Christian and countryman was all with | But came not there, for sudden was his him,
True to his church he came, no Sunday.
Kept him at home in that important hour;
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect
By the strong glare of their new light
"On hope, in mine own soberlight, I gaze, But should be blind and lose it in your blaze."
He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly
Round the bald polish of that honored head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the
To fold his fingers all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile;
No more that meek and suppliant look
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are
But he is blest, and I lament no more,
A wise good man contented to be poor.
MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.
DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.