Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun, I was a traveller then upon the moor; I saw the hare that raced about with joy; But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might To me that morning did it happen so; Dim sadness-and blind thought, I knew not, nor could name. I heard the skylark warbling in the sky; My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, I thought of Chatterton,* the marvellous boy, We poets in our youth begin in gladness: But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness. A poet of high pretensions, who prematurely destroyed himself. The neglect of Horace Walpole, and the mischievous results of an attempt at literary imposture, are supposed to have led to the sad termination of his life. Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, I saw a man before me unawares: The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs. As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie, Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence; A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. A gentle answer did the old man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: Studied. He answered, while a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, Such as grave livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. He told, that to these waters he had come From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; The old man still stood talking by my side; My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshy ills : - you He with a smile did then his words repeat; * Dwelling. While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled me: Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. And soon with this he other matter blended, 66 God," said I, “be my help and stay secure; THE WANDERER'S RETURN. FROM "EVENINGS AT HOME." Ir was a delightful evening, about the end of August. The sun, setting in a pure sky, illuminated the tops of the western hills, and tipped the opposite trees with a yellow lustre. A traveller, with sun-burnt cheeks and dusty feet, strong and active, having a knapsack at his back, had gained the summit of a steep ascent, and stood gazing on the plain below. This was a wide tract of champaign country, chequered with villages, whose towers and spires peeped above the trees in which they were embosomed. The space between them was chiefly arable land, from which the last products of the harvest were busily carrying away. A rivulet wound through the plain, its course marked with grey willows. On its banks were verdant meadows, covered with lowing herds, moving slowly to the milkmaids, who came tripping along with pails on their heads. A thick wood clothed the side of a gentle eminence rising from the water, crowned with the ruins of an ancient castle. Edward (that was the traveller's name) dropped on one knee, and clasping his hands, exclaimed, "Welcome, welcome, my dear, native land! Many a sweet spot have I seen since I left thee, but none so sweet as thou! Never has thy dear image been out of my memory; and now, with what transport do I retrace all thy charms! O, re ceive me again, never more to quit thee!" So saying, he threw him self on the turf, and having kissed it, arose, and proceeded on his journey. As he descended into the plain, he overtook a little group of children, merrily walking along the path, and stopping now and then to gather berries in the hedge. "Where are you going, my dears ?" said Edward. "We are going home," they all replied. |