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POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS.
"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
A profitable life: some glance along,
To Jane, his wife,
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
"Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
And perilous waters; with the mariners
Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed
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.
He to the solitary church-yard turned;
That he began to doubt; and even to hope
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
By this the Priest, who down the field had come,
Write fool upon his forehead.—Planted thus
As if they had been made that they might be
For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared
Commend me to these valleys!
But that the Stranger, who had left the 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
Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new
to me !
We are not all that perish.—I remember,
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
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;
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
God only knows, but to the very last
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained
Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep,
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,
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
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
A comfort to each other
That they might
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—
Was sadly crossed.-Poor Leonard! when we parted,
He took me by the hand, and said to me,
If that day
Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him;
And that he had one Brother-
That is but
A fellow-tale of sorrow.
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
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,
In him was somewhat checked; and, when his
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
Leonard. But these are all the graves of fullgrown men !
Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him
He was the child of all the dale-he lived
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
But this Youth,
How did he die at last?
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. Yes, long before he died, he found that time
Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless
Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think,
The Priest here ended-
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,-
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 MONMOUTH AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND)
WHERE be the temples which, in Britain's Isle,
No vestige then was left that such had ever bec