This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains
Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band

Of rustic persons from behind the hut,
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which

They shaped their course along the sloping side

Of that small valley, singing as they moved;

A sober company and few, the men

Bareheaded, and all decently attired.

Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued Recovering, to my Friend I said, "You spake,

Methought, with apprehension that these rites.

Are paid to him upon whose shy retreat

This day we purposed to intrude."

"I did;

But let us hence, that we may learn the truth.

Perhaps it is not he, but some one else,

For whom this pious service is performed;

Some other tenant of the solitude."

So, to a steep and difficult descent

Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag,
Where passage could be won; and, as the last
Of the mute train upon the heathy top

Of that off-sloping outlet disappeared,
I, more impatient in the course I took,

Had landed upon easy ground, and there
Stood waiting for my Comrade. When, behold

An object that enticed my steps aside!

It was an entry, narrow as a door,

A passage whose brief windings opened out
Into a platform, that lay, sheepfold-wise,
Inclosed between a single mass of rock

And one old moss-grown wall; a cool recess,

And fanciful! For, where the rock and wall

Met in an angle, hung a tiny roof,

Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been framed

By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall

And overlaying them with mountain sods;

To weather-fend a little turf-built seat,

Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;
But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands!
Whose simple skill had thronged the grassy floor
With work of frame less solid, a proud show

Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ;

Nor wanting ornament of walks between,

With mimic trees inserted in the turf,

And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight,
I could not choose but beckon to my guide,
Who, having entered, carelessly looked round,

And now would have passed on, when I exclaimed,
"Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth
A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss,
And wreck of parti-coloured earthenware,

Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise

hand

One of those petty structures. "Gracious Heaven!"
The Wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his,
And he is gone! " The book, which in my
Had opened of itself (for it was swoln
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain.
To the injurious elements exposed

From week to week), I found to be a work

In the French tongue, a novel of Voltaire,

His famous "Optimist."

Exclaimed friend; my

66

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Unhappy man!"

here, then, has been to him

Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place

Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,

Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,

And loved the haunts of children; here, no doubt,

He sometimes played with them; and here hath sate Far oft'ner by himself. This book, I guess,

Hath been forgotten in his careless way,

Left here when he was occupied in mind,

And by the cottage children has been found.
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work:
To what odd purpose have the darlings turned
This sad memorial of their hapless friend!"

66

Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find Such book in such a place!" "A book it is," He answered, "to the person suited well, Though little suited to surrounding things;

Nor, with the knowledge which my mind possessed, Could I behold it undisturbed: 't is strange,

I grant, and stranger still had been to see

The man who was its owner, dwelling here
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!

Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,

As from these intimations I forbode,

Grieved shall I be less for my sake than yours,

And least of all for him who is no more."

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand; And he continued, glancing on the leaves

An eye of scorn :-"The lover," said he, "doomed

To love when hope hath failed him, whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide,

Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair,

And that his 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 relique, 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