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School, where crown'd monarchs might have learn'd of him
Who sway'd it, how to reign! Cloud-cradled stream,
That in his soul are eloquent as a dream !
Path-pencill'd hill, now clad in broomy light!
Where oft in youth he waked the violets cold,
When you, love-listening stars, confess'd the might
Of earthly beauty, and o'er Mary Gould
Redden'd with passion, while his tale he told !
Rose, yet unblown! thou future woodbine flower !
Majestic foxglove, still to summer true!
Blush of the hawthorn! glad May's sunny shower!
Scenes long beloved, and objects dear, adieu !
From you, from earth, grey Enoch turns his view;
He longs to pass away, and soon will pass.
But not with him will toil and sorrow go.
Men drop, like leaves they wither, and, alas,
Are seen no more; but human toil and woe
Are lasting as the hills, or ocean's flow,
Older than Death, and but with Death shall die !

“ Ye sister trees, with branches old and dry !
Tower'd ye not huge as now, when Enoch Wray,
A happy lad, pursued the butterfly
O'er broomy banks, above the torrent's spray,
Whence still ye cast the shadow of your sway?
Lo-grey-hair'd Oaks, that sternly execrate
The poor man's foes, albeit in murmurs low;
Or, with a stormy voice, like that of fate,
Smiting your wrinkled hands, in wrath and woe,
Say to th' avenging lightnings, ' Why so slow?'
Lo, that glad boy is now a man of pain !
Once more, he totters through the vernal fields;
Once more he hears the corncrake on the plain;
The vale invites him, where the goldring builds,
And the wild bank that primrose fragrance yields ;
He cannot die, without a sad adieu
To one sweet scene that to his heart is dear;
Yet-would he dream his fears may not be true,
And miss a draught of bitterest sorrow here
His feet will shun the mill-dam, and the wier
O'er which the stream its idle brawling sends.

“ But, lo, tow'rds Albert's mill the Patriarch wends!
(His own hands rear'd the pile : the very wheels
Were made by him; and where the archway bends,
His name, in letters of hard stone, appeals
To time and memory.) With mute step, he steals
Along the vale, but does not hear the mill!
'Tis long since he was there. Alas, the ware
Runs all to waste, the mighty wheel is still!
Poor Enoch feels as if become a slave;
And o'er his heart the long grass of the grave
Already trembles ! To his stealthy foot,
Around the door thick springs the chance-sown oat.
While prene their plumes the water hen and coot;
Fearless and fierce, the rat and otter float,
Catching the trout in Albert's half-sunk boat;
And, pendent from each bucket fat weeds dip
Their slimy verdure in the listless stream.
• Albert is ruin'd, then !' his quivering lip
Mutters in anguish, while with paler beam
His sad eye glistens; ''tis, alas, no dream !
Hear'n, save the blood of Enoch Wray from shame,

Shame undeserved, the treadmill of the soul!'» Stunned by this blow, but not Albert was blameless; for he had into stone, is the Village Patriarch. been always " strong, laborious,

sore,

me;

at sea.

frugal, just;” but all over the

Enoch thinks perhaps for a moland,

ment of the escape he made from "in April's fickle sky,

Alice's clutches a few weeks ago The wretched rich and not less wretched but his fine finger-nor shall poetry

ever blind it-travels over a very poor Changed places miserably; and the bad different memorial-more pathetic Throve, while the righteous begg'd from than any that was ever writ in door to door!”

Greek. The shame of having an unprin

“ A broken mast, a bursting wave, a child cipled or profligate son has not fallen on Enoch Wray, and there is on Weeping, a woman frantic on the shore ; earth to comfort him still a Mary Rude stone! Thou tell’st a story sad Gould.

and wild. Therefore he yet walks erect before men's eyes, in spite of

• Pain, want, unkindness, all afflictions this blow falling on the burthen of a

Disease, suspense, with constancy I bore; hundred years. But behold him on his knees I In the churchyard “read. My heart was broken-Letty lies with ing with his fingers”

And now we know that Matthew died “ Pages with silent admonition fraught.”

