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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,
Aye, 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,
As I remember, looking round these rocks
And hills on which we all of us were born,
That God, who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety-
Leonard.

It may be thenPriest. Never did worthier lads break English

bread;
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep those boys away from church,
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach.
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner
Among these rocks, and every hollow place
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both
Was known as well as to the flowers that

grow

there. Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; They played like two young ravens on the crags: Then they could write, aye 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. "T is 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 see

T'he 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. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastuale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issu. ing from the Lake it changes its name, nnd is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir,
This is sad talk-they 'll never sound for him-
Living or dead. When last we heard of him,
He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary coast.—'T was 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.
Leonard.

If that day
Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him ;
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
As any that should meet him-
Priest.

Happy! SirLeonard. You said his kindred all were in their

graves, And that he had one BrotherPriest.

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 bim, 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 color that he had was soon Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and Leonard. But these are all the graves of full

grown men !

Priest. Aye, Sir, that passed away: we took him

to us ;

1

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, 't is 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 returns),
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
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 humor 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,
Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.
Upon its aëry summit crowned with heath,
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,

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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 neighbors 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 !—Before

his death
You say that he saw many happy years ?

Priest. Aye, 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 men

tioned 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 comrades, He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep

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