I interposed, though loth to speak, and said,

"Can it be thus among so small a band As ye must needs be here? in such a place I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight Of a departing cloud."- "'T was not for love"

Answered the sick Man with a careless voice

"That I came hither; neither have I found Among associates who have power of speech,

Nor in such other converse as is here, Temptation so prevailing as to change That mood, or undermine my first resolve." Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said

That seems by Nature hollowed out to be
The seat and bosom of pure innocence,
Are made of; an ungracious matter this!
Which, for truth's sake, yet in remem-
brance too

Of past discussions with this zealous friend
And advocate of humble life, I now
Will force upon his notice; undeterred
By the example of his own pure course,
And that respect and deference which a
soul

May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched
In what she most doth value, love of God
And his frail creature Man;-but ye shall
hear.

I talk and ye are standing in the sun Without refreshment!"

Quickly had he spoken, And, with light steps still quicker than his words,

Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot;

And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door,

Had almost a forbidding nakedness;
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair,
Than it appeared when from the beetling
rock

We had looked down upon it. All within,
As left by the departed company,
Was silent; save the solitary clock
That on mine ear ticked with a mourn-
ful sound.
Following our Guide we clomb the cottage-
stairs

And reached a small apartment dark and low,

Which was no sooner entered than our
Host

Said gayly, "This is my domain, my cell,
My hermitage, my cabin, what you Will-
I love it better than a snail his house.
But now ye shall be feasted with our
best."

So, with more ardor than an unripe girl Left one day mistress of her mother's stores,

He went about his hospitable task.
My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no

less,

And pleased I looked upon my grayhaired Friend,

And was itself half-covered with a store Of dainties, -oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream; And cakes of butter curiously embossed, Butter that had imbibed from meadowflowers

A golden hue, delicate as their own Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day,

Our table, small parade of garden fruits, And whortle-berries from the mountain side.

The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs,

Was now a help to his late comforter, And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, Ministering to our need.

In genial mood, While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate Fronting the window of that little cell, I could not, ever and anon, forbear To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks

That from some other vale peered into this. "Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, "if here

And have an answer - thither come, and

shape

A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits:—there the sun himself, At the calm close of summer's longest day,

Rests his substantial orb; - between those heights

And on the top of either pinnacle, More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault,

Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. Thoughts are not busier in the mind of

man

Than the mute agents stirring there: alone

Here do I sit and watch

A fall of voice, Regretted like the nightingale's last note,

Islanders 'mid a stormy mountain sea, We are not so; - perpetually we touch Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world; And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread

Upon the laws of public charity.

The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains

As might from that occasion be distilled, Opened, as she before had done for me, Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner;

The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare

Which appetite required a blind dull nook,

Such as she had, the kennel of his rest! This, in itself not ill, would yet have been Ill borne in earlier life; but his was now The still contentedness of seventy years. Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree Of his old age: and yet less calm and

meek,

Winningly meek or venerably calm,
Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise
A penalty, if penalty it were,

For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime.
I loved the old Man, for I pitied him!
A task it was, I own, to hold discourse
With one so slow in gathering up his
thoughts,

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes;
Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way,
And helpful to his utmost power: and
there

Our housewife knew full well what she possessed!

Hath not completed since our dame, the queen

Of this one cottage and this lonely dale,
Into my little sanctuary rushed
Voice to a rueful treble humanized,
And features in deplorable dismay.
I treat the matter lightly, but, alas!
It is most serious: persevering rain
Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain
tops

Were hidden, and black vapors coursed their sides;

This had I seen, and saw; but, till she spake,

Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend

Who at her bidding, early and alone, Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf

Without remission of the blast or shower, And fears for our own safety drove us home.

I, who weep little, did, I will confess, The moment I was seated here alone, Honor my little cell with some few tears Which anger and resentment could not dry.

All night the storm endured; and, soon as help

And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth,

Far sinking into splendor - without end! Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes, and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts

vale,

With morning we renewed our quest: the

wind

Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills
Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist;
And long and hopelessly we sought in vain :
Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass
A heap of ruin almost without walls
And wholly without roof (the bleached
remains

Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time,
The peasants of these lonely valleys used
To meet for worship on that central

height)

We there espied the object of our search, Lying full three parts buried among tufts Of heath-plant, under and above him

strewn,

To baffle, as he might, the watery storm: And there we found him breathing peaceably,

Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. We spake - he made reply, but would not stir

At our entreaty; less from want of power Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.

So was he lifted gently from the ground, And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved

Through the dull mist, I following - when a step,

A single step, that freed me from the skirts
Of the blind vapor, opened to my view
Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!
The appearance, instantaneously dis-
closed,

Was of a mighty city-boldly say

A wilderness of building, sinking far

wrought

Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified; on them, and on the coves And mountain steeps and summits, where

unto

The vapors had receded, taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky.
Oh, 't was an unimaginable sight!
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and
emerald turf,

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,
Molten together, and composing thus,
Each lost in each, that marvellous array
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge
Fantastic pomp of structure without name,
In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.
Right in the midst, where interspace ap-
peared

Of open court, an object like a throne
Under a shining canopy of state
Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were

seen

To implements of ordinary use,

But vast in size, in substance glorified; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision-forms uncouth of mightiest

power

For admiration and mysterious awe.
This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,
Lay low beneath my feet; 't was visible -
I saw not, but I felt that it was there.
That which I saw was the revealed abode
Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart
Swelled in my breast-I have been dead,'
I cried,

And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I live?'

And with that pang I prayed to be no

more!