Was disappearing by a swift decay, They, with joint care, determined to erect, Upon its site, a dial, that might stand For public use preserved, and thus survive As their own private monument for this Was the particular spot, in which they wished (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) That, undivided, their remains should lie.
So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was raised Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps That to the decorated pillar lead,
A work of art more sumptuous than might seem To suit this place; yet built in no proud scorn Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed To ensure for it respectful guardianship. Around the margin of the plate, whereon The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, Winds an inscriptive legend.”—At these words Thither we turned; and gathered, as we read, The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched : Time flies; it is his melancholy task
To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, And re-produce the troubles he destroys. But, while his blindness thus is occupied, Discerning Mortal! do thou serve the will Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed!'
"Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," Exclaimed the Sceptic, "and the strain of thought Accords with nature's language ;-the soft voice Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. If, then, their blended influence be not lost Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, Even upon mine, the more are we required To feel for those among our fellow-men, Who, offering no obeisance to the world,
Are yet made desperate by 'too quick a sense Of constant infelicity,' cut off
From peace like exiles on some barren rock, Their life's appointed prison; not more free Than sentinels, between two armies, set, With nothing better, in the chill night air, Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say why That ancient story of Prometheus chained To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus ; The vulture, the inexhaustible repast
Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes By Tantalus entailed upon his race,
And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, Tremendous truths! familiar to the men Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey For robes with regal purple tinged; convert The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp Of circumstance; and here the tragic Muse Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, The generations are prepared; the pangs, The internal pangs, are ready; the dread strife Of poor humanity's afflicted will
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny."
“Though,” said the Priest in answer, “these be terms
Which a divine philosophy rejects,
We, whose established and unfailing trust Is in controlling Providence, admit
That, through all stations, human life abounds With mysteries ;-for, if Faith were left untried, How could the might, that lurks within her, then Be shown? her glorious excellence—that ranks Among the first of Powers and Virtues-proved? Our system is not fashioned to preclude
That sympathy which you for others ask; And I could tell, not travelling for my theme Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes And strange disasters; but I pass them by, Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace. -Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight By the deformities of brutish vice: For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face And a coarse outside of repulsive life And unaffecting manners might at once Be recognised by all-" "Ah! do not think," The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, "Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, (Gain shall I call it ?-gain of what ?-for whom?) Should breathe a word tending to violate Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for In slight of that forbearance and reserve Which common human-heartedness inspires, And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else."
"True," said the Solitary, "be it far From us to infringe the laws of charity. Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced; This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this Wisdom enjoins; but if the thing we seek Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling Colours as bright on exhalations bred By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, Or the pellucid lake."
"Small risk," said I, "Of such illusion do we here incur ; Temptation here is none to exceed the truth; No evidence appears that they who rest Within this ground, were covetous of praise,
Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green, Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, A heaving surface, almost wholly free From interruption of sepulchral stones, And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf
And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust The lingering gleam of their departed lives To oral record, and the silent heart; Depositories faithful and more kind
Than fondest epitaph: for, if those fail,
What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can blame,
Who rather would not envy, men that feel This mutual confidence; if, from such source, The practice flow, if thence, or from a deep And general humility in death?
Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring From disregard of time's destructive power, As only capable to prey on things
Of earth, and human nature's mortal part.
Yet-in less simple districts, where we see Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone In courting notice; and the ground all paved With commendations of departed worth; Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives, Of each domestic charity fulfilled,
And sufferings meekly borne-I, for my part, Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, Among those fair recitals also range,
Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. And, in the centre of a world whose soil
Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, It was no momentary happiness
To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks In envy or detraction is not heard;
Which malice may not enter; where the traces Of evil inclinations are unknown ;
Where love and pity tenderly unite With resignation; and no jarring tone Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb Of amity and gratitude."
The Pastor said, "I willingly confine My narratives to subjects that excite Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem, And admiration; lifting up a veil,
A sunbeam introducing among hearts Retired and covert; so that ye shall have Clear images before your gladdened eyes Of nature's unambitious underwood,
And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when I speak of such among my flock as swerved Or fell, those only shall be singled out Upon whose lapse, or error, something more Than brotherly forgiveness may attend; To such will we restrict our notice, else Better my tongue were mute.
And yet there are, I feel, good reasons why we should not leave Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. For, strength to persevere and to support, And energy to conquer and repel- These elements of virtue, that declare The native grandeur of the human soul— Are oft-times not unprofitably shown In the perverseness of a selfish course: Truth every day exemplified, no less In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, Or 'mid the factious senate unappalled Whoe'er may sink, or rise-to sink again, As merciless proscription ebbs and flows.
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