And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound
Was wasted on the good man's living ear,
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze,
Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.

"Soul-cheering light, most bountiful of things!

Guide of our way, mysterious comforter!

Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and heaven
We all too thanklessly participate,

Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch.
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complain'd;
Ask of the channell❜d rivers if they held
A safer, easier, more determined course.
What terror doth it strike into the mind
To think of one, who cannot see, advancing
Towards some precipice's airy brink!

But, timely warn'd, he would have stay'd his steps;
Protected, say enlighten'd, by his ear,

And on the very brink of vacancy

Not more endanger'd than a man whose eye
Beholds the gulf beneath. No flow'ret blooms
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills,
Or in the woods, that could from him conceal
Its birthplace; none whose figure did not live
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth
Enrich'd with knowledge his industrious mind;
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores
Lodged in her bosom; and by science led,
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven.
Methinks I see him; how his eyeballs roll'd
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness pair'd,-
But each instinct with spirit; and the frame
Of the whole countenance alive with thought,
Fancy, and understanding; while the voice
Discoursed of natural and moral truth
With eloquence, and such authentic power,
That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood
Abash'd, and tender pity overawed."

"A noble, and, to unreflecting minds,
A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said,
"Beings like these present! But proofs abound
Upon the earth that faculties, which seem
Extinguish'd, do not, therefore, cease to be.
And to the mind among her powers of sense
This transfer is permitted,-not alone
That the bereft may win their recompense;
But for remoter purposes of love
And charity; not last nor least for this,
That to the imagination may be given
A type and shadow of an awful truth,
How, likewise, under sufferance divine,
Darkness is banish'd from the realms of death,

By man's imperishable spirit, quell'd.
Unto the men who see not as we see,
Futurity was thought, in ancient times,
To be laid open, and they prophesied.
And know we not that from the blind have flow'd
The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre;
And wisdom married to immortal verse?'

Among the humbler worthies, at our feet
Lying insensible to human praise,

Love, or regret-whose lineaments would next
Have been portray'd, I guess not; but it chanced
That near the quiet churchyard where we sate,
A team of horses, with a pond'rous freight
Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope,
Whose sharp descent confounded their array,
Came at that moment, ringing noisily.

"Here," said the Pastor, "do we muse, and mourn
The waste of death; and lo! the giant oak
Stretch'd on his bier!-that massy timber-wain;
Nor fail to note the man who guides the team."

He was a peasant of the lowest class :
Grey locks profusely round his temples hung
In clust'ring curis, like ivy, which the bite
Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged
Within his cheek, as light within a cloud;
And he return'd our greeting with a smile.
When he had pass'd, the Solitary spake:
"A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to-morrows; with a face
Not worldly-minded; for it bears too much
Of Nature's impress,-gaiety and health,
Freedom and hope; but keen, withal, and shrewd.
His gestures note,-and hark! his tones of voice
Are all vivacious as his mien and looks."

The Pastor answer'd: "You have read him well
Year after year is added to his store

With silent increase: summers, winters-past,
Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say,
Ten summers and ten winters of the space
That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds,
Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix
The obligation of an anxious mind,
A pride in having, or a fear to lose;
Possess'd like outskirts of some large domain,
By any one more thought of than by him
Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord!
Yet is the creature rational-endow'd

With foresight; hears, too, every Sabbath day,
The Christian promise with attentive ear,
Nor disbelieves the tidings which he hears.
Meanwhile the incense offer'd up by him
Is of the kind which beasts and birds present

In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul,
From trepidation and repining free.
How many scrupulous worshippers fall down
Upon their knees, and daily homage pay
Less worthy, less religious even, than his !

"This qualified respect, the old man's due,
Is paid without reluctance; but in truth"
(Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile)
"I feel at times a motion of despite

Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill,
As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part
In works of havoc; taking from these vales,
One after one, their proudest ornaments.
Full oft his doings leave me to deplore

Tall ash-tree sown by winds, by vapours nursed,
In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks;
Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge,
Transparent texture, framing in the east.
A veil of glory for the ascending moon;
And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damp'd,
And on whose forehead inaccessible

The raven lodged in safety. Many a ship
Launch'd into Morecamb Bay, hath owed to him
Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears
The loftiest of her pendants. Help he gives
To lordly mansion rising far or near;

