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You look at me, and you have cause; to-day
I have been travelling far; and many days
About the fields I wander, knowing this
Only, that what I seek I cannot find;

And so I waste my time: for I am changed;
And to myself,' said she, have done much wrong
And to this helpless infant. I have slept
Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears
Have flow'd as if my body were not such
As others are; and I could never die.
But I am now in mind and in my heart
More easy, and I hope,' said she, that God

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Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home.' It would have grieved
Your very soul to see her; sir, I feel
The story linger in my heart; I fear
'Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings
To that poor woman :-so familiarly
Do I perceive her manner, and her look
And presence, and so deeply do I feel
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks
A momentary trance comes over me;
And to myself I seem to muse on one
By sorrow laid asleep:-or borne away,
A human being destined to awake
To human life, or something very near
To human life, when he shall come again
For whom she suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved
Your very soul to see her evermore

Her eyelids droop'd, her eyes were downward cast;
And, when she at her table gave me food,

She did not look at me. Her voice was low,
Her body was subdued. In every act
Pertaining to her house affairs, appear'd
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self occupied; to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter. Still she sigh'd,
But yet no motion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire
We sate together, sighs came on my ear,
I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.
"Ere my departure, to her care I gave,
For her son's use, some tokens of regard,
Which with a look of welcome she received;
And I exhorted her to place her trust

In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer.
I took my staff, and when I kiss'd her babe
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give;
She thank'd me for my wish ;-but for my hope
Methought, she did not thank me.

"I return'd,
And took my rounds along this road again
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the spring.
I found her sad and drooping; she had learn'd
No tidings of her husband; if he lived,
She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,
She knew not he was dead. She seem'd the same
In person and appearance; but her house
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;

The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,
Which in the cottage window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves
Lay scatter'd here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe
Had from its mother caught the trick of grief,
And sigh'd among its playthings. Once again
I turn'd towards the garden gate, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and grief
Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced
The harden'd soil, and knots of wither'd grass:
No ridges there appear'd of clear, black mould,
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,
It seem'd the better part were gnaw'd away
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,
Which had been twined about the slender stem
Of a young apple tree. lay at its root,
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep.
Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms,
And noting that my eye was on the tree,
She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone
Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house
Together we return'd; and she inquired
If I had any hope:-but for her babe
And for her little orphan boy, she said,
She had no wish to live, that she must die

Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom
Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung
Upon the selfsame nail; his very staff
Stood undisturb'd behind the door. And when,
In bleak December, I retraced this way,
She told me that her little babe was dead,
And she was left alone. She now, released
From her maternal cares, had taken up
Th' employment common through these wilds, and
gain'd,

By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself;
And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy
To give her needful help. That very time
Most willingly she put her work aside,
And walk'd with me along the miry road,
Heedless how far; and in such piteous sort
That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask
For him whom she had lost. We parted then-
Our final parting; for from that time forth
Did many seasons pass ere I return'd
Into this track again.

"Nine tedious years; From their first separation, nine long years, She linger'd in unquiet widowhood;

A wife and widow. Needs must it have been
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my friend,
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate
Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day;
And, if a dog pass'd by, she still would quit
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench
For hours she sate; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path
Now faint, the grass has crept o'er its gray line
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp
That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn threa

With backward steps. Yet ever as there pass'd
A man whose garments show'd the soldier's red,
Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb,
The little child who sate to turn the wheel
Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice
Made many a fond inquiry; and when they,
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by,
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate,
That bars the traveller's road, she often stood,
And when a stranger horseman came, the latch
Would lift, and in his face look wistfully:
Most happy, if, from aught discovered there
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat
The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut
Sank to decay: for he was gone, whose hand,
At the first nipping of October frost,

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Checker'd the green-grown thatch. And so she lived

Through the long winter, reckless and alone;
Until the house by frost, and thaw, and rain,
Was sapp'd; and while she slept, the nightly damps
Did chill her breast: and in the stormy day
Her tatter'd clothes were ruffled by the wind;
E'en at the side of her own fire. Yet still
She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds
Have parted hence: and still that length of road,
And this rude bench, one torturing hope endear'd,
Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my friend,
In sickness she remain'd; and here she died,
Last human tenant of these ruin'd walls."

