Nor pleasure nor tranquillity, at last, After a wandering course of discontent In foreign Lands, and inwardly oppressed With malady-in part, I fear, provoked By weariness of life, he fixed his Home, Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells, And wastes the sad remainder of his hours In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want Its own voluptuousness;-on this resolved, With this content, that he will live and die Forgotten,-at safe distance from a "world Not moving to his mind."
Closed the preparatory notices
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,
Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide. We clomb without a track to guide our steps; And, on the summit, reached a heathy plain, With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops Before us; savage region! and I walked 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 encompassed, 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 glittered in the sun,
And one bare Dwelling; one Abode, no more! It seemed the home of poverty and toil Though not of want: the little fields, made 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 Vales The Cuckoo straggling up to the hill tops
Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place.
Ah! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here! Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease Upon a bed of heath ;-full many a spot Of hidden beauty have I chanced to 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, furnished in itself
With the few needful things which 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 no where; days unruffled by the gale Of public news or private; years that pass
Forgetfully; uncalled upon
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 listened, 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 Wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence,
"He is departed, and finds peace at last!"
This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains Not ceasing, forth appeared 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
Bare-headed, and all decently attired!
Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge 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 whose 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 performed ; 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, disappeared, I, more impatient in the course I took, Had landed upon easy ground; and there
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