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

Was rent with lightning-one is dead and gone,

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

* This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of Hawe's-water.

Yours was a stranger's judgment: for Historians,

Commend me to these valleys!

LEONARD.

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:

Here's neither head- nor foot-stone, plate of brass,

n

Cross-bones or skull,-type of our earthly state

✅Or 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!
The Stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread
If every English Church-yard were like ours;
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:
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