Gave cheerful greeting.-Vivid was the light Which it had unexpectedly received, Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, 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 Ye could not miss the Funeral Train-they yet At any grave or solemn spectacle, Inly distressed, or overpowered with awe, He knows not why;-but he, perchance, this day, Is shedding Orphan's tears; and you yourself Must have sustained a loss."-" The hand of Death," Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen "From yon Crag, Down whose steep sides we dropped into the Vale, We heard the hymn they sang—a solemn sound Heard anywhere, 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, When on my way, I could not chuse but stop, 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 Or clustered 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 consigned Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne The nearest in affection or in blood; Yea by the very Mourners who had knelt In silent grief their unuplifted heads, And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, Rise from that posture :-and in concert move, On the green turf following the vested Priest, Four dear Supporters of one senseless Weight, From which they do not shrink, and under which He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, Oh! blest are they who live and die like these, Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!" "That poor Man taken hence to day," replied The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile Which did not please me," must be deemed, I fear, Of the unblest; for he will surely sink Into his mother earth without such pomp Of grief, depart without occasion given By him for such array of fortitude. Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark! This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, Like a ripe date which in the desart falls That fortune did not guide you to this house very bosom of pure innocence) Are made of; an ungracious matter this! Which for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too Of past discussions with this zealous Friend |