So speaking, on he went, and at the word
I followed, till he made a sudden stand;
For full in view, approaching through the gate,
That opened from the inclosure of green fields
Into the rough uncultivated ground,

Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead!

I knew, from the appearance and the dress,
That it could be no other: a pale face,
A tall and meagre person, in a garb

Not rustic,-dull and faded like himself!

He saw us not, though distant but few steps;
For he was busy dealing from a store,

Which on a leaf he carried in his hand,

Strings of ripe currants; gift by which he strove, With intermixture of endearing words,

To soothe a child who walked beside him, weeping As if disconsolate. "They to the grave

Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said"To the dark pit, but he will feel no pain; His body is at rest, his soul in heaven."

Glad was my Comrade now, though he at first, I doubt not, had been more surprised than glad.

But now, recovered from the shock, and calm,
He soberly advanced, and to the Man

Gave cordial greeting. Vivid was the light
Which flashed at this from out the other's eyes;

He was all fire: the sickness from his face
Passed like a fancy that is swept away.
Hands joined he with his Visitant,—a grasp,
An eager grasp; and, many moments' space,
When the first glow of pleasure was no more,
And much of what had vanished was returned,
An amicable smile retained the life,
Which it had unexpectedly received,

Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said;
"Nor could your coming have been better timed;
For this, you see, is in our narrow world
A day of sorrow. I have here a charge".
And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly
The sunburnt forehead of the weeping child-
"A little mourner, whom it is my task
To comfort; but how came ye? If yon track
(Which doth at once befriend us and betray)
Conducted hither your most welcome feet,

Ye could not miss the funeral train; they yet

Have scarcely disappeared." "This blooming child," Said the old Man, "is of an age to weep

At any grave or solemn spectacle ;

Inly distressed, or overpowered with awe,

He knows not why; but he, perchance, this day

Is shedding orphan's tears; and you yourself

Must have sustained a loss."

"The hand of Death,"

He answered, "has been here; but could not well Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen Upon myself." The other left these words

Unnoticed, thus continuing:

"From yon crag,

Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, We heard the hymn they sang-a solemn sound Heard anywhere, but in a place like this

"Tis more than human! Many precious rites

And customs of our rural ancestry

Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope,
Will last for ever.

Often have I stopped

When on my way, I could not choose but stop,

So much I felt the awfulness of life,

In that one moment when the corse is lifted

In silence, with a hush of decency;

Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, And confidential yearnings, to its home,

Its final home in earth. What traveller-who

(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own

The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go,

A mute procession on the houseless road,

Or passing by some single tenement

Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise
The monitory voice? But most of all

It touches, it confirms, and elevates,

Then, when the body, soon to be consigned
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust,

Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne
Upon the shoulders of the next in love,

The nearest in affection or in blood;

Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt
Beside the coffin, resting on its lid

In silent grief their unuplifted heads,

And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint,

And that most awful Scripture which declares

We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed!

Have I not seen-ye likewise may have seen