Raised from his seat within the chosen shade, Moved towards the grave;-instinctively his steps We followed; and my voice with joy exclaimed: "Power to the Oppressors of the world is given, A might of which they dream not. Oh! the curse, To be the awakener of divinest thoughts, Father and founder of exalted deeds;
And, to whole nations bound in servile straits, The liberal donor of capacities
More than heroic! this to be, nor yet
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet Deserve the least return of human thanks; Winning no recompense but deadly hate With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn!
When this involuntary strain had ceased, The Pastor said: "So Providence is served; The forked weapon of the skies can send Illumination into deep, dark holds,
Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast Pity away, soon shall ye quake with fear! For, not unconscious of the mighty debt Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, Europe, through all her habitable bounds, Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore, By horror of their impious rites, preserved; Are still permitted to extend their pride, Like cedars on the top of Lebanon Darkening the sun.
But less impatient thoughts, And love all hoping and expecting all,'
This hallowed grave demands, where rests in peace A humble champion of the better cause;
A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked No higher name; in whom our country showed, As in a favourite son, most beautiful.
In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, England, the ancient and the free, appeared In him to stand before my swimming eyes, Unconquerably virtuous and secure.
-No more of this, lest I offend his dust : Short was his life, and a brief tale remains.
One day-a summer's day of annual pomp And solemn chase-from morn to sultry noon His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, The red-deer driven along its native heights With cry of hound and horn; and, from that toil Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed, This generous Youth, too negligent of self, Plunged-'mid a gay and busy throng convened To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock- Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire [space Seized him, that self-same night; and through the Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched, Till nature rested from her work in death. To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue- A golden lustre slept upon the hills;
And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, From some commanding eminence had looked Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen A glittering spectacle; but every face
Was pallid seldom hath that eye been moist With tears, that wept not then; nor were the few, Who from their dwellings came not forth to join In this sad service, less disturbed than we. They started at the tributary peal
Of instantaneous thunder, which announced, Through the still air, the closing of the Grave; And distant mountains echoed with a sound Of lamentation, never heard before!
The Pastor ceased.—My venerable Friend Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye; And, when that eulogy was ended, stood Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived The prolongation of some still response, Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, Its rights and virtues-by that Deity Descending, and supporting his pure heart With patriotic confidence and joy. And, at the last of those memorial words, The pining Solitary turned aside; Whether through manly instinct to conceal Tender emotions spreading from the heart To his worn cheek; or with uneasy shame For those cold humours of habitual spleen That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. -Right toward the sacred Edifice his steps Had been directed; and we saw him now Intent upon a monumental stone,
Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall, Or rather seemed to have grown into the side Of the rude pile; as oft-times trunks of trees, Where nature works in wild and craggy spots, Are seen incorporate with the living rock- To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note Of his employment, with a courteous smile Exclaimed-
"The sagest Antiquarian's eye That task would foil; then, letting fall his voice While he advanced, thus spake: "Tradition tells That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, And fixed his home in this sequestered vale. 'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath,
Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought I sometimes entertain, that haply bound To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, Or sent on mission to some northern Chief Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen With transient observation; and thence caught An image fair, which, brightening in his soul When joy of war and pride of chivalry Languished beneath accumulated years, Had power to draw him from the world, resolved To make that paradise his chosen home
To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned.
Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest Upon unwritten story fondly traced
From sire to son, in this obscure retreat
The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, and borne Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked
With broidered housings. And the lofty Steed- His sole companion, and his faithful friend, Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range In fertile pastures-was beheld with eyes Of admiration and delightful awe,
By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less pride, Yet free from touch of envious discontent, They saw a mansion at his bidding rise, Like a bright star, amid the lowly band Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt; And, in that mansion, children of his own, Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree That falls and disappears, the house is gone; And, through improvidence or want of love For ancient worth and honourable things, The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight
Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains
Of that foundation in domestic care
Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone, Faithless memorial! and his family name Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang From out the ruins of his stately lodge: These, and the name and title at full length,— Sir Alfred Erthing, with appropriate words Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath Or posy, girding round the several fronts Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, That in the steeple hang, his pious gift."
"So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, "All that this world is proud of. From their spheres The stars of human glory are cast down; Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms Of all the mighty, withered and consumed! Nor is power given to lowliest innocence Long to protect her own. The man himself Departs; and soon is spent the line of those Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks, Fraternities and orders-heaping high New wealth upon the burthen of the old, And placing trust in privilege confirmed And re-confirmed-are scoffed at with a smile Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand Of Desolation, aimed to slow decline These yield, and these to sudden overthrow: Their virtue, service, happiness, and state Expire; and nature's pleasant robe of green, Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps
Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame
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