"From yon crag,

Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale,
We heard the hymn they sang-a solemn sound
Heard any where; 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.* Oft on my way have I
Stood still, though but a casual passenger,
So much I felt the awfulness of life,1

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, towards its home,
Its final home on 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

Compare the note p. 81; also the Fenwick note, in which Wordsworth laments the change in the "manner in which, till lately, every one was borne to the place of sepulture."-Ed.

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
have seen-

may

Son, husband, brothers-brothers side by side,
And son and father also side by side,

Rise from that posture:-and in concert move,
On the green turf following the vested Priest,
Four dear supporters of one senseless weight,
From which they do not shrink, and under which
They faint not, but advance towards the open grave1
Step after step-together, with their firm
Unhidden faces: he that suffers most,

He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps,

The most serene, with most undaunted eye !———

Oh! blest are they who live and die like these,

Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!"

"That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile

1 1836.

towards the grave

1814.

The custom of mourners kneeling round the coffin was, till quite lately, in common use. It is still observed in some churches in Cumberland and Westmoreland, but is gradually passing away.-ED.

Which did not please me, "must be deemed, I fear,

Of the unblest; for he will surely sink
Into his mother earth without such pomp
Of grief, depart without occasion given
By him for such array of fortitude.

Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark!
This simple Child will mourn his one short hour,
And I shall miss him: scanty tribute! yet,
This wanting, he would leave the sight of men,
If love were his sole claim upon their care,
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls
Without a hand to gather it."

At this

I interposed, though loth to speak, and said,
"Can it be thus among so small a band
As ye must needs be here? in such a place
I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight
Of a departing cloud."—" "Twas not for love,"
Answered the sick Man with a careless voice-
"That I came hither; neither have I found
Among associates who have power of speech,
Nor in such other converse as is here,
Temptation so prevailing as to change
That mood, or undermine my first resolve."
Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said
To my benign Companion,-" Pity 'tis

That fortune did not guide you to this house
A few days earlier; then would you have seen
What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude

That seems by Nature hollowed out to be

The seat and bosom of pure innocence,1

Are made of, an ungracious matter this!

Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too
Of past discussions with this zealous friend
And advocate of humble life, I now
Will force upon his notice; undeterred
By the example of his own pure course,
And that respect and deference which a soul
May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched
In what she most doth value, love of God1
And his frail creature Man;-but ye shall hear.
I talk and ye are standing in the sun
Without refreshment!"

Quickly had he spoken,

And, with light steps still quicker than his words,
Led toward the cottage.2 Homely was the spot;
And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door,

Had almost a forbidding nakedness;

Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair,

Than it appeared when from the beetling rock 3

We had looked down upon it.

As left by the departed company,

All within,

Was silent; save the solitary clock

That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.-5

Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs
And reached a small apartment dark and low,
Which was no sooner entered than our Host
Said gaily, "This is my domain, my cell,
My hermitage, my cabin, what you will-
I love it better than a snail his house.
But now ye shall be feasted with our best."*

So, with more ardour than an unripe girl
Left one day mistress of her mother's stores,
He went about his hospitable task.

My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less,
And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend,
As if to thank him; he returned that look,
Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck
Had we about us!1 scattered was the floor,
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf,
With books, maps, fossils, withered plants, and flowers,

1 1849.

We had around us!

Had we around us!

1814.

1827.

* Blea Tarn house is a humble cottage, resembling Anne Tyson's house at Hawkshead where Wordsworth lived when at school. On the groundfloor are a parlour, kitchen, and dairy. You ascend by nine stone steps to the upper flat, where there are four small rooms, and the window of one of them faces the north in the direction of the Langdale Pikes. The foundations of an older house may be seen a little lower down, about twenty yards nearer the tarn; but the present house was probably standing at the beginning of this century. As there are two poplars to the north of the cottage, and a sycamore near them, it is not likely that the place was entirely "treeless" in Wordsworth's time. In the Fenwick memoranda he says "the cottage was called Hackett, and stood, as described, on the southern extremity of the ridge which separates the two Langdales." In this he evidently confounds Hackett cottage, near Colwith-which separates the two Langdales as you ascend them from the lower country-with the Blea Tarn cottage, which stands on "the southern extremity of the ridge which separates the Langdale" valleys as you descend them.-ED.