The old man ceased: he saw that I was moved;
From that low bench, rising instinctively
I turn'd aside in weakness, nor had power
To thank him for the tale which he had told.
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall,
Review'd that woman's sufferings; and it seem'd
To comfort me while with a brother's love
I bless'd her in the impotence of grief.
At length towards the cottage I return'd
Fondly, and traced, with interest more mild,
That secret spirit of humanity

Which, 'mid the calm, oblivious tendencies
Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,
And silent overgrowings, still survived.
The old man, noting this, resumed, and said,
"My friend! enough to sorrow you have given,
The purposes of wisdom ask no more;
Be wise and cheerful; and no longer read
The forms of things with an unworthy eye.
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here.
I well remember that those very plumes,
Those weeds, and the high speargrass on that wall,
By mist and silent rain-drops silver'd o'er,
As once I pass'd, did to my heart convey
So still an image of tranquillity,

So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful
Amid th' uneasy thoughts which fill'd my mind,
That what we feel of sorrow and despair
From ruin and from change, and all the grief
The passing shows of being leave behind,
Appear'd an idle dream, that could not live
Where meditation was. I turn'd away,
And walk'd along my road in happiness."

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot
A slant and mellow radiance, which began

To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees,
We sate on that low bench: and now we felt,
Admonish'd thus, the sweet hour coming on.
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,
At distance heard, peopled the milder air.
The old man rose, and, with a sprightly mien
Of hopeful preparation, grasp'd his staff:
Together casting then a farewell look
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade;
And, ere the stars were visible, had reach'd
A village inn, our evening resting place.

BOOK II.

THE SOLITARY.

ARGUMENT.

The author describes his travels with the wanderer, whose character is further illustrated. Morning scene, and view of a village wake. Wanderer's account of a friend whom he purposes to visit. View, from an eminence, of the valley which his friend had chosen for his retreat. Feelings of the author at the sight of it. Sound of singing from below. A funeral procession. Descent into the valley. Observations drawn from the wanderer at sight of a book accidentally discovered in a recess in the valley. Meeting with the wanderer's friend, the solitary. Wanderer's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district. Solitary contrasts with this, that of the individual carried a few minutes before from the cottage. Brief conversation. The cottage entered. Description of the solitary's apartment. Repast there. View from the window of two mountain summits and the solitary's description of the companionship they afford him. Account of the departed inmate of the cottage. Description of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the solitary's mind Quit the house.

IN days of yore how fortunately fared
The minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall,
Baronial court or royal! cheer'd with gifts
Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise;
Now meeting on his road an armed knight,
Now resting with a pilgrim by the side
Of a clear brook ;-beneath an abbey's roof
One evening sumptuously lodged; the next
Humbly in a religious hospital;

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood;
Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell.
Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared;
He walk'd-protected from the sword of war
By virtue of that sacred instrument
His harp, suspended at the traveller's side:
His dear companion wheresoe'er he went
Opening from land to land an easy way
By melody, and by the charm of verse.
Yet not the noblest of that honour'd race
Drew happier, loftier, more impassion'd thoughts
From his long journeyings and eventful life,
Than this obscure itinerant had skill
To gather, ranging through the tamer ground
Of these our unimaginative days;

Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise
Accoutred with his burden and his staff;
And now, when free to move with lighter pace.
What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school

Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes,
Look'd on this guide with reverential love?
Each with the other pleased, we now pursued
Our journey-beneath favourable skies.
Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light
Unfailing not a hamlet could we pass,
Rarely a house, that did not yield to him
Remembrances or from his tongue call forth
Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse,
Which nature's various objects might inspire;
And in the silence of his face I read
His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts,
And the mute fish that glances in the stream,
And harmless reptile coiling in the sun,
And gorgeous insect hovering in the air,
The fowl domestic, and the household dog,
In his capacious mind-he loved them all:
Their rights acknowledging he felt for all.
Oft was occasion given me to perceive
How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd
To happy contemplation sooth'd his walk;
How the poor brute's condition, forced to run
Its course of suffering in the public road,
Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart
With unavailing pity. Rich in love
And sweet humanity, he was, himself,
To the degree that he desired, beloved.
Greetings and smiles we met with all day long
From faces that he knew; we took our seats
By many a cottage hearth, where he received
The welcome of an inmate come from far.
Nor was he loath to enter ragged huts,

Huts where his charity was blest; his voice
Heard as the voice of an experienced friend.

