By their united efforts, there arose A proud and most presumptuous confidence

In the transcendent wisdom of the age, And her discernment; not alone in rights, And in the origin and bounds of power Social and temporal; but in laws divine, Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. An overweening trust was raised; and fear Cast out, alike of person and of thing. Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane

The strongest did not easily escape; And He, what wonder! took a mortal taint.

How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell

That he broke faith with them whom he

had laid

In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope!

An infidel contempt of holy writ Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence

Life, like that Roman Janus, doublefaced;

Vilest hypocrisy -- the laughing, gay Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride.

Smooth words he had to wheedle simple

souls;

But, for disciples of the inner school, Old freedom was old servitude, and they The wisest whose opinions stooped the least

To known restraints; and who most boldly drew

Hopeful prognostications from a creed, That, in the light of false philosophy, Spread like a halo round a misty moon, Widening its circle as the storms advance.

His sacred function was at length renounced;

And every day and every place enjoyed The unshackled layman's natural liberty; Speech, manners, morals, all without dis

guise.

I do not wish to wrong him; though the

course

Of private life licentiously displayed Unhallowed actions - planted like a

crown

Upon the insolent aspiring brow Of spurious notions worn as open signs Of prejudice subdued — still he retained, 'Mid much abasement, what he had received

From nature, an intense and glowing mind.

Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak,

And mortal sickness on her face appeared,
He colored objects to his own desire
As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods
Of pain were keen as those of better men,
Nay keener, as his fortitude was less:
And he continued, when worse days were
come,

To deal about his sparkling eloquence,
Struggling against the strange reverse

with zeal

That showed like happiness. But, in despite

Of all this outside bravery, within,
He neither felt encouragement nor hope:
For moral dignity, and strength of mind,
Were wanting; and simplicity of life;
And reverence for himself; and, last and
best,

Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him

Before whose sight the troubles of this world

Are vain, as billows on a tossing sea.

The glory of the times fading away The splendor, which had given a festal air air

To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled

From his own sight — this gone, he forfeited

All joy in human nature; was consumed, And vexed, and chafed, by levity and

scorn,

And fruitless indignation; galled by pride; Made desperate by contempt of men who

throve

Before his sight in power or fame, and

won,

Without desert, what he desired; weak

men,

Too weak even for his envy or his hate! Tormented thus, after a wandering course Of discontent, and inwardly opprest

Not moving to his mind.'"

These serious words Closed the preparatory notices That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.

fall

Diverging now (as if his quest had been
Some secret of the mountains, cavern,
Of water, or some lofty eminence,
Renowned for splendid prospect far and
wide)

We scaled, without a track to ease our steps,

A steep ascent; and reached a dreary plain,

With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops
Before us; savage region! which I paced
Dispirited: 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

By husbandry of many thrifty years, Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house.

-There crows the cock, single in his domain:

The small birds find in spring no thicket there

To shroud them; only from the neighboring 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 that life requires.

In rugged arms how softly does it 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 nowhere; 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.

Where passage could be won; and, as the last

Of the mute train, behind the heathy top
Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared,
I, more impatient in my downward course,
Had landed upon easy ground; and there
Stood waiting for my Comrade. When
behold

An object that enticed my steps aside!
A narrow, winding, entry opened out
Into a platform-that lay, sheepfold-wise,
Enclosed between an upright 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 penthouse, framed By thrusting two rude staves 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 skill had thronged the floor with 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, entering, round him threw a careless glance,

Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, "Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth

A book, that, in the midst of stones and

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,

Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports,

Or sate companionless; and here the book,

Hands joined he with his Visitant, -a grasp,

An eager grasp; and many moments'

space

When the first glow of pleasure was no

more,

And, of the sad appearance which at once Had vanished, much was come and coming back

An amicable smile retained the life Which it had unexpectedly received, Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said,

"Nor could your coming have been better timed;

For this, you see, is in our narrow world 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

(Which doth at once befriend us and be

And customs of our rural ancestry
Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope,
Will last forever. Oft on my way have I
Stood still, though but a casual passenger,
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, towards its home,

Its final home on earth. What traveller — who

(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go,

A mute procession on the houseless road;
Or passing by some single tenement
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
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust,
Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward
borne

Upon the shoulders of the next in love,
The nearest in affection or in blood;
Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt
Beside the coffin, resting on its lid
In silent grief their unuplifted heads,
And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's
mournful plaint,

And that most awful scripture which declares

We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed!

-Have I not seen-ye likewise may have