SCENE, A CHURCH- YARD. 175 



Swivel. Well do I comprehend thee, Bill, for sorrow 

 and gladness are in me also, blended into that affection 

 which men call melancholy ; perhaps 'tis the place 

 we stand in that awakens it, this fastness, of which, 

 saith one, 



" In the valley of life is the garden of death, 

 Mourner on mourner entereth 

 That Eden of woe, and on its sward 

 Layeth the burden of his regard. 

 Mourner on mourner ! another train 

 Bringeth the earlier back again ; 

 They have chosen his home, and borne his bier, 

 And watered his turf with a human tear. 



" It is a strange and solemn spot ! 

 Friendship, and faith, and feeling, forgot ! 

 Folly findeth wisdom there, 

 Walking the tombs with a sombre air ; 

 And awed into thought are the giddy, and they 

 That have fostered pride fling the bantling away." 



What epitaph, Otter, are you and Leister decy- 

 phering ? 



Otter. That of an honest man and an angler, one of 

 the old members of our fraternity. 



May. Peace be to his ashes ! 



Otter. Amen ! Bill. I knew the old man well ; 

 he was my earliest instructor in the gentle art ! 

 You remember him, Leister, when we were yet boys, 

 how he loved us. I have his rod still, and a ster- 

 ling piece of wood hath it been in its own time. 