Of aspect, with aërial softness clad,
And beautified with morning's purple beams.
The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress
Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time,
May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs
Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise
From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise;
And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease,
Shall lack not their enjoyment :-but how faint
Compared with ours! who, pacing side by side
Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all
That we beheld; and lend the listening sense
To every grateful sound of earth and air;
Pausing at will-our spirits braced, our thoughts
Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown,
And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves.
Mount slowly, sun! that we may journey long,
By this dark hill protected from thy beams!
Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish;
But quickly from among our morning thoughts
'Twas chased away: for, toward the western side
Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance,
We saw a throng of people ;-wherefore met?
Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose
On the thrill'd ear, and flags uprising, yield
Prompt answer: they proclaim the annual wake,
Which the bright season favours.-Tabor and pipe
In purpose join to hasten and reprove
The laggard rustic; and repay with boon
Of merriment a party-colour'd knot,
Already form'd upon the village green.
Beyond the limits of the shadow cast
By the broad hill, glisten'd upon our sight
That gay assemblage. Round them and above
Glitter, with dark recesses interposed,

And, sometimes, where the poor man held dis- Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees

pute

With his own mind, unable to subdue
Impatience through inaptness to perceive
General distress in his particular lot;
Or cherishing resentment, or in vain
Struggling against it, with a soul perplex'd,
And finding in herself no steady power
To draw the line of comfort that divides
Calamity, the chastisement of heaven,
From the injustice of our brother men ;
To him appeal was made as to a judge!
Who, with an understanding heart, allay'd
The perturbation; listen'd to the plea;
Resolved the dubious point; and sentence gave
So grounded, so applied, that it was heard
With soften'd spirit-even when it condemn'd.
Such intercourse I witness'd, while we roved,
Now as his choice directed, now as mine;
Or both, with equal readiness of will,
Our course submitting to the changeful breeze
Of accident. But when the rising sun
Had three times call'd us to renew our walk,
My fellow traveller, with earnest voice,
As if the thought were but a moment old,
Claim'd absolute dominion for the day.
We started-and he led towards the hills
Up through an ample vale, with higher hills
Before us, mountains stern and desolate;
But, in the majesty of distance, now
Set off, and to our ken appearing fair

Half-veil'd in vapory cloud, the silver steam
Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs
By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast
Of gold, the maypole shines; as if the rays
Of morning, aided by exhaling dew,
With gladsome influence could reanimate
The faded garlands dangling from its sides.

Said I," the music and the sprightly scene
Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join
These festive matins ?"-He replied, "not loath
Here would I linger, and with you partake,
Not one hour merely, but till evening's close
The simple pastimes of the day and place.
By the fleet racers, ere the sun be set,
The turf of yon large pasture will be skimm'd;
There, too, the lusty wrestlers shall contend:
But know we not that he, who intermits
Th' appointed task and duties of the day,
Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day;
Checking the finer spirits that refuse
To flow, when purposes are lightly changed?
We must proceed-a length of journey yet
Remains untraced." Then, pointing with his staff
Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent
He thus imparted.

"In a spot that lies
Among yon mountain fastnesses conceal'd
You will receive, before the hour of noon,
Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil-
From sight of one who lives secluded there

Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past Intoxicating service! I might say

life,

(Not t forestall such knowledge as may be More faithfully collected from himself,) This brief communication shall suffice.

"Though now sojourning there, he, like myself,
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract
Where many a shelter'd and well-tended plant,
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life,
Blossoms of piety and innocence.

Such grateful promises his youth display'd:
And, having shown in study forward zeal,
He to the ministry was duly call'd;
And straight incited by a curious mind
Fill'd with vague hopes, he undertook the charge
Of chaplain to a military troop,

Cheer'd by the Highland bagpipe, as they march'd
In plaided vest,-his fellow countrymen.
This office filling, yet by native power
And force of native inclination, made
An intellectual ruler in the haunts

Of social vanity-he walk'd the world,
Gay, and affecting graceful gayety;
Lax, buoyant-less a pastor with his flock
Than a soldier among soldiers-lived and roam'd
Where fortune led:--and fortune, who oft proves
The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known
A blooming lady-a conspicuous flower,
Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised;
Whom he had sensibility to love,
Ambition to attempt, and skill to win.

