walked thence to Ambleside, and thence to Rydal: a tolerably long walk (about six miles) for an infirm old man of eighty. In the afternoon he started towards Grasmere to visit two nieces. He called at the White Moss Quarry Cottage; the occupant was not within, so he sat down on the stone seat in the porch to watch the setting sun; the sun was indeed sinking that had shed the light of its genius over half a century. It is probable this was his last look out upon the setting sun. That evening he went very early to bed. On the 14th the symptoms became more alarming, medical advice was resorted to, and he continued for a fortnight fluctuating from day to day. On Sunday the 7th of April he completed his eightieth year, and he was prayed for in Rydal Chapel both in the morning and afternoon. A young lady, a friend of the family, gave to Dr. Wordsworth the following notes; they are very interesting as a Diary, recorded in the house while these dark hours were passing. "At eleven this morning, the 20th, I went up to the Mount; William Wordsworth came in while I was in the dining-room, and asked me if I would go up stairs and see his father, who is becoming weaker every day. I met Mr. John Wordsworth* coming out of his father's room, very much affected. He had just been administering the Holy Communion to Mr. Wordsworth, who, when asked whether he would receive it, replied, 'That is just what I want.' When I stood by his bedside (he does not get up now) and kissed him he pressed my hand, but did not speak. Rafterwards came into his room, and said to him 'Here is your god-daughter;' to which he faintly murmured God bless you."" It was about this period that it was thought advisable that he should know what was now the opinion of his medical attendants, and Mrs. Wordsworth said gently to him, with a pathos which reveals the beautiful sensibility of her own heart, "William, you are going to Dora?" He made no reply; the words appeared to have been unheeded, and were most probably not heard. But more than twenty-four hours after, one of his nieces came into his room, and was drawing aside his curtains. He seemed to awake as if from a gentle sleep, and said, "Is that Dora ?" He was drawing nearer and nearer to Dora. It is not said that he ever spoke again. This was on the Monday, the 22nd of April. The reader remembers the verses, "The Cuckoo Clock," whose mimic notes. "Come to him who shuns the day, In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, Mocking the wandering voice beside some haunted stream." On Tuesday, the 23rd April, 1850, while that Cuckoo Clock was striking twelve, the great Poet of Nature quietly breathed his last, almost insensibly, and it is noticeable it was also the day on which Shakspeare died. He was buried on Saturday the 27th, at Grasmere, in the "Church-yard among the mountains," followed THE GRAVE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 491 to the grave by an immense concourse of persons of all ranks and all ages-a sweet and appropriate place for a poet's tomb, in that deep silence, broken only by the murmurs of the river, or of the complaining winds, among the simple peasants and dalesmen whose history he has recorded. In a grave surrounded by the Sycamore and the Yew, next to that of Hartley Coleridge, next to his own children early lost; there is a large plain slab of grey limestone, and on it the simple inscription "WILLIAM WORDSWORTH." Within Grasmere Church, over the pew which the Poet occupied, his friends and neighbours have placed an elegant tablet with a very good medallion likeness. and the following inscription : A TRUE PHILOSOPHER AND POET, WHO, BY THE SPECIAL GIFT AND CALLING OF ALMIGHTY GOD, WHETHER HE DISCOURSED ON MAN OR NATURE, FAILED NOT TO LIFT UP THE HEART TO HOLY THINGS; TIRED NOT OF MAINTAINING THE CAUSE OF THE POOR AND SIMPLE, AND SO IN PERILOUS TIMES WAS RAISED UP TO BE A CHIEF MINISTER IS PLACED HERE BY HIS FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS, IN TESTIMONY OF |