The bodily frame was wasted day by day; Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, And much she read; and brooded feelingly Upon her own unworthiness. To me, As to a spiritual comforter and friend, Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine! . Gave way to words of pity or complaint, She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 'He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 'Will mercifully take me to himself.' So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed Into that pure and unknown world of love Where injury cannot come :-and here is laid The mortal Body by her Infant's side." The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known That each had listened with his inmost heart. Confessed the power of nature.-Pleased though sad, Capacious and serene; his blameless life, His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love The pensive silence, saying: "Blest are they Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred. This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals With such, in their affliction.-Ellen's fate, Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard Where Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones The Vicar answered, "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself In memory and for warning, and in sign. Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world; Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad; Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, How fair amid her brood of cottages! She was to him a sickness and reproach. Much to the last remained unknown: but this Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn And from her grave.-Behold-upon that ridge, That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, Carries into the centre of the vale Its rocks and woods-the Cottage where she dwelt And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left (Full eight years past) the solitary prop Of many helpless Children. I begin With words that might be prelude to a tale No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes -Bright garland form they for the pensive brow That Father was, and filled with anxious fear, ; Not to The rudest habitations. Ye might think By nature only; but, if thither led, Ye would discover, then, a studious work Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon Roof-high; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall, And with the flowers are intermingled stones. Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. These ornaments, that fade not with the year, A hardy Girl continues to provide; Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him All that a boy could do, but with delight More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she, Within the garden, like the rest, a bed For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space, |