"For this fair ride, most rich in gifts of mind,
Nor sparingly endow'd with worldly wealth
His office he relinquish'd; and retired
From the world's notice to a rural home.
Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past,
And she was in youth's prime. How full their joy,
How free their love! nor did that love decay,
Nor joy abate, till, pitiable doom!

In the short course of one undreaded year
Death blasted all.-Death suddenly 'erthrew
Two lovely children-all that they possess'd!
The mother follow'd:-miserably bare
The one survivor stood; he wept, he pray'd
For his dismissal; day and night, compell'd
By pain to turn his thoughts towards the grave,
And face the regions of eternity.
And uncomplaining apathy displaced
This anguish; and, indifferent to delight,
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days,
To private interest dead, and public care.
So lived he; so he might have died.

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A happy service; for he was sincere
As vanity and fondness for applause,

And new and shapeless wishes, would allow.
"That righteous cause (such power hath freedom)
bound,

For one hostility, in friendly league
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves;
Was served by rival advocates that came
From regions opposite as heaven and hell,
One courage seem'd to animate them all:
And, from the dazzling conquests daily gain'd
By their united efforts, there arose

A proud and most presumptuous confidence
In the transcendent wisdom of the age,
And her discernment; not alone in rights,
And in the origin and bounds of power
Social and temporal; but in laws divine,
Deduced by reason, or to faith reveal'd.
An overweening trust was raised; and fear
Cast out, alike of person and of thing.

Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane
The strongest did not easily escape:

And he, what wonder! took a mortal taint.
How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell
That he broke faith with them whom he had laid
In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope!
An infidel contempt of holy writ

Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence
Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced;
Vilest hypocrisy, the laughing, gay
Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride.
Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls
But, for disciples of the inner school,

Old freedom was old servitude, and they
The wisest whose opinions stoop'd the least
To known restraints: and who most boldly drew
Hopeful prognostications from a creed,
That, in the light of false philosophy,
Spread like a halo round a misty moon,
Widening its circle as the storms advance.
"His sacred function was at length renounced;
And every day and every place enjoy'd
Th' unshackled layman's natural liberty;
Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise.
I do not wish to wrong him ;-though the course
Of private life licentiously display'd
Unhallow'd actions-planted like a crown
Upon the insolent, aspiring brow
Of spurious notions-worn as open signs
Of prejudice subdued-he still retain'd,
'Mid such abasement, what he had received
From nature-an intense and glowing mind.
Wherefore, when humbled liberty grew weak,
And mortal sickness on her face appear'd,
He colour'd objects to his own desire
As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods
Of pain were keen as those of better men,
Nay keener-as his fortitude was less,
And he continued, when worse days were come,
To deal about his sparkling eloquence,
Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal
That show'd like happiness: but, in despite
Of all this outside bravery, within,
He neither felt encouragement nor hope:
For moral dignity, and strength of mind,

Were wanting; and simplicity of life;
And reverence for himself; and, last and best,
Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of him
Before whose sight the troubles of this world
Are vain as billows in a tossing sea.

"The glory of the times fading away,
The splendour, which had given a festal air
To self-importance, hallow'd it, and veil'd
From his own sight, this gone, he forfeited
All joy in human nature; was consumed,
And vex'd, and chafed, by levity and scorn,
And fruitless indignation; gall'd by pride;
Made desperate by contempt of men who throve
Before his sight in power or fame, and won,
Without desert, what he desired; weak men,
Too weak e'en for his envy or his hate!
Tormented thus, after a wandering course
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest
With malady-in part, I fear, provoked
By weariness of life, he fix'd 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.""

These serious words

Closed the preparatory notices
That served my fellow traveller to beguile
The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.
Diverging now (as if 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 scaled, without a track to ease our steps,
A steep ascent; and reach'd a dreary plain,
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops
Before us; savage region! which I paced
Dispirited 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 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 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 seas,
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 kindred thoughts intent I lay
In silence musing by my comrade's side,
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 upon the hut,
But seeing no one: meanwhile from below
The strain continued, spiritual as before.
And now distinctly could I recognise

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 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 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 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 my downward course, Had landed upon easy ground; and there Stood waiting for my comrade. When behold An object that enticed my steps aside! A narrow, winding entry open'd out Into a platform-that lay, sheepfold wise, Enclosed between an upright mass of rock And one old moss-grown wall;-a cool recess And fanciful! For, where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed,

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