We heard the hymn they sang-a solemn sound Heard anywhere; 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,
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, tow'rds 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 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 may have seen- 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 grave 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
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.' ""T was 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 't is 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, 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 God And his frail creature Man ;-but ye shall hear. I talk-and ye are standing in the sun Without refreshment!"
And, with light steps still Led toward the Cottage.
Quickly had he spoken,
quicker than his words, 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
We had looked down upon it. All within, As left by the departed company,
Was silent, save the solitary clock
That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.— 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 ardor 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! scattered was the floor,
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and flowers,
And tufts of mountain moss.
Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some Scribbled with verse: a broken angling-rod And shattered telescope, together linked By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook; And instruments of music, some half-made, Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. But speedily the promise was fulfilled; A feast before us, and a courteous Host Inviting us in glee to sit and eat.
A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board; And was itself half-covered with a store
Of dainties,-oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream; And cakes of butter curiously embossed, Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers A golden hue, delicate as their own Faintly reflected in a lingering stream.
Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, Our table, small parade of garden fruits, And whortle-berries from the mountain side. The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, Was now a help to his late comforter,
And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, Ministering to our need.
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate Fronting the window of that little cell,
I could not, ever and anon, forbear
To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, That from some other vale peered into this. "Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, "if here It were your lot to dwell, would soon become Your prized companions.—Many are the notes Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores;
And well those lofty brethren bear their part In the wild concert-chiefly when the storm Rides high; then all the upper air they fill With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, Like smoke, along the level of the blast, In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song
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