Thus occupied in mind I paced along,
Following the rugged road by sledge or wheel
Worn in the moorland, till I overtook
My two associates, in the morning sun
Halting together on a rocky knoll,
From which the road descended rapidly
To the green meadows of another vale.
Here did our pensive host put forth his hand
In sign of farewell. "Nay," the old man said,
"The fragrant air its coolness still retains;
The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop
The dewy grass; you cannot leave us now,
We must not part at this inviting hour."
To that injunction, earnestly express'd,
He yielded, though reluctant; for his mind
Instinctively disposed him to retire
To his own covert; as a billow, heaved
Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea.
So we descend; and winding round a rock,
Attain a point that show'd the valley, stretch'd
In length before us; and, not distant far,
Upon a rising ground, a grey church-tower,
Whose battlements were screen'd by tufted trees.
And towards a crystal mere, that lay beyond,
Among steep hills and woods embosom'd, flow'd
A copious stream with boldly-winding course;
Here traceable, there hidden, there again
To sight restored, and glittering in the sun.
On the stream's bank, and everywhere, appear'd
Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots,
Some scatter'd o'er the level, others perch'd
On the hill-sides, a cheerful quiet scene,
Now in its morning purity array'd.
"As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps,"
Said I, "once happy, ere tyrannic power,
Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss,
Destroy'd their unoffending commonwealth,
A popular equality doth seem
Here to prevail; and yet a house of state
Stands yonder, one beneath whose roof, methinks,
A rural lord might dwell." "No feudal pomp,"
Replied our friend, a chronicler who stood
Where'er he moved upon familiar ground—
"Nor feudal power is there; but there abides,
In his allotted home, a genuine Priest,
The shepherd of his flock; or, as a king
Is styled, when most affectionately praised,
The father of his people-such is he;
And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice
Under his spiritual sway, collected round him
In this sequester'd realm. He hath vouchsafed
To me some portion of his kind regard;
And something also of his inner mind
Hath he imparted-but I speak of him
of unambitious piety he chose,
And learning's solid dignity; though born
Of knightly race, not wanting powerful friends.
l'his good to reap, these pleasures to secure,
Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew'
From academic bowers. He loved the spot-
Who does not love his native soil ?-he prized
The ancient rural character, composed
Of simple manners, feelings unsuppress'd
And undisguised, and strong and serious thought:
A character reflected in himself,
With such embellishment as well beseems
His rank and sacred function. This deep vale
Is lengthen'd out by many a winding reach,
Not visible to us; and one of these
A turreted manorial hall adorns,
In which the good man's ancestors have dwelt
From age to age, the patrons of this cure.
To them, and to his decorating hand,
The vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain,
Owes that presiding aspect which might well
Attract your notice; statelier than could else
Have been bestow'd, in course of common chance,
On an unwealthy mountain benefice."
This said, oft halting, we pursued our way;
Nor reach'd the village churchyard till the sun,
Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen
Above the summits of the highest hills,
And round our path darted oppressive beams.
As chanced, the portals of the sacred pile
Stood open; and we enter'd. On my frame,
At such transition from the fervid air,
A grateful coolness fell, that seem'd to strike
The heart, in concert with that temperate awe
And natural reverence which the place inspired.
Not framed to nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy, for duration built;
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately cross'd,
Like leafless underboughs in some thick grove,
All wither'd by the depth of shade above.
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls
Each in its ornamental scroll inclosed;
Each also crown'd with winged heads-a pair
Of rudely-painted cherubim. The floor
Uf nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged
In seemly rows; the chancel only show'd
Some inoffensive marks of earthly state
And vain distinction. A capacious pew
Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined:
And marble monuments were here display'd
Upon the walls; and on the floor beneath
Sepulchral stones appear'd, with emblems graven,
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small
And shining effigies of brass inlaid.
The tribute by these various records claim'd,
Without reluctance did we pay; and read
The ordinary chronicle of birth,
Office, alliance, and promotion-all
Ending in dust; of upright magistrates,
Grave doctors strenuous for the mother church,
And uncorrupted senators, alike
To king and people true. A brazen plate,
Not easily decipher'd, told of one
Whose course of earthly honour was begun
In quality of page among the train
Of the eighth Henry, when he cross'd the seas
His royal state to show, and prove his strength
In tournament upon the fields of France.
Another tablet register'd the death,
And praised the gallant bearing of a knight,
Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles.
Near this brave knight his father lay entomb'd
And, to the silent language giving voice,
I read how, in his manhood's earlier day,
He, 'mid the affiictions of intestine war,
And rightful government subverted, found
One only solace, that he had espoused
A virtuous lady tenderly beloved
For her benign affections; and for this
Yet more endear'd to him, that in her state
Of wedlock richly crown'd with Heaven's regard,
She with a numerous issue fill'd his house,
Who throve, like plants uninjured by the storm
That laid their country waste. No need to spank
Of less particular notices assign'd
To youth or maiden gone before their time,
And matrons and unwedded sisters old;
Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed
What would they tell?" said I; but, from the task
Of puzzling out that faded narrative,
With whisper soft my venerable friend
Call'd me; and, looking down the darksome aisle,
I saw the tenant of the lonely vale
Standing apart; with curvèd arm reclined
On the baptismal font; his pallid face
Upturn'd, as if his mind were rapt, or lost
In some abstraction; gracefully he stood,
The semblance bearing of a sculptured form
That leans upon a monumental urn
In peace, from morn to night, from year to year.
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