With which my fellow-traveller had beguiled
The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.
Now, suddenly diverging, he began
To climb, upon its western side, a ridge,
Pathless and smooth, a long and steep ascent;
As if the object of his quest had been
Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall
Of water, or some boastful eminence
Renown'd for splendid prospect far and wide.
We clomb without a track to guide our steps,
And, on the summit, reach'd a healthy plain,
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill-tops
Before us; savago region! and I walk'd
In weariness; when, all at once, behold!
Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,
A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high
Among the mountains; even as if the spot
Had been, from eldest time, by wish of theirs
So placed,-to be shut out from all the world!
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn;
With rocks encompass'd, save that to the south
Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close.
A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,
A liquid pool, that glitter'd in the sun,
And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more!
It seem'd the home of poverty and toil,
Though not of want: the little fields, made green
By husbandry of many thrifty years,
Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house.
There crows the cock, single in his domain :
The small birds find in spring no thicket there
To shroud them; only from the neighbouring valos
The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill-tops,
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place.
"Ah! what a sweet recess," thought I, "is hero ("
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease
Upon a bed of heath-"full many a spot
Of hidden beauty have I chanced t' espy
Among the mountains; never one like this;
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure :
Not melancholy-no, for it is green,
And bright, and fertile, furnish'd in itself
With the few needful things that life requires.
In rugged arms how soft it seems to lie,
How tenderly protected! Far and near
We have an image of the pristine earth,
The planet in its nakedness; were this
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat,
First, last, and single, in the breathing world,
It could not be more quiet: peace is here
Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale
Of public news or private; years that pass
Forgetfully; uncall'd upon to pay
The common penalties of mortal life,
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain."
On these and other kindred thoughts intent,
In silence by my comrade's side I lay,
He also silent: when, from out the heart
Of that profound abyss, a solemn voice,
Or several voices in one solemn sound,
Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow
The cadence, as of psalms-a funeral dirge!
We listen'd, looking down towards the hut,
But seeing no one: meanwhile from below
The strain continued, spiritual as before;
And now distinctly could I recognize
These words:"Shall in the grave thy love be known,
In death thy faithfulness?" "God rest his soul !"
The Wand'rer cried, abruptly breaking silence;
"He is departed, and finds peace at last!"
This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains
Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band
Of rustic persons from behind the hut,
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which
They shaped their course along the sloping side
Of that small valley, singing as they moved;
A sober company and few, the men
Bareheaded, and all decently attired.
Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirgo
Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued
Recovering, to my friend I said, "You spake,
Methought, with apprehension that these rites
Are paid to him upon whoso shy retreat
This day we purposed to intrude."
"I did so; But let us hence, that we may learn the truth. Perhaps it is not he, but some one else,
For whom this pious service is perform'd;
Some other tenant of the solitude."
So, to a steep and difficult descent
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag,
Where passage could be won; and, as the last
Of the mute train upon the heathy top
Of that off-sloping outlet disappear'd,
I, more impatient in the course I took,
Had landed upon easy ground, and there
Stood waiting for my comrade. When, behold
An object that enticed my steps aside!
It was an entry, narrow as a door,
A passage whose brief windings open'd out
Into a platform, that lay, sheepfold-wise,
Inclosed between a single mass of rock
And one old moss-grown wall; a cool recess.
And fanciful! For, where the rock and wa!!
Met in an angle, hung a tiny roof,
Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been framed
By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall
And overlaying them with mountain sods;
To weather-fend a little turf-built seat,
Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;
But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands!
Whose simple skill had throng'd the grassy floor
With work of frame less solid, a proud show
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged;
Nor wanting ornament of walks between,
With mimic trees inserted in the turf,
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight,
I could not choose but beckon to my guide,
Who, having enter'd, carelessly look'd round,
And now would have pass'd on, when I exclaim'd,
"Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew icrt}
A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss,
And wreck of particolour'd earthenware,
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise
One of those petty structures. "Gracious Heaven!"
The Wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his,
And he is gone!" The book, which in my hand
Had open'd of itself (for it was swoln
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain
To th' injurious elements exposed
From week to week), I found to be a work
In the French tongue, a novel of Voltaire,
His famous "Optimist." "Unhappy man!"
Exclaim'd my friend; "here, then, has been to him
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place
Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,
And loved the haunts of children; here, no doubt,
He sometimes play'd with them; and here hath sate
Far oft'ner by himself. This book, I guess,
Hath been forgotten in his careless way,
Left here when he was occupied in mind,
And by the cottage children has been found.
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work;
To what odd purpose have the darlings turn'd
This sad memorial of their hapless friend!"
"Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find
Such book in such a place !" "A book it is,"
He answer'd, "to the person suited well,
Though little suited to surrounding things;
Nor, with the knowledge which my mind possess'd,
Could I behold it undisturb'd: 'tis strange,
I grant, and stranger still had been to see
The man who was its owner dwelling here
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world'
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,
As from these intimations I forbode,
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