Mar. Hark! the bells, John. John. Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery. Mar. I know it. John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village, In the sweet shire of Devon; Those are the bells. JOHN WOODVIL THE CHURCH-YARD. That spirit is never idle that doth waken AMONG my stated rambles there is one which I retread with pleasure, unalloyed by repetition;it is a path which leads to a church-yard; and here I have lingered for hours, unwearied, occupied by the reflections produced by surrounding objects. The spot of which I speak is situated on an eminence, which commands a lovely prospect. I have been seated on my favourite seat, a large mossy stone, over which a spreading beech throws its shade, when the close of day was approaching:-there was the stone church, with its sombre, ivy-grown walls and steeple; the thick leafy grove, with its music-breathing inhabitants; the green hill, and the little murmuring rivulet, that wandered at its bottom, over its pebblegemmed bed, dashing its light spray over its violet banks; the white-washed cottage and barn, with the horse-shoe nailed over the door, the lingering relic of drooping faith in demonology; the spreading fields, and clump of trees, and thinly scattered habitations; and, farther on, the majestic windings of the river, beyond which dim hills raised their eternal barrier, to close all further view; and, most beautiful of all, the deep, gentle shade of evening, sinking and reddening on hill, and plain, and valley:-it is then that the soul, emancipated from earthly thoughts and earthly hopes, holds closer sympathy with the scenes around, and holier visionings flit before the mind; and what spot could better harmonize with such thoughts than the one I have described? A church-yard is, of all places, the one most calculated to call up those feelings which, abstracted from the pleasures, are uncontaminated with the evils, of the world: in the evening, too, the charm is stronger-on every side lie "relics of mortality"-the fantastic or fearful shapes, which the gloom lends to indistinct objects— Like a demon thing, Or shadow hovering, give a mysterious awe to this ultima Thule of human schemes; and the doubtful certainty (if the expression may be used) of shortly becoming a companion of the mouldering dust, and hideous corruption beneath us, doubtful as to its period, but certain as it regards the event, is fraught with deep, though fearful and appalling interest. Am I wrong in saying, that this is the place-the school-the theatre for a poet? Is it not here that the casualties of rank and station are destroyed?—and is it not the work of the poet, also, to overlook these accidental distinguishments?—to develop the rise of simple and unadorned loveliness?-and to see, and properly to estimate, the intrinsic excellence of things and actions? Death is your only sure balance in which to |