That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to him:
And oh what joy this recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks And everlasting hills themselves were changed.
By this the Priest, who down the field had
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short,-and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead.-Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with him- self,
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:
Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months;
And yet, some changes must take place among
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,
Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish.--I remember, (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side-'tis gone-and that dark cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had!
Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the sameLeonard. But, surely, yonderPriest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false.-On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side,
As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still. For accidents and changes such as these
We want not store of them;-a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; A wood is felled :-and then for our own homes! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries,-one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side- Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys!
Leonard. Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English church-yard were like ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. And then, for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the moun-
Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves? Priest. For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,
Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. Now there's a grave-your foot is half upon it,
It looks just like the rest; and yet that man Died broken-hearted.
Leonard. 'Tis a common case. We'll take another; who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?
It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall. Priest. That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage-
You see it yonder! and those few green fields. They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to
Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little yet a little, and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind,-and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him
God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: His pace was never that of an old man: I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him :-but you, Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel,-and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer- Leonard. But those two Orphans! Orphans-Such they were- Yet not while Walter lived:-for, though their parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father: and if tears, Shed when he talked of them where they were not,
And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old Man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them.-If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!
Ay-you may turn that way-it is a grave Which will bear looking at.
Leonard. These boys-I hope They loved this good old Man?- Priest. They did and truly: But that was what we almost overlooked, They were such darlings of each other. Yes, Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,
The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to both by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar tenderness; They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!-From their house the school
Is distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep,
Their two books lying both on a dry stone, Upon the hither side: and once I said,
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
They played like two young ravens on the crags: Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well As many of their betters-and for Leonard! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A bible, and I'd wager house and field That, if he be alive, he has it yet. Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other
Priest. That they might Live to such end is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wished, And what, for my part, I have often prayed: But Leonard
Leonard. Then James still is left among you! Priest. "Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:
They had an uncle:-he was at that time A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud: For the boy loved the life which we lead here; And though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil. But, as I said, old Walter was too weak To strive with such a torrent; when he died, The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:
Well-all was gone, and they were destitute, And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.
If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the Great Gavel,* down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a joyous festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you
Hanging in the open air-but, O good Sir! This is sad talk-they'll never sound for him
*The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains.
The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale.
Living or dead.-When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast.-'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the Youth Was sadly crossed.-Poor Leonard! when we parted,
He took me by the hand, and said to me, If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, To live in peace upon his father's land, And lay his bones among us.
Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him-
Happy! SirLeonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves,
And that he had one Brother- Priest.
That is but A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many offices about him,
That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy
In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, The little colour that he had was soon Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined-
Leonard. But these are all the graves of full- grown men !
Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us;
He was the child of all the dale-he lived Three months with one, and six months with another;
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: And many, many happy days were his. But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent Brother still was at his heart. And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard.-You are moved!
Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly. Leonard.
But this Youth, How did he die at last? Priest. One sweet May-morning, (It will be twelve years since when Spring re- turns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
With two or three companions, whom their
Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun-till he, at length, Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagged behind. You see yon precipice :-it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; And in the midst is one particular rock That rises like a column from the vale,
Upon its aëry summit crowned with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was feared; till one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learned
That nobody had seen him all that day:
The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies! Leonard. And that then is his grave!-Be- fore his death
You say that he saw many happy years? Priest. Ay, that he did-
And all went well with him?Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty
Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?
Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time
Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless
His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luck
He talked about him with a cheerful love.
Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end!
Priest. Nay, God forbid !-You recollect I mentioned
A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down On the soft heath,-and, waiting for his com- rades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice
Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong:
And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think,
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock It had been caught midway; and there for
And Leonard, when they reached the church- yard gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,- And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"
The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, He pointed towards his dwelling-place, en- treating
That Leonard would partake his homely fare : The other thanked him with an earnest voice;
Whence by our shepherds it is called THE But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove That overhung the road: he there stopped short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him:-his long absence, cherished hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All pressed on him with such a weight that now This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquished all his purposes.
He travelled back to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, Reminding him of what had passed between them;
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart He had not dared to tell him who he was. This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.
ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.
(SEE THE CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF MON
MOUTH AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.) WHERE be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised? Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed! Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, They sank, delivered o'er
To fatal dissolution; and, I ween,
No vestige then was left that such had ever been. Nathless, a British record (long concealed In old Armorica, whose secret springs No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed The marvellous current of forgotten things; How Brutus came, by oracles impelled, And Albion's giants quelled, A brood whom no civility could melt, "Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt."
By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, And rooted out the intolerable kind; And this too-long-polluted land imbued With goodly arts and usages refined; Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers, And pleasure's sumptuous bowers; Whence all the fixed delights of house and home, Friendships that will not break, and love that
O, happy Britain! region all too fair For self-delighting fancy to endure That silence only should inhabit there, Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure! But, intermingled with the generous seed, Grew many a poisonous weed; Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth From human care, or grows upon the breast of earth.
Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged
By Guendolen against her faithless lord; Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged
Had slain his paramour with ruthless sword: Then, into Severn hideously defiled,
She flung her blameless child, Sabrina,-vowing that the stream should bear That name through every age, her hatred to declare.
So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. Ye lightnings, hear his voice!-they cannot hear,
But One there is, a Child of nature meek, Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. Who comes her Sire to seek; And he, recovering sense, upon her breast Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest. There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes, And those that Milton loved in youthful years; The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes; The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers; Of Arthur,-who, to upper light restored, With that terrific sword
Which yet he brandishes for future war, Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star!
What wonder, then, if in such ample field Of old tradition, one particular flower Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield, And bloom unnoticed even to this late hour?
Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, While I this flower transplant Into a garden stored with Poesy; Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some weeds be,
That, wanting not wild grace, are from all mischief free!
A KING more worthy of respect and love Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day; And grateful Britain prospered far above All neighbouring countries through his righteous
Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns and cities grew.
He died, whom Artegal succeeds-his son; But how unworthy of that sire was he! A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun, Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. From crime to crime he mounted, till at length The nobles leagued their strength With a vexed people, and the tyrant chased; And, on the vacant throne, his worthier brother placed.
From realm to realm the humbled Exile went, Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain; In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, He urged his persevering suit in vain. Him, in whose wretched heart ambition failed, Dire poverty assailed;
And, tired with slights his pride no more could
How changed from him who, born to highest Were this same spear, which in my hand I
Had swayed the royal mace, Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's side! From that wild region where the crownless King Lay in concealment with his scanty train, Supporting life by water from the spring, And such chance food as outlaws can obtain, Unto the few whom he esteems his friends A messenger he sends;
And from their secret loyalty requires Shelter and daily bread,—the sum of his desires. While he the issue waits, at early morn Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to hear A startling outcry made by hound and horn, From which the tusky wild boar flies in fear; And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy plain,
Behold the hunter train !
He bids his little company advance
The British sceptre, here would I to thee The symbol yield; and would undo this clasp, If it confined the robe of sovereignty. Odious to me the pomp of regal court, And joyless sylvan sport,
While thou art roving, wretched and forlorn, Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the forest thorn!"
Then Artegal thus spake: "I only sought Within this realm a place of safe retreat; Beware of rousing an ambitious thought; Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet! Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind Art pitiably blind:
Full soon this generous purpose thou may'st rue, When that which has been done no wishes can
Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head, With seeming unconcern and steady counte- Would balance claim with claim, and right with
The royal Elidure, who leads the chase,
But thou-I know not how inspired, how ledHath checked his foaming courser :-can it be ! Wouldst change the course of things in all men's
Methinks that I should recognise that face, Though much disguised by long adversity! He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed, Confounded and amazed-
"It is the king, my brother!" and, by sound Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon the
And this for one who cannot imitate
Thy virtue, who may hate:
For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored, He reign, thou still must be his king and sovereign lord;
Lifted in magnanimity above
Long, strict, and tender was the embrace he Aught that my feeble nature could perform,
"By heavenly Powers conducted, we have met; -O Brother! to my knowledge lost so long, But neither lost to love, nor to regret, Nor to my wishes lost;-forgive the wrong, (Such it may seem) if I thy crown have borne, Thy royal mantle worn:
I was their natural guardian; and 'tis just That now I should restore what hath been held in trust."
A while the astonished Artegal stood mute, Then thus exclaimed: "To me, of titles shorn, And stripped of power! me, feeble, destitute, To me a kingdom! spare the bitter scorn: If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings,
Then, on the wide-spread wings Of war, had I returned to claim my right;
This will I here avow, not dreading thy despite." "I do not blame thee," Elidure replied; "But, if my looks did with my words agree, I should at once be trusted, not defied, And thou from all disquietude be free. May the unsullied Goddess of the chase, Who to this blessed place
At this blest moment led me, if I speak With insincere intent, on me her vengeance
Or even conceive; surpassing me in love Far as in power the eagle doth the worm: I, Brother! only should be king in name, And govern to my shame;
A shadow in a hated land, while all Of glad or willing service to thy share would fall."
"Believe it not," said Elidure;
Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most Attends on goodness with dominion decked, Which stands the universal empire's boast; This can thy own experience testify:
Nor shall thy foes deny
That, in the gracious opening of thy reign, Our father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe again.
And what if o'er that bright unbosoming Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past! Have we not seen the glories of the spring By veil of noontide darkness overcast? The frith that glittered like a warrior's shield, The sky, the gay green field, Are vanished; gladness ceases in the groves, And trepidation strikes the blackened moun-
But is that gloom dissolved, how passing clear Seems the wide world, far brighter than before! Even so thy latent worth will re-appear, Gladdening the people's heart from shore to shore;
For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone; Re-seated on thy throne,
Proof shalt thou furnish that misfortune, pain, And sorrow, have confirmed thy native right to
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