The enormous wheel that turns ten thousand spindles,
And the vast engine labouring in the mine,
Content with meaner prowess, must have lack'd
The trunk and body of their marvellous strength,
If his undaunted enterprise had fail'd
Among the mountain coves, or keen research
In forest, park, or chase. Yon household fir,
A guardian planted to fence off the blast,
But towering high the roof above, as if
Its humble destination were forgot;
That sycamore, which annually holds
Within its shade, as in a stately tent
On all sides open to the fanning breeze,
A grave assemblage, seated while they shear
The fleece-encumber'd flock-the 'Joyful Elm,'"
Around whose trunk the lasses dance in May,

And the 'Lord's Oak' would plead their several rights
In vain, if he were master of their fate.
Not one would have his pitiful regard,
For prized accommodation, pleasant use,
For dignity, for old acquaintance sake,
For ancient custom or distinguish'd name.
His sentence to the axe would doom them all.
But green in age and lusty as he is,
And promising to stand from year to year,
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men
Than with the forest's more enduring growth,

His own appointed hour will come at last;
And like the haughty spoilers of the world,
This keen destroyer, in his turn, must fall.

"Now from the living, pass we once again; From age," the Priest continued, "turn your thoughts ;From age, that often unlamented drops,

And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long.
Seven lusty sons sate daily round the board
Of Gold-rill side; and when the hope had ceased
Of other progeny, a daughter then

Was given, the crowning glory of the whole !
Welcomed with joy, whose penetrating power
Was not unfelt amid that heavenly calm
With which by nature every mother's soul
Is stricken, in the moment when her throes
Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry
Which tells her that a living child is born,
And she lies conscious in a blissful rest,
That the dread storm is weather'd by them both.

"The father-him at this unlook'd-for gift
A bolder transport seizes. From the side
Of his bright hearth, and from his open door,
And from the laurel-shaded seat thereby,
Day after day the gladness is diffused
To all that come, and almost all that pass;
Invited, summon'd, to partake the cheer
Spread on the never-empty board, and drink
Health and good wishes to his new-born girl,
From cups replenish'd by his joyous hand.
Those seven fair brothers variously were moved
Each by the thoughts best suited to his years:
But most of all, and with most thankful mind,
The hoary grandsire felt himself enrich'd;
A happiness that ebb'd not, but remain'd'
To fill the total measure of the soul !
From the low tenement, his own abode,
Whither, as to a little private cell,

He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise,
To spend the sabbath of old age in peace,
Once every day he duteously repair'd
To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe:
For in that female infant's name he heard
The silent name of his departed wife;
Heart-stirring music! hourly heard that name
Full blest he was, 'Another Margaret Green,'
Oft did he say, · was come to Gold-rill side."

"Oh! pang unthought of, as the precious boo Itself had been unlook'd-for-oh! dire stroke Of desolating anguish for them all!

Just as the child could totter on the floor,

And by some friendly finger's help upstay'd,

Range round the garden-walk, whose low ground-flowers

Were peeping forth, shy messengers of spring,-
Even at that hopeful time,-the winds of March,
One sunny day, smiting insidiously,

Raised in the tender passage of the throat
Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarn'd,
The household lost their hope and soul's delight.
But Providence, that gives and takes away
By his own law, is merciful and just;

Time wants not power to soften all regrets,

And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress

Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears
Fail not to spring from either parent's eye
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own,
Yet this departed little one, too long
The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps
In what may now be call'd a peaceful grave.

"On a bright day, the brightest of the year,
These mountains echo'd with an unknown sound,
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the corse
Let down into the hollow of that grave,
Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould.
Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth!
Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods,
That they may knit together, and therewith
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness!
Nor so the valley shall forget her loss.
Dear youth, by young and old alike beloved,
To me as precious as my own!-Green herbs
May creep (I wish that they would softly creep)
Over thy last abode, and we may pass
Reminded less imperiously of thee:-
The ridge itself may sink into the breast
Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more;
Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts,
Thy image disappear. The mountain-ash,
Deck'd with autumnal berries that outshine
Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show,
Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen
By a brook-side, or solitary tarn,

How she her station doth adorn,-the pool
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks
Are brighten'd round her. In his native valo
Such and so glorious did this youth appear;
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,
By all the graces with which Nature's hand
Had bounteously array'd him. As old barde
Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods,
Pan or Apollo, veil'd in human form;
Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade,
Discover'd in their own despite to sense
Of mortals (if such fables without blame