Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant the woes
By Tantalus entailed upon his race,

And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes?
Fictions in form, but in their substance truths,
Tremendous truths! familiar to the men
Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours.
Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey
For robes with regal purple tinged; convert
The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp
Of circumstance; and here the tragic Muse
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art.
Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills,
The generations are prepared; the pangs,
The internal pangs, are ready; the dread strife
Of poor humanity's afflicted will

Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny.'

Though," said the Priest in answer, "these be

terms

Which a divine philosophy rejects,

We, whose established and unfailing trust
Is in controlling Providence, admit

That, through all stations, human life abounds
With mysteries;-for, if Faith were left untried,
How could the might, that lurks within her, then
Be shown? her glorious excellence—that ranks
Among the first of Powers and Virtues—proved?
Our system is not fashioned to preclude
That sympathy which you for others ask;
And I could tell, not travelling for my theme
Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes
And strange disasters; but I pass them by,

Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace.

-Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight By the deformities of brutish vice: For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face And a coarse outside of repulsive life And unaffecting manners might at once Be recognised by all—” "Ah! do not think," The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, "Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, (Gain shall I call it ?-gain of what?-for whom?) Should breathe a word tending to violate Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for In slight of that forbearance and reserve Which common human-heartedness inspires, And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else."

"True," said the Solitary, "be it far
From us to infringe the laws of charity.
Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced;
This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this
Wisdom enjoins; but if the thing we seek
Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind
How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling
Colors as bright on exhalations bred
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp,
As, by the rivulet sparkling where it runs,
Or the pellucid lake."

"Small risk," said I,

"Of such illusion do we here incur;

Temptation here is none to exceed the truth;
No evidence appears that they who rest
Within this ground, were covetous of praise,

Or of remembrance even, deserved or not.
Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green,
Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge,
A heaving surface, almost wholly free
From interruption of sepulchral stones,
And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf

And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust
The lingering gleam of their departed lives
To oral record, and the silent heart;
Depositories faithful and more kind

Than fondest epitaph: for, if those fail,

What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can

blame,

Who rather would not envy, men that feel
This mutual confidence; if, from such source,
The practice flow,-if thence, or from a deep
And general humility in death?

Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring
From disregard of time's destructive power,
As only capable to prey on things

Of earth, and human nature's mortal part.

Yet-in less simple districts, where we see
Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone
In courting notice; and the ground all paved
With commendations of departed worth;
Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives
Of each domestic charity fulfilled,

And sufferings meekly borne-I, for my part,
Though with the silence pleased that here prevails,
Among those fair recitals also range,

Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. And, in the centre of a world whose soil

Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round
With such memorials, I have sometimes felt,
It was no momentary happiness

To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks
In envy or detraction is not heard;

Which malice may not enter; where the traces
Of evil inclinations are unknown;
Where love and pity tenderly unite
With resignation; and no jarring tone
Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb
Of amity and gratitude.”

"Thus sanctioned,”

The Pastor said, "I willingly confine
My narratives to subjects that excite
Feelings with these accordant; love, esteem,
And admiration; lifting up a veil,

A sunbeam introducing among hearts
Retired and covert; so that ye shall have
Clear images before your gladdened eyes

Of nature's unambitious underwood,

And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when
I speak of such among my flock as swerved
Or fell, those only shall be singled out
Upon whose laps, or error, something more
Than brotherly forgiveness may attend;
To such will we restrict our notice, else
Better my tongue were mute.

And yet there are,
I feel, good reasons why we should not leave
Wholly untraced a more forbidding way.
For, strength to preserve and to support,
And energy to conquer and repel-
These elements of virtue, that declare

The native grandeur of the human soul—
Are oft-times not unprofitably shown
In the perverseness of a selfish course:
Truth every day exemplified, no less

In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream
Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp,
Or mid the factious senate unappalled
Whoe'er may sink, or rise-to sink again,
As merciless proscription ebbs and flows.

There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, "A woman rests in peace; surpassed by few In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. Tall was her stature; her complexion dark And saturnine; her head not raised to hold Converse with heaven, nor yet depressed towards earth,

But in projection carried, as she walked
For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes;
Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought
Was her broad forehead; like the brow of one
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare
Of overpowering light.-While yet a child,
She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale,
Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfurnished
With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking
To be admired, than coveted and loved.
Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen,
Over her comrades; else their simple sports,
Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind,
Had crossed her only to be shunned with scorn.
-Oh! pang of sorrowful regret for those
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled,