The old house-clock is decked with a new face; [dates And hence, so far from wanting facts or To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries, -one serving, sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fireside[historians, Yours was a stranger's judgment: for Commend me to these valleys! Leonard. Yet your church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, grave: state To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's [of brass, Here's neither head nor footstone, plate Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly [home Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. Priest. Why, there, sir, is a thought that's new to me! [their bread The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg If every English church-yard were like [truth: ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the 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 mountains. Leonard. Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt 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. 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- They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire God only knows, but to the very last Even in the longest day of midsummer- Priest. Orphans !-Such they wereYet 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 With a more fond, familiar tenderness; They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Is distant three short miles-and in the time Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps [the fords Remained at home, go staggering through Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him, On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I've seen him mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone Would bless such piety— The finest Sunday that the autumn saw, them Ortempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. As many of their betters-and for Leonard! A comfort to each other- young In this our valley all of us have wished, And what, for my part I have often prayed: But Leonard[you? Leonard. Then James still is left among 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, [know, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I 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 passed since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, [banks, From the great Gavel,* down by Leeza's And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a very festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you see Hanging in the open air-but, O good sir! This is sad talk-they'll never sound for him[him Living or dead.-When last we heard of He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast.-'Twas not a [doubt, That would bring down his spirit; and no Before it ended in his death, the youth Was sadly crossed-Poor Leonard! when we parted, little He took me by the hand, and said to me, 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 moun tains. The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont. Leonard. He would himself, no doubt, be happy then And that he had one brother- That is but 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; with another; He was the child of all the dale-he lived Three months with one and six months [love: And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor 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 [moved! He sought his brother Leonard.-You are But this youth, How did he die at last? Priest. One sweet May morning, (It will be twelve years since when spring returns) [lambs, He had gone forth among the new-dropped With two or three companions, whom their course 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 on 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, You say that he saw many happy years? Priest. Ay, that he did Leonard. And all went well with him ?— Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 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 luckless fortune, 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 He there had fallen asleep; that in his fallen headlong. And so, no doubt, he perished: at the time, We guess, that in his hands he must have held His shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff It had been caught; and there for many years It hung, and mouldered there The priest here ended- To fatal dissolution; and, I ween, The stranger would have thanked him, but No vestige then was left that such had ever he felt been. A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; [yard gate, And Leonard, when they reached the churchAs the priest lifted up the latch, turned round,Brother!" And looking at the grave, he said, My The vicar did not hear the words: and now, Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare: [voice; The other thanked him with a fervent 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, {viewed And, sitting down beneath the trees, reAll that the priest had said: his early years Were with him in his heart: his cherished hopes, 'before, And thoughts which had been his an hour All pressed on him with such a weight, [seemed This vale, where he had been so happy, A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquished all his purposes. He travelled on to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the priest, Reminding him of what had passed between that now, 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 gray-headed mariner. ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. (SEE THE CHRonicle of geoffrey of MONMOUTH, 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 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 sway; [good; He poured rewards and honours on the The oppressor he withstood; And while he served the gods with reverence due, [and cities grew. Field smiled, and temples rose, and towns He died, whom Artegal succeeds-his son; 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; Dire poverty assailed; And, tired with slights which he no more could brook, [look. Towards his native soil he cast a longing Fair blew the wished-for wind-the voyage sped; He landed; and, by many dangers scared, 'Poorly provided, poorly followed," To Calaterium's forest he repaired. How changed from him who, born to highest place, 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, Unto the few whom he esteems his friends While he the issue waits, at early morn Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced [horn, to hear A startling outcry made by hound and tenance. |