yet irrational of soul to grasp
With tiny fingers, to let fall a tear;
And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves,
To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem,
Th' outward functions of intelligent man;
A grave proficient in amusive feats
Of puppetry, that from the lap declare
His expectations, and announce his claims
To that inheritance which millions rue
That they were ever born to! In due time
A day of solemn ceremonial comes;
When they, who for this minor hold in trust
Rights that transcend the humblest heritage
Of mere humanity, present their charge,
For this occasion daintily adorn'd,

At the baptismal font. And when the pure
And consecrating element hath cleansed
Th' original stain, the child is there received
Into the second ark, Christ's church, with trust
That he, from wrath redeem'd, therein shall float
Over the billows of this troublesome world
To the fair land of everlasting life.
Corrupt affections, covetous desires,

Are all renounced; high as the thought of man
Can carry virtue, virtue is profess'd;
A dedication made, a promise given
For due provision to control and guide,
And unremitting progress to ensure
In holiness and truth."

"You cannot blame,"

Here interposing fervently I said,
"Rites which attest that man by nature lies
Bedded for good and evil in a gulf
Fearfully low; nor will your judgment scorn
Those services, whereby attempt is made
To lift the creature toward that eminence
On which, now fall'n, erewhile in majesty
He stood; or if not so, whose top serene
At least he feels 'tis given him to descry;
Not without aspirations, evermore
Returning, and injunctions from within
Doubt to cast off and weariness; in trust
That what the soul perceives, if glory lost,
May be, through pains and persevering hope,
Recover'd; or, if hitherto unknown,

Lies within reach, and one day shall be gain'd."
"I blame them not," he calmly answer'd, "no;
The outward ritual and establish'd forms
With which communities of men invest
These inward feelings, and th' aspiring vows
To which the lips give public utterance,
Are both a natural process; and by me

| Shall pass uncensured; though the issue prove,
Bringing from age to age its own reproach,
Incongruous, impotent, and blank. But, oh!
If to be weak is to be wretched-miserable,
As the lost angel by a human voice
Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind,
Far better not to move at all than move
By impulse sent from such illusive power,
That finds and cannot fasten down; that grasps
And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps;
That tempts, imboldens--doth a while sustain,
And then betrays; accuses and inflicts
Remorseless punishment; and so retreads
Th' inevitable circle: better far

Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace,
By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed!

"Philosophy! and thou more vaunted name,
Religion with thy statelier retinue,
Faith, hope, and charity-from the visible world
Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find
Of safest guidance and of firmest trust,—
The torch, the star, the anchor; nor except
The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet
The generations of mankind have knelt
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears,
And through that conflict seeking rest-of you
High titled powers, am I constrain'd to ask,
Here standing, with th' unvoyageable sky
In faint reflection of infinitude

Stretch'd overhead, and at my pensive feet
A subterraneous magazine of bones,

In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid,
Where are your triumphs? your dominion where?
And in what age admitted and confirm'd?
Not for a happy land do I inquire,
Island or grove, that hides a blessed few
Who, with obedience willing and sincere,
To your serene authorities conform ;
But whom, I ask, of individual souls,

Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked ways,
Inspired, and thoroughly fortified? If the heart
Could be inspected to its inmost folds

By sight undazzled with the glare of praise,

Who shall be named-in the resplendent line Of sages, martyrs, confessors-the man

On humble life, forbid the judging mind To trust the smiling aspect of this fair

For one day's little compass has preserved
From painful and discreditable shocks
Of contradiction, from some vague desire
Culpably cherish'd, or corrupt relapse
To some unsanction'd fear?"

"If this be so,

And man," said I, "be in his noblest shape
Thus pitiably infirm; then, He who made,
And who shall judge the creature, will forgive.
Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint

Is all too true; and surely not misplaced:

Of mountaineers (by nature's self removed
From foul temptations, and by constant care
Of a good shepherd tended as themselves
Do tend their flocks) partake man's general lot
With little mitigation. They escape,
Perchance, guilt's heavier woes; and do not feel
The tedium of fantastic idleness;

Yet life, as with the multitude, with them,

Is fashion'd like an ill-constructed tale;
That on the outset wastes its gay desires,
Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes,

thoughts

Rise to the notice of a serious mind

By natural exhalation. With the dead
In their repose, the living in their mirth,
Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round
Of smooth and solemnized complacencies,
By which, on Christian lands, from age to age
Profession mocks performance. Earth is sick,
And heaven is weary, of the hollow words
Which states and kingdoms utter when they talk
Of truth and justice. Turn to private life
And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves;
A light of duty shines on every day

For all; and yet how few are warm'd or cheer'd!
How few who mingle with their fellow men
And still remain self-govern'd, and apart,
Like this our honour'd friend: and thence acquire
Right to expect his vigorous decline,
That promises to th' end a blest old age!"
"Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaim'd
The solitary," in the life of man,
If to the poetry of common speech
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass
A true reflection of the circling year,
With all its seasons. Grant that spring is there,
In spite of many a rough, untoward blast,
Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers;
Yet where is glowing summer's long rich day,
That ought to follow faithfully express'd?
And mellow autumn, charged with bounteous fruit,
Where is she imaged? in what favour'd clime
Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence?
Yet, while the better part is miss'd, the worse
In man's autumnal season is set forth
With a resemblance not to be denied,
And that contents him; bowers that hear no more
The voice of gladness, less and less supply
Of outward sunshine and internal warmth;
And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves,
Foretelling total winter, blank and cold.

