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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

These serious words

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.

green

-There crows the Cock, single in his domain:

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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

to pay

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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