So, to a steep and difficult descent Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, Where passage could be won;[CB] and, as the last 405 Of the mute train, behind[154] the heathy top Of that off-sloping outlet,[CC] disappeared, I, more impatient in my downward course,[155] Had landed upon easy ground; and there Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold 410 An object that enticed my steps aside! A narrow, winding, entry opened out[156] Into a platform--that lay, sheepfold-wise, Enclosed between an upright[157] mass of rock And one old moss-grown wall;--a cool recess, 415 And fanciful! For where the rock and wall Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed By thrusting two rude staves into the wall[158] And overlaying them with mountain sods; To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 420 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands![CD] Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show[159] Of baby-houses, curiously arranged; 425 Nor wanting ornament of walks between, With mimic trees inserted in the turf, And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 429 Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,[160] "Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,[CE] Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 435 One of those petty structures. "His it must be!" Exclaimed the Wanderer, "cannot but be his,[161] And he is gone!"[162] The book, which in my hand Had opened of itself (for it was swoln With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 440 To the injurious elements exposed From week to week,) I found to be a work In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, His famous Optimist. "Unhappy Man!" 444 Exclaimed my Friend: "here then has been to him Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place Within how deep a shelter! He had fits, Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, And loved the haunts of children: here, no doubt, Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, Or sate companionless; and here the book, 451 Left and forgotten in his careless way, Must by the cottage-children have been found:[163] Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work! To what odd purpose have the darlings turned 455 This sad memorial of their hapless friend!"