"How gay the habitations that bedeck
This fertile valley! Not a house but seems
To give assurance of content within;
Imbosom'd happiness, and placid love;
As if the sunshine of the day were met
With answering brightness in the hearts of all
Who walk this favour'd ground.

regards,

And notice forced upon incurious ears; These, if these only, acting in despite

But chance

Of the encomiums by my friend pronounced

Old things repeated with diminish'd grace; And all the labour'd novelties at best Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." While in this serious mood we held discourse, The reverend pastor toward the churchyard gate Approach'd; and, with a mild, respectful air Of native cordiality, our friend Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien Was he received, and mutual joy prevail'd. Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess That he, who now upon the mossy wall Sate by my side, had vanish'd, if a wish Could have transferr'd him to his lonely house Within the circuit of those guardian rocks. For me, I look'd upon the pair, well pleased Nature had framed them both, and both were mark'd By circumstance, with intermixture fine Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak, Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, One might be liken'd: flourishing appear'd, Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, The other-like a stately sycamore, That spreads, in gentler pomp, its honey'd shade. A general greeting was exchanged: and soon The pastor learn'd that his approach had given A welcome interruption to discourse Grave, and in truth too often sad. A child of hope? Do generations press On generations, without progress made? Halts the individual, ere his hairs be gray, Perforce? Are we a creature in whom good Preponderates, or evil? Doth the will Acknowledge reason's law? A living power Is virtue, or no better than a name, Fleeting as health, or beauty, and unsound? So that the only substance which remains, (For thus the tenor of complaint hath run,) Among so many shadows, are the pains And penalties of miserable life,

"Is man

Doom'd to decay, and then expire in dust!
Our cogitations this way have been drawn,
These are the points," the wanderer said, "on
which

Our inquest turns. Accord, good sir! the light
Of your experience to dispel this gloom:
By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart
That frets, or languishes, be still'd and cheer'd."
"Our nature," said the priest, in mild reply,
"Angels may weigh and fathom: they perceive,

Of proofs and reasons ye preclude-in those
Who to your dull society are born,

And with their humble birthright rest content.
Would I had ne'er renounced it!"

Of moral anger previously had tinged
The old man's cheek; but, at this closing turn
Of self-reproach, it pass'd away. Said he,
"That which we feel we utter; as we think
So have we argued; reaping for our pains
No visible recompense. For our relief
You," to the pastor turning thus he spake,
"Have kindly interposed. May I entreat
Your further help? The mine of real life
Dig for us; and present us, in the shape
Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains
Fruitless as those of aëry alchymists,

Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies
Around us a demain where you have long

Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts;

For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man
He is who cultivates yon hanging field;
What qualities of mind she bears, who comes,
For morn and evening service, with her pail,
To that green pasture; place before our sight
The family who dwell within yon house
Fenced round with glittering laurel; or in that
Below, from which the curling smoke ascends.
Or rather, as we stand on holy earth,

And have the dead around us, take from them
Your instances; for they are both best known,
And by frail man most equitably judged.
Epitomise the life; pronounce, you can,
Authentic epitaphs on some of these

Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought,
Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet.
So, by your records, may our doubts be solved;
And so, not searching higher, we may learn
To prize the breath we share with human kind;
And look upon the dust of man with awe."

The priest replied. "An office you impose
For which peculiar requisites are mine;
Yet much, I feel, is wanting-else the task
Would be most grateful. True indeed it is
That they whom death has hidden from our sight
Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with these
The future cannot contradict the past:
Mortality's last exercise and proof

Is undergone; the transit made that shows
The very soul, reveal'd as she departs.
Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give,
Ere we descend into these silent vaults,
One picture from the living.-

"You behold,
High on the breast of yon dark mountain-dark
With stony barrenness, a shining speck
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower
Brush it away, or cloud pass over it;

Of their most dreaded foe, the strong south-west
In anger blowing from the distant sea.
Alone within her solitary hut;

There, or within the compass of her fields,
At any moment may the dame be found
True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest
And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles
By intermingled work of house and field
The summer's day, and winter's; with success
Not equal, but sufficient to maintain,
E'en at the worst, a smooth stream of content,
Until the expected hour at which her mate
From the far-distant quarry's vault returns ;
And by his converse crowns a silent day
With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind,
In scale of culture, few among my flock
Hold lower rank than this sequester'd pair;
But humbleness of heart descends from heaven;
And that best gift of heaven hath fall'n on them;
Abundant recompense for every want.
Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these!
Who, in their noiseless dwelling place, can hear
The voice of wisdom whispering Scripture texts
For the mind's government, or temper's peace;
And recommending, for their mutual need,
Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity!"

"Much was I pleased," the gray-hair'd wanderer said,

"When to those shining fields our notice first
You turn'd; and yet more pleased have from your
lips

Gather'd this fair report of them who dwell
In that retirement; whither, by such course
Of evil hap and good as oft awaits
A lone wayfaring man, I once was brought.
Dark on my road th' autumnal evening fell
While I was traversing yon mountain pass,
And night succeeded with unusual gloom:
So that my feet and hands at length became

But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground,
Cut off, an island in the dusky waste;
And that attractive brightness is its own.
The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt
Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones

The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen,

High in the gloom appear'd, too high, methought,
For human habitation; but I long'd
To reach it, destitute of other hope.

I look'd with steadiness as sailors look
On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp,
And saw the light-now fix'd-and shifting now-