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Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold
An object that enticed my steps aside!
It was an Entry, narrow as a door;

whose brief windings opened out
Into a platform; that lay, sheepfold-wise,
Enclosed between a single 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 tiny roof,
Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been framed
By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall
And overlaying them with mountain sods;
To weather-fend a little turf-built seat
Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;
But the whole plainly wrought by Children's hands!
Whose simple skill had thronged the grassy

With work of frame less solid, a proud show
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ;
Nor wanting ornament of walks between,
With mimic trees inserted in the turf,
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight
I could not choose but beckon to my Guide,

Who, having entered, carelessly looked round,
And now would have passed on; when I exclaimed,
“ Lo! what is here?” and, stooping down, drew forth
A Book, that, in the midst of stones and moss
And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise
One of those petty structures. “ Gracious Heaven!"
The Wanderer cried, “ it cannot but be his,
And he is gone!" The Book, which in


Had opened of itself, (for it was swoln
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain
To the injurious elements exposed
From week to week,) I found to be a work
In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire,
His famous Optimist.

Unhappy Man!"
Exclaimed my Friend ; “ here then has been to him
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place
Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,
And loved the haunts of Children; here no doubt
He sometimes played with them; and here hath sate
Far oftener by himself. This Book, I guess,
Hath been forgotten in his careless way ;

Left here when he was occupied in mind;
And by the Cottage Children has been found.
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work;
To what odd purpose have the Darlings turned
This sad memorial of their hapless Friend !"

“ Me, said I, most doth it surprize, 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; Nor, with the knowledge which my mind possessed, Could I behold it undisturbed : 'tis strange, I grant, and stranger still had been to see The Man, who was its Owner, 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 your's; 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 eye of scorn. “ The Lover,” said he, “ doomed


To love when hope hath failed 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
Hardened by impious pride !—I did not fear
To tax you with this journey;"-mildly said
My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped
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 followed, till he made a sudden stand:

For full in view, approaching through the gate
That opened from the enclosure of


fields Into the rough uncultivated ground, Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead! I knew, from the appearance and the 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 Which on a leaf he carried in his hand, Strings of ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, With intermixture of endearing words, To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping As if disconsolate.—“ They to the Grave 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.”

Glad was my Comrade now, though he at first, I doubt not, had been more surprized than glad. But now, recovered from the shock and calm, He soberly advanced ; and to the Man

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