Our final parting; for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned Into this tract again.

Nine tedious years;

From their first separation, nine long years,
She lingered in unquiet widowhood;
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have
been

A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my
Friend,

That in yon arbor oftentimes she sate Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day;

And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit

The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench

For hours she sate; and evermore her eye Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. You see that path,

Now faint, the grass has crept o'er its gray line;

There, to and fro, she paced through many a day

Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp That girt her waist, spinning the longdrawn thread

With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed

A man whose garments showed the sol

dier's red,

Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, The little child who sate to turn the wheel Ceased from his task; and she with

faltering voice

Made many a fond inquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by,

Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate,

That bars the traveller's road, she often

stood,

And when a stranger horseman came, the

latch

Would lift, and in his face look wistfully; Most happy, if, from aught discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut

Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose

hand,

At the first nipping of October frost,

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw

Checkered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived

Through the long winter, reckless and alone;

Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain,

Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps

Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day

Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind,

Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds

Have parted hence; and still that length of road,

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared,

Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,

In sickness she remained; and here she died;

Last human tenant of these ruined walls!"

Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes

felt

The unbounded might of prayer; and learned, with soul

Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs,

From sources deeper far than deepest

pain,

For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read

The forms of things with an unworthy eye? She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here.

I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,

By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, As once I passed, into my heart conveyed So still an image of tranquillity,

So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,

That what we feel of sorrow and despair From ruin and from change, and all the grief

That passing shows of Being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream, that could main

tain,

Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit

Whose meditative sympathies repose Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away, And walked along my road in happiness."

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot

A slant and mellow radiance, which began To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, We sate on that low bench: and now we felt,

Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming

on.

A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly

mien

Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; Together casting then a farewell look Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; And, ere the stars were visible, had reached A village-inn,--our evening resting-place.

BOOK SECOND.

THE SOLITARY.

ARGUMENT.

The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose character is further illustratedMorning scene, and View of a Village WakeWanderer's account of a Friend whom he pur

poses to visit - View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for his retreat

- Sound of singing from below-A funeral procession Descent into the Valley - Observations drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a book acci dentally discovered in a recess in the Valley Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary -Wanderer's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district-Solitary contrasts with this, that of the individual carried a few minutes before from the cottage-The cottage enteredDescription of the Solitary's apartment - Repass there-View, from the window, of two mountair summits; and the Solitary's description of the companionship they afford him - Account of the departed inmate of the cottage - Description of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's mind-Leave the house.

IN days of yore how fortunately fared The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall,

Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise; Now meeting on his road an armèd knight, Now resting with a pilgrim by the side Of a clear brook; -beneath an abbey's roof

One evening sumptuously lodged; the next,

Humbly in a religious hospital;

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. Him,sleeping or awake, the robber spared; He walked protected from the sword

of war By virtue of that sacred instrument His harp, suspended at the traveller's side; His dear companion wheresoe'er he went Opening from land to land an easy way By melody, and by the charm of verse. Yet not the noblest of that honored Race Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts

From his long journeyings and eventful life,

Than this obscure Itinerant had skill To gather, ranging through the tamer ground

Of these our unimaginative days;

Both while he trod the earth in humblest

guise

Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; And now, when free to move with lighter pace.

What wonder, then, if I, whose favorite school

Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes,

Looked on this guide with reverential love?

Each with the other pleased, we now pursued

Our journey, under favorable skies. Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light

Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass, Rarely a house, that did not yield to him Remembrances; or from his tongue call forth

Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard

Accompanied those strains of apt dis

course,

Which nature's various objects might inspire;

And in the silence of his face I read
His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts,
And the mute fish that glances in the
stream,

And harmless reptile coiling in the sun,
And gorgeous insect hovering in the air,
The fowl domestic, and the household
dog-

In his capacious mind, he loved them all: Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. Oft was occasion given me to perceive How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd

To happy contemplation soothed his walk; How the poor brute's condition, forced to

run

Its course of suffering in the public road,
Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart
With unavailing pity. Rich in love
And sweet humanity, he was, himself,

To the degree that he desired, beloved. Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew

Greeted us all day long; we took our seats By many a cottage-hearth, where he re

ceived

The welcome of an Inmate from afar, And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger.

Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, Huts where his charity was blest; his voice Heard as the voice of an experienced friend.

And, sometimes where the poor man held dispute

With his own mind, unable to subdue
Impatience through inaptness to perceive
General distress in his particular lot;
Or cherishing resentment, or in vain
Struggling against it; with a soul per-
plexed,

And finding in herself no steady power
To draw the line of comfort that divides
Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven,
From the injustice of our brother men —
To him appeal was made as to a judge;
Who, with an understanding heart, al-
layed

The perturbation; listened to the plea; Resolved the dubious point; and sentence

gave

So grounded, so applied, that it was heard With softened spirit, even when it condemned.

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we

roved,

Now as his choice directed, now as mine; Or both, with equal readiness of will, Our course submitting to the changeful

breeze

Of accident. But when the rising sun Had three times called us to renew our

walk,

My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, Claimed absolute dominion for the day. We started--and he led me toward the

hills,

Up through an ample vale, with higher hills

Before us, mountains stern and desolate;
But, in the majesty of distance, now
Set off, and to our ken appearing fair

Of aspect, with aërial softness clad, And beautified with morning's purple beams.

The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time,

May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise;

And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease,

Shall lack not their enjoyment: - but how faint

Compared with ours! who, pacing side by side,

Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all That we beheld; and lend the listening

Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join These festive matins? - He replied, "Not loth

To linger I would here with you partake, Not one hour merely, but till evening's close,

The simple pastimes of the day and place. By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set, The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed;

There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend:

But know we not that he, who intermits
The appointed task and duties of the day,
Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day;
Checking the finer spirits that refuse
To flow when purposes are lightly
changed?

A length of journey yet remains untraced:
Let us proceed.' Then, pointing with

his staff Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent He thus imparted:

"In a spot that lies Among yon mountain fastnesses con

cealed,

You will receive, before the hour of noon, Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil,

From sight of One who lives secluded there,

Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past life,