Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports,
Or sate companionless; and here the Book,
Left and forgotten in his careless way,

Must by the Cottage Children have 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 answered," to the Person suited well,
Though little suited to surrounding things;
'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been
To see the Man who own'd it, dwelling here,
With one poor Shepherd, far from all the world!
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,

As from these intimations I forebode,

Grieved shall I be less for

my

sake than yours;

And least of all for Him who is no more."

By this, the Book was in the Old Man's hand;

And he continued, glancing on the leaves

An of scorn; eye

"The Lover," said he, "doom'd To love when hope hath fail'd him-whom no depth Of privacy is deep enough to hide,

Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair,
And that is joy to him. When change of times
Hath summoned Kings to scaffolds, do but give
The faithful Servant, who must hide his head
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may,

A kerchief sprinkled with his Master's blood,
And he too hath his comforter. How poor,
Beyond all poverty how destitute,

Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven,
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him
No dearer relique, and no better stay,
Than this dull product of a Scoffer's pen,
Impure conceits discharging from a heart
Harden'd by impious pride! - I did not fear
To tax you with this journey;" - mildly said
My venerable Friend, as forth we stepp'd
Into the presence of the cheerful light
"For I have knowledge that you do not shrink
From moving spectacles ; — but let us on."

So speaking, on he went, and at the word
I follow'd, till he made a sudden stand:
For full in view, approaching through a gate
That open'd from the enclosure of green fields
Into the rough uncultivated ground,

Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead!

I knew, from his deportment, mien, and dress,
That it could be no other; a pale face,
A tall and meagre person, in a garb
Not rustic, dull and faded like himself!
He saw us not, though distant but few steps;
For he was busy, dealing, from a store
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings
Of red ripe currants; gift by which he strove,
With intermixture of endearing words,

To soothe a Child, who walk'd beside him, weeping

Are bearing him, my little One,” he said,

"To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain ;

His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven."

More might have follow'd-but my honour'd Friend Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank

And cordial greeting. -- Vivid was the light

That flash'd and sparkled from the Other's eyes;
He was all fire: the sickness from his face
Pass'd like a fancy that is swept away;
Hands join'd he with his Visitant, a grasp,
An eager grasp; and, many moments' space,
When the first glow of pleasure was no more,

--

And much of what had vanish'd was return'd,
An amicable smile retain'd the life

Which it had unexpectedly received,

Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said,

"Nor could your coming have been better timed;
For this, you see, is in our narrow world

A day of sorrow. I have here a charge”.
And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly

The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping Child-
"A little Mourner, whom it is my task

To comfort; - but how came Ye?

if yon track (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) Conducted hither your most welcome feet, Ye could not miss the Funeral Train

they yet

Have scarcely disappear'd." "This blooming Child," Said the Old Man, " is of an age to weep

At any grave or solemn spectacle,

Inly distress'd, or overpower'd with awe,

He knows not why; - but he, perchance, this day,

Is shedding Orphan's tears; and you yourself

Must have sustain'd a loss.".

"The hand of Death,”

He answer'd, "has been here; but could not well

Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen

Upon myself." - The Other left these words
Unnoticed, thus continuing. —

"From yon Crag,

Down whose steep sides we dropp'd into the Vale, We heard the hymn they sang- a solemn sound Heard any where, 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.

Often have I stopp'd,

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, to its home,

Its final home in 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 cluster'd 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 consign'd

Ashes to ashes, dust bequeath'd to dust,

Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne

Upon the shoulders of the next in love,