Many of the inscriptions there his own chisel bad wrought! Nay, some The churchyard belongs to the of them had been even the effusions church in which Enoch Wray was of his own fervid and pious heart, married-married to Mary Gouldfor the Village Patriarch had been and doubtless she was buried hereone of Nature's elegiac poets, un- yet Enoch is busying himself with known but within the narrow neigh. other matters, and has forgotten bourhood of its tombstones. He where she lies. For had he rememcrawls from slab to slab—and his bered Mary Gould, would he not memory touches many an affecting have gone, first of all, up to her record. To such a visitant they must grave, and nowhere else have knelt ? be all affecting

Not so thought Ebenezer Elliott, and “ John Stot, Charles Lamb, Giles he knew Enoch Wray far better than Humble, Simon Flea,

either you or I—he had known him And Richard Green, here wait for all his—that is all Eben's—life, and Alice - me!”

in the poem you will find it writ.
“ But to one grave the blind man's eyes are turn'd,
Move where he may—and yet he seeks it not.
He communes with the poor, the lost, the mourn'd,
The buried long, by all, but bim, forgot :
The hated ?-no; his bosom never burn'd
With fire so base: the dreaded ? No, he spurn'd
Fear, as unworthy of the human breast.
Why does he pause on his dark pilgrimage ?
Hath he forgot what love remembers best?
Oh, stoop and find, in this familiar page,
The mournful story, dearest to his age!
Here Lucy rests, who in this vale of tears
Dwelt thirty weeks :—Here waits the judgment-day
Her brother James, who died, aged fifty years :
Here slumbers sinless Anne, who lived a day :
Children of Mary, and of Enoch Wray.'
His finger pauses, like a trembling wand,
Held o'er desponding hope by mercy. Lo!
Another line, cut by another hand,
On the cold stone, from which he riseth slow;
But it is written on his heart of woe ;
Mary! thou art not lost, but gone before.'

" Oh, no!_not lost. The hour that shall restore
Thy faithful husband, Mary, is at hand;
Ye soon shall meet again, to part no more;
By angels welcomed to their blissful land,
And wander there, like children, band in hand,
To pluck the daisy of eternal May."

19

Enoch leaves the churchyard in trouble, to be brought back in a few days in peace; for now

“ It is the evening of an April day.
Lo, for the last time, in the cheerful sun
Our father sits, stooping his tresses grey,
To hear the stream, his ancient neighbour, run,
Young as if time had yesterday begun.
Heav'n's gates are like an Angel's wing, with plumes
Of glorious green, and purply gold, on fire:
Through rifts of mountainous clouds, the light illumes
Hill-tops, and woods, that pilgrim-like retire ;
And, like a giant's torch, burns Morthern spire.
Primrosy odours, violet-mingled, float
O'er blue-bells and ground ivy, on their wings
Bearing the music of the blackbird's note ;
Beneath the dewy cloud, the woodlark sings,
But on our father's heart no gladness flings.
Mary bends o'er him, mute. Her youngest lad
Grasps, with small hand, his grandsire's finger fast ;
Well knows the old man that the boy is sad;
And the third Mary, as she hurries past,
Trembles, and looks towards the town aghast.
Enoch hears footsteps of unwelcome sound,
While at his feet the sightless mastiff lies;
And, lo, the blind dog, growling, spurns the ground !
* Two strangers are approaching,'Enoch cries;
But Mary's throbbing heart alone replies.
A stern, 'Good day, sir !' smites his cheek more pale ;
A rude collision shakes him in his chair;
The Bible of his sires is mark'd for sale!
But degradation is to him despair ;
The hour is come which Enoch cannot bear!
But he can die land in his humble grave,
Sweet shall his long rest be, by Mary's side ;
And o'er his coffin uninscribed shall wave
The willow-tree, beneath the dark tower's pride
Set by his own sad hand, when Mary died.”

Enoch Wray is dead; and we are stone, that looks as if there were left to think on the Village Patriarcb, none other besides itselfin the churchhis character, his life, and his death. yard—though the uprights are abDo not we always do so-kindly or solutely josiling one another till they cruelly-whenever we chance to are in danger of being upset on the hear that any Christian man or wo- flats-slabs once horizontal, but now man of our acquaintance has died ? sunk, with one side invisible, into a “ Ah! is he dead !” “ Can it be that soil which, if not originally rich, has she is cut off ?" And a hundred cha- been excellently well manured, yet racters of the deceased are drawn ex- is suffered to produce but dockens, tempore, which, it is as well to know, nettles, and worse than weeds (can find no lasting record—that obituary it be fiorin ?) the rank grass of being all traced in letters of air. But wretchedness, that never fades, bewe are not disposed to write Enoch cause it never flourishes, thatchWray's epitaph, on the very day of ing the narrow house, but unablebis death-nor yet on the very day of though the inmates never utter a bis burial. Some time, shorter or complaint-even in the driest wealonger, elapses—after the disappear- ther, to keep out damp. That is ance of the

deceased-before you see rather a disagreeable image—and of a man like a schoolmaster earnestly the earth earthy; but here are some engaged with suitable tools in en. delightful images—of the beavens graving an imperishable record of heavenly; and, in the midst of them, filial, or parental, or conjugal affec- for a while let us part. tion, on a new handsome burial

