Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,—
And, having once espoused, would never quit; Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good Man Will be conveyed. An unelaborate Stone May cover him; and by its help, perchance, A century shall hear his name pronounced, With images attendant on the sound;
Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close In utter night; and of his course remain No cognizable vestiges, no more
Than of this breath, which frames itself in words To speak of him, and instantly dissolves. -Noise is there not enough in doleful war--- But that the heaven-born Poet must stand forth And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, To multiply and aggravate the din?
Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love- And, in requited passion, all too much Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear-
But that the Minstrel of the rural shade Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse The perturbation in the suffering breast, And propagate its kind, where'er he may?
-Ah who (and with such rapture as befits The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate The good Man's deeds and purposes; retrace His struggles, his discomfiture deplore,
His triumphs hail, and glorify his end?
That Virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds
Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain, And like the soft infections of the heart,
By charm of measured words may spread through fields And cottages, and Piety survive
Upon the lips of Men in hall or bower;
Not for reproof, but high and warm delight,
And grave encouragement, by song inspired. -Vain thought! but wherefore murmur or repine? The memory of the just survives in heaven: And, without sorrow, will this ground receive That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best Of what it holds confines us to degrees
In excellence less difficult to reach,
And milder worth: nor need we travel far
From those to whom our last regards were paid For such example.
Of that tall Pine, the shadow of whose bare And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,
Oft stretches tow'rds me, like a long straight path Traced faintly in the green sward; there, beneath A plain blue Stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn The precious gift of hearing. He grew up
year to year in loneliness of soul;
And this deep mountain Valley was to him
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep
With startling summons; not for his delight The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him
Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds Were working the broad bosom of the lake Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, The agitated scene before his eye
Was silent as a picture: evermore
Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved. Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts Upheld, he duteously pursued the round
Of rural labours; the steep mountain-side Ascended with his staff and faithful dog;
The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed; And the ripe corn before his sickle fell
Among the jocund reapers. For himself,
All watchful and industrious as he was,
He wrought not; neither field nor flock he owned : No wish for wealth had place within his mind; Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. Though born a younger Brother, need was none That from the floor of his paternal home He should depart, to plant himself anew. And when, mature in manhood, he beheld His Parents laid in earth, no loss ensued Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased, By the pure bond of independent love
An inmate of a second family,
The fellow-labourer and friend of him
To whom the small inheritance had fallen. -Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight That pressed upon his Brother's house, for books Were ready comrades whom he could not tire,— Of whose society the blameless Man
Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,
Even to old age, with unabated charm
Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his thoughts; Beyond its natural elevation raised His introverted spirit; and bestowed Upon his life an outward dignity
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,
The stormy day, had each its own resource; Song of the muses, sage historic tale, Science severe, or word of holy Writ Announcing immortality and joy To the assembled spirits of the just, From imperfection and decay secure. -Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, To no perverse suspicion he gave way, No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint: And they, who were about him, did not fail In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized His gentle manners:—and his peaceful smiles, The gleams of his slow-varying countenance, Were met with answering sympathy and love.
At length, when sixty years and five were told,
« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó » |