Made desperate by contempt of men who throve
Before his sight in power or fame, and won,
Without desert, what he desired; weak men,
Too weak even for his envy or his hate!
And thus beset, and finding in himself
Nor pleasure nor tranquillity, at last,
After a wandering course of discontent
In foreign lands, and inwardly oppressed
With malady-in part, I fear, provoked
By weariness of life - he fixed his home,
Or, rather say, sate down by very chance,
Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells,
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours
In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want
Its own voluptuousness;—on this resolved,
With this content-that he will live and die
Forgotten, at safe distance from a world
Not moving to his mind.""
Closed the preparatory notices
With which my fellow-traveller had beguiled
The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.
Now, suddenly diverging, he began
To climb, upon its western side, a ridge,
Pathless and smooth, a long and steep ascent;
As if the object of his quest had been
Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall
Of water, or some boastful eminence,
Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide.
We clomb without a track to guide our steps,
And, on the summit, reached a healthy plain,
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill-tops
Before us; savage region! and I walked
In weariness; when, all at once, behold!
Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,
A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high
Among the mountains; even as if the spot
Had been, from eldest time, by wish of theirs
So placed to be shut out from all the world!
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn;
With rocks encompassed, save that to the south
Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close:
A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,
A liquid pool that glittered in the sun,
And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more!
Though not of want: the little fields, made green
By husbandry of many thrifty years,
Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house.
There crows the cock, single in his domain :
The small birds find in spring no thicket there
To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales
The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill-tops,
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place.
"Ah! what a sweet recess," thought I, "is here!"
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease
Upon a bed of heath,-" full many a spot
Of hidden beauty have I chanced t'espy
Among the mountains; never one like this;
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure :
Not melancholy-no, for it is green,
And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself
With the few needful things that life requires.
In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie,
How tenderly protected! Far and near
We have an image of the pristine earth,
The planet in its nakedness; were this
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat,
First, last, and single, in the breathing world,
It could not be more quiet peace is here
Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale
Of public news or private; years that pass
Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay
The common penalties of mortal life,
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain."
On these and other kindred thoughts intent,
In silence by my Comrade's side I lay,
He also silent: when, from out the heart
Of that profound abyss, a solemn voice,
Or several voices in one solemn sound,
Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow
The cadence, as of psalms-a funeral dirge!
We listened, looking down towards the hut,
But seeing no one: meanwhile from below
The strain continued, spiritual as before;
And now distinctly could I recognise
These words:" Shall in the grave thy love be known,
In death thy faithfulness?" "God rest his soul!"
The Wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence;
"He is departed, and finds peace at last!"
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