I remember a spot among the Cumberland hills that might have inspired even poetry like this. It was the little church, (and church-yard) of Borrowdale;--the smallest building of its class in England, it is stated. Mr. Wordsworth, who lives in the neighborhood, said it was “no bigger than a cottage,” and thus indeed it seemed, when, at the end of a long ramble, I found it so nestled away in the niche of a hill-side, so buried and wrapped in shade and solitude, that it was difficult to realize how even the narrow space within its walls should ever be filled by human worshippers. Another such picture the pedestrian may have to think of, who, sauntering along the hedge-lined bye-ways of the lovely Isle of Wight, suddenly stays his steps, unconsciously, to gaze over into the sweet, small garden of graves clustering all round the humble but exquisite Church of St. Lawrence; some of them, on the upper side of the mountain-slope, nearly as high as the moss-grown roof of the building, over which one sees, from the road-side, a glimpse of the lonely sea, spread out
And, settling oft on some gray-lettered stone,
The red-breast warbles lone;
And the wild bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass
Like a low thrill of harp-strings through the grass;--
Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep,
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye,
For hope sits dove-like on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought;--nor needs their fresh, bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
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