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He took his way, impatient to accost

The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'Twas one well known to him in former days,
A Shepherd-lad;-who ere his sixteenth
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters, with the mariners
A fellow-mariner,-and so had fared

Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
Among the mountains, and he in his heart

Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.

Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard

The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds

Of caves and trees :-and, when the regular wind

Between the tropics filled the steady sail,

And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,

Lengthening invisibly its weary line

Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours

Of tiresome indolence, would often hang

Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;

And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought

In union with the employment of his heart,

He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,

Below him, in the bosom of the deep,

Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,

And shepherds clad in the same country gray

Which he himself had worn *.

And now at last

From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic in the Indian Isles,

To his paternal home he is returned,
With a determined purpose to resume

The life which he lived there; both for the sake
Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne

In all his hardships, since that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother Shepherds on their native hills.
-They were the last of all their race: and now
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart

*This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of The Hurricane.

Failed in him; and, not venturing to inquire
Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,

Towards the church-yard he had turned aside,-
That, as he knew in what particular spot
His family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his Brother lived, or to the file
Another grave was added. He had found
Another grave, near which a full half-hour

He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew
Such a confusion in his memory,

That he began to doubt; and he had hopes
That he had seen this heap of turf before,-

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 the 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 the eternal hills, themselves were changed.

By this the Priest, who down the field had come
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate

VOL. I.

H

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 cheeks, or solitary smiles
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus
Beneath a shed that overarched the gate

Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared
The good man might have communed with himself,
But that the stranger, who had left the grave,
Approached; he recognized 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 you :
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 same—

LEONARD.

But, surely, yonder

PRIEST.

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: ten years back,
Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag

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