  How sweet and solemn at the close of day, After a long and lonely pilgrimage Among the mountains, where our spirits held With wildering fancy and her kindred powers High converse, to descend as from the clouds Into a quiet valley, fill'd with trees By Nature planted, crowding round the brink Of an oft-hidden rivulet, or hung A beauteous shelter o'er the humble roof Of many a moss-grown cottage! In that hour Of pensive happiness, the wandering man Looks for some spot of still profounder rest, Sent by the setting sun into his soul. Up to you simple edifice he walks, That seems beneath its sable grove of pines More silent than the home where living thing Abides, yea, even than desolated tower Wrapt in its ivy-shroud. I know it well,— The village-chapel: many a year ago, That little dome to God was dedicate; And ever since, hath undisturbed peace Sat on it, moveless as the brooding dove That must not leave her nest. A mossy wall, Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers, (A lovely emblem of that promised life That springs from death) doth placidly enclose The bed of rest, where with their fathers sleep The children of the vale, and the calm stream That murmurs onward with the self-same tone For ever, by the mystic power of sound The holy hush as if with God's own voice, Filling the listening heart with piety. Oh! ne'er shall I forget the hour, when first Thy little chapel stole upon my heart, Secluded Troutbeck! 'Twas the Sabbath-morn, And up the rocky banks of thy wild stream I wound my path, full oft I ween delay'd By sounding waterfall, that 'mid the calm Awoke such solemn thoughts as suited well The day of peace; till all at once I came Out of the shady glen, and with fresh joy Walk'd on encircled by green pastoral hills. Before me suddenly thy chapel rose As if it were an image: even then The noise of thunder roll'd along the sky, And darkness veil'd the heights,—a summer-storm Of short forewarning and of transient power. Ah me! how beautifully silent thou Arch'd a fair rainbow, that to me appear'd A holy shelter to thee in the storm, And made thee shine amid the brooding gloom, Bright as the morning star. Between the fits Of the loud thunder, rose the voice of Psalms, A most soul-moving sound. There unappall'd, A choir of youths and maidens hymned their God, With tones that robb'd the thunder of its dread, Bidding it rave in vain. Out came the sun In glory from his clouded tabernacle; And, waken'd by the splendour, up the lark Rose with a loud and yet a louder song, Chaunting to heaven the hymn of gratitude. The service closed; and o'er the church-yard spread The happy flock who in that peaceful fold Had worshipp'd Jesus, carrying to their homes The comfort of a faith that cannot die, Steadier than reason's, and far brighter too, And to the aged sanctifies the grass That grows upon the grave. O happy lot, Methought, to tend a little flock like this, Loving them all, and by them all beloved! So felt their shepherd on that Sabbath-morn Returning their kind smiles;—a pious man, Content in this lone vale to teach the truths Our Saviour taught, nor wishing other praise Than of his great task-master. Yet his youth Not unadorn'd with science, nor the lore Becoming in their prime accomplish'd men, Told that among the worldly eminent Might lie his shining way:—but, wiser far, He to the shades of solitude retired, The birth-place of his fathers, and there vow'd His talents and his virtues, rarest both, This beauteous chapel still more beautiful, And the blameless dwellers in this quiet dale Happier in life and death. |
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