While tens of thousands falter in their path,

And sink, through utter want of cheering light;
For you the hours of labour do not flag;

For you each evening hath its shining star,
And every sabbath-day its golden sun.””

"Yes!" said the Solitary with a smile

That seemed to break from an expanding heart,
"The untutored bird may found, and so construct,
And with such soft materials line, her nest
Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake,
That the thorns wound her not; they only guard.
Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts
Of happy instinct which the woodland bird
Shares with her species, nature's grace sometimes
Upon the individual doth confer,

Among her higher creatures born and trained
To use of reason. And, I own that, tired
Of the ostentatious world-a swelling stage
With empty actions and vain passions stuffed,
And from the private struggles of mankind
Hoping far less than I could wish to hope,
Far less than once I trusted and believed-
I love to hear of those, who, not contending
Nor summoned to contend for virtue's prize,
Miss not the humbler good at which they aim'
Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt

The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn
Into their contraries the petty plagues

And hinderances with which they stand beset.
In early youth, among my native hills,
I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed
A few small crofts of stone-encumbered ground;
Masses of every shape and size, that lay
Scattered about under the mouldering walls
Of a rough precipice; and some, apart,
In quarters unobnoxious to such chance,

As if the moon had showered them down in spite.
But he repined not. Though the plough was scared
By these obstructions, 'round the shady stones
A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain,

'Gathers, and is preserved; and feeding dews
And damps, through all the droughty summer day
"From out their substance issuing, maintain
'Herbage that never fails: no grass springs up
'So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine!'
But thinly sown these natures; rare, at least,
The mutual aptitude of seed and soil

That yields such kindly product. He, whose bed
Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner
Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell
Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he,

If living now, could otherwise report
Of rustic loneliness: that grey-haired Orphan-
So call him, for humanity to him

No parent was feelingly could have told,
In life, in death, what solitude can breed

Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice;

Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. -But your compliance, Sir! with our request My words too long have hindered."

Undeterred,

Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks,
In no ungracious opposition, given
To the confiding spirit of his own
Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said,
Around him looking; "Where shall I begin?
Who shall be first selected from my flock
Gathered together in their peaceful fold?"
He paused and having lifted up his eyes
To the pure heaven, he cast them down again
Upon the earth beneath his feet; and spake:-

"To a mysteriously-consorted pair

This place is consecrate; to Death and Life,
And to the best affections that proceed
From their conjunction ;-consecrate to faith
In him who bled for man upon the cross;
Hallowed to revelation; and no less
To reason's mandates; and the hopes divine
Of pure imagination ;-above all,

To charity, and love, that have provided,
Within these precincts, a capacious bed
And receptacle, open to the good
And evil, to the just and the unjust;
In which they find an equal resting-place:
Even as the multitude of kindred brooks

And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale,
Whether their course be turbulent or smooth,

Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost
Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake,

And end their journey in the same repose!

And blest are they who sleep; and we that know,
While in a spot like this we breathe and walk,
That all beneath us by the wings are covered
Of motherly humanity, outspread

And gathering all within their tender shade,
Though loth and slow to come! A battle-field,
In stillness left when slaughter is no more,
With this compared, yields a strange spectacle!
A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn
With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old
Wandering about in miserable search

Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea

Restores not to their prayer! Ah! who would think
That all the scattered subjects which compose

Earth's melancholy vision through the space
Of all her climes these wretched, these depraved,
To virtue lost, insensible of peace,

From the delights of charity cut off,

To pity dead, the oppressor and the opprest;
Tyrants who utter the destroying word,
And slaves who will consent to be destroyed-
Were of one species with the sheltered few,
Who, with a dutiful and tender hand,

Lodged in a dear appropriated spot,

This file of infants; some that never breathed
The vital air; others, which, though allowed
That privilege, did yet expire too soon,

Or with too brief a warning, to admit
Administration of the holy rite

That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms.
Of Jesus, and his everlasting care.

These that in trembling hope are laid apart;
And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired
Till he begins to smile upon the breast
That feeds him; and the tottering little one
Taken from air and sunshine when the rose

Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek;

The thinking, thoughtless school-boy; the bold youth
Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid
Smitten while all the promises of life

Are opening round her; those of middle age,
Cast down while confident in strength they stand,
Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem,
And more secure, by very weight of all
That, for support, rests on them; the decayed
And burthensome; and lastly, that poor few
Whose light of reason is with age extinct;
The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last,
The earliest summoned and the longest spared-
Are here deposited, with tribute paid
Various, but unto each some tribute paid;
As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves,