From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to her mind Save only those which to their common shame, And to his moral being appertained: Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought A heavenly comfort; there she recognised An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; There, and, as seemed, there only. She had raised, Her fond maternal Heart had built a Nest In blindness all too near the river's edge; -The bodily frame was wasted day by day; As to a spiritual comforter and friend, Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared To mitigate, as gently as I could, The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. -Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth! In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, The ghastly face of cold decay put on A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine! May I not mention that, within these walls, The Congregation joined with me in prayer Gave way to words of pity or complaint, She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, "He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; "And, when I fail, and can endure no more, So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed The mortal Body by her Infant's side." The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known That Each had listened with his inmost heart. For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong ૨ ૧ Or less benign than that which I had felt Of Margaret sinking on the lonely Heath, With the neglected House in which she dwelt. I noted that the Solitary's cheek Confessed the power of nature.-Pleased though sad, More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate; Thanks to his pure imaginative soul Capacious and serene, his blameless life, His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love Of human kind! He was it who first broke The pensive silence, saying, "Blest are they Than to do wrong, although themselves have erred. This Tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals With such, in their affliction.—Ellen's fate, Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard Of One who died within this Vale, by doom Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?"-The Vicar answered, "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself In memory and for warning, and in sign Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, Of reconcilement after deep offence, There doth he lie.-In this his native Vale He owned and tilled a little plot of land ; By sure, though tardy progress. Active, prompt, Generous and easy-minded, was not free From carelessness; and thus, in lapse of time, Of worldly substance; and distress of mind, Wretched at home he gained no peace abroad; Asked comfort of the open air, and found No pleasure in the beauty of the day. His flock he slighted: his paternal fields To fly, but whither? And this gracious Church, |