“ He hears, in heav'n, his swooning daughter shriek. And when the woodbine's cluster'd trumpet blows; And when the pink's melodious hues shall speak, In unison of sweetness with the rose, Joining the song of every bird, that knows How sweet it is of wedded love to sing ; And when the fells, fresh bathed in azure air, Wide as the summer day's all golden wing, Shall blush to heav'n, that Nature is so fair, And man condemn'd to labour in despair ;Then, the gay gnat, that sports its little hour; The falcon, wheeling from the ancient wood; The red-breast, fluttering o'er its fragrant bower ; The yellow-bellied lizard of the flood; And dewy morn, and evening-in ber hood Of crimson, fringed with lucid shadows grandShall miss the Patriarch ; at his cottage door The bee shall seek to settle on his hand, But from the vacant bench haste to the moor, Mourning the last of England's high-soal'd poor, And bid the mountains weep for Enoch Wray ! And for themselves!-albeit of things that last Unalter'd most ; for they shall pass away Like Enoch, though their iron roof seem fast Bound to the eternal future, as the past ! The Patriarch died; and they shall be no more. Yes, and the sailless worlds, which navigate Th' unutterable deep that hath no shore, Will lose their starry splendour, soon or late, Like tapers, quench'd by Him whose will is fate! Yes, and the Angel of Eternity, Who numbers worlds, and writes their names in light, Ere long, oh, eartb, will look in vain for thee, And start, and stop, in his unerring flight, And, with his wings of sorrow and affrightVeil his impassion'd brow, and heav'nly tears !”

COMBINATIONS.

It was lately

well remarked in the of those feelings which supported it Sun, that the Trades' Unions were of old, and reconciled the children undermining the very foundations of of labour to their condition by the the social structure, and that unless peace and beauty they brought with they can be disarmed, it must sink them to bless the poor man's

lot. But into ruins. Were we asked, says the we shall not be unjust to the character excellent author of “ Character, Ob- of the working orders. Heavy disject, and Effects of Trades' Unions,” tress has come upon them-much of to give a definition of a Trades' it not brought by themselves on Union, we should say, that it was “a their own heads; and there has been Society whose constitution is the grinding of the faces of the poor.” worst of democracies, whose power Their rulers_Tories and Whigsis based on outrage, whose practice have often failed in their duties to is tyranny, and whose end is self- the people—and much of the guilt destruction.” How have such socie- that caused that distress lies at the ties-in an age distinguished above door of many misgovernments. Nor all other ages—in spite of the strong have the rich, as Christian men, al. and steady march of intellect, crush ways done their duty to the poor, ing all ignorance and all wickedness but have often, in the pride of under foot-overspread the king- wealth, been grossly neglectful of dom-not slowly springing up, as it their duty ; nor have the higher might seem, from the seed-but as orders acted as if they felt for if an Upas-Tree had been planted, the lower those sympathies which at its full growth, in every town and nature prompts, but which too city, distilling poison, starvation, often are palsied and benumbed and death? The education of the in the breasts of the great, by that people has been conducted by the very rank which, in noble natures, people's press. Useful knowledge keeps them freshlya-flow; for surely has been administered to them, and 'tis of the very nature of gentle blood greedily swallowed, with condiments to inspire benevolence, and how so of the Entertaining; and thus have well can they in whose veins it flows their minds been filled with power prove its purity, than by shewing and pleasure far beyond the wisdom that by their very birth they are beand happiness of their ancestors, neficent ? and their champions have proudly Upon an enquiry into the mani. and loudly exclaimed, in the light fold causes of the present wide and liberty of the emancipated spirit, distress and disturbance, fearfully Lo! “a peculiar people, zealous of reacting on each other, we shall not good works!” Yet, in the midst of all now enter; but we shall continue this illumination, the same millions, as heretofore to touch frequently mole or bat-blind, as if they were upon them, while discussing to the working their way under ground, or best of our talent, and we boldly say flitting through the twilight, while with good intention, the political, pride and folly were declaring, that social, and domestic condition of the Britons were now walking erect, for people of our beloved land. Labour the first time, like freemen, in the has now declared war against capital blaze of a new-risen day!

-plusquam civilia bella are ragingTo explain such a contradiction in and to whichever side is given the the nature of things and of man, victory, disastrous must be the other's would bastle a more searching phi- defeat-not to themselves alone, but lanthropy than ours; but no such to their conquerors too-so that in contradiction exists—for much of either event the whole country their boasted virtue is a dream, and must suffer by the prolongation the people are wickeder than they of a contest, which, if not termi. know_ibeir conscience is in the nated amicably, can be terminadark-and their intellect, so far ted but in blood. Heaven forbid from having been invigorated by what the latter! Peace once proclaimed, they have been taught, has been then must law ratify it by its wisweakened—and lost its hold on many "dom, and by its majesty preserve it

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