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"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live

A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder ?—In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves."

To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sate

Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day,
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering


He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who, in the open air, with due accord
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,
Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and, down the path
That from his cottage to the church-yard led,
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 year

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

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 blue 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 grey
Which he himself had worn.

And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had 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 Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,

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

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He to the solitary church-yard turned;
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 even to hope
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,


up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to


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 come,
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

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
Will come with loads of January snow,
One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm
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

Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared
The good Man might have communed with himself, Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,

Commend me to these valleys!

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.

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:

Lenard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet 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 !

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 !


Can trace the finger of mortality,

And see, that with our threescore years and ten

Nay, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same

Leonard. 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,

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; The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread

And yet, some changes must take place among you:

If every English church-yard were like ours;

And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:

We have no need of names and epitaphs;
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.

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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 cottageYou 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

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!

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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,
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-


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,

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Could never keep those boys away from church,
Or sempt 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

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

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


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-

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: Aud, 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;


The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemMace to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the Tal rales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. The Lowza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdals: on isetting from the Lake, it changes its name, and alled the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a

little below Egremont.

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-
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.

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—



And that he had one Brother-

That is but

A fellow-tale of sorrow.

James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
From his youth
And Leonard being always by his side

Had done so many offices about him,

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

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


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

Leonard. But these are all the graves of fullgrown 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.


But this Youth,

How did he die at last?

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One sweet May-morning,

Priest. (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 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, Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR. 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!-Before 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 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


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 mid way; and there for years
It hung;—and mouldered there.

The Priest here ended-
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard

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, entreating
That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
The other thanked him with an earnest voice;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

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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.





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 bec

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