And this rude bench, one
Fast rooted at her heart

torturing hope endeared, and here, my Friend,

In sickness she remained; and here she died;

Last human tenant of these ruined walls!

The old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved; From that low bench, rising instinctively,

I turned aside in weakness, nor had power

To thank him for the tale which he had told.

I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it seemed To comfort me, while, with a brother's love,

I blessed her in the impotence of grief.

At length towards the Cottage I returned

Fondly, and traced, with interest more mild,
That secret spirit of humanity

Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies

Of Nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,

And silent overgrowings, still survived.

The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said,

"My Friend, enough to sorrow you have given,

The purposes of wisdom ask no more:

Be wise and cheerful; and no longer read

The forms of things with an unworthy eye.

She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here.
I well remember that those very plumes,

Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,

By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er,

As once I passed, did to my heart convey

So still an image of tranquillity,

So calm and still, and looked so beautiful

Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,
That what we feel of sorrow and despair

From ruin and from change, and all the grief
That passing shows of Being leave behind,
Appeared an idle dream, that could not live
Where meditation was.
I turned away,

And walked along my road in happiness."

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot
A slant and mellow radiance, which began
To fall upon us, while beneath the trees
We sate on that low bench: and now we felt,
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on.

A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,

A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,

At distance heard, peopled the milder air.

The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; Together casting then a farewell look

Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ;

And, ere the stars were visible, had reached A village-inn, our evening resting-place.

IN days of yore how fortunately fared
The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall,
Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts
Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise;
Now meeting on his road an armèd knight,
Now resting with a pilgrim by the side
Of a clear brook; beneath an abbey's roof
One evening sumptuously lodged; the next
Humbly in a religious hospital;

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood;
Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell.
Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared;
He walked protected from the sword of war,
By virtue of that sacred instrument,
His harp, suspended at the traveller's side:
His dear companion wheresoe'er he went,
Opening from land to land an easy way
By melody, and by the charm of verse.

Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race

Drew happier, loftier, more impassioned thoughts