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 encompass'd, save that to the South
Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close;
A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,
A liquid pool that glitter'd in the sun,
And one bare Dwelling; one Abode, no more!
It seem'd the home of poverty and toil,

Though not of want: the little fields, made green
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 neighbouring 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, furnish'd in itself
With the few needful things that life requires.

In rugged arms how soft it seems to 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; uncall'd upon to pay
The common penalties of mortal life,
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain.

On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay,
In silence musing by my Comrade's side,
He also silent: when from out the heart
Of that profound Abyss a solemn Voice,

Or several Voices in one solemn sound,

Was heard ascending: mournful, deep, and slow

The cadence, as of Psalms a funeral dirge!

We listen'd, looking down upon the Hut,
But seeing no One: meanwhile from below
The strain continued, spiritual as before;
And now distinctly could I recognize

These words: - "Shall in the Grave thy love be known,

In Death thy faithfulness?"

The Wanderer cried, abruptly breaking silence,

"God rest his Soul!"

"He is departed, and finds

peace at last!"

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains
Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band
Of rustic Persons, from behind the hut
Bearing a Coffin in the midst, with which
They shaped their course along the sloping side
Of that small Valley; singing as they moved;
A sober company and few, the Men
Bare-headed, and all decently attired!

Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge
Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued
Recovering, to my Friend I said, "You spake,
Methought, with apprehension that these rites
Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat
This day we purposed to intrude.”
But let us hence, that we may learn the truth:
Perhaps it is not he but some One else

"I did so,

For whom this pious service is perform'd;
Some other Tenant of the Solitude."

So, to a steep and difficult descent
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag,
Where passage could be won; and, as the last
Of the mute train, upon the heathy top
Of that off-sloping Outlet, disappear'd,
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 throng'd 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 exclaim'd,

"Lo! what is here?" and stooping down, drew forth
A Book, that, in the midst of stones and moss,
And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise

One of those petty structures. "Gracious Heaven!"
The Wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his,
And he is gone!" The Book, which in my hand
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,