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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 flockInto 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 blueA 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 : “ Îradition 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 Irthing, 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

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