Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular wind And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country gray Which he himself had worn.* And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth *This description of the Calenture is sketched from an im perfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of the Hurricane. Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, The life he had lived there; both for the sake Another grave was added. He had found He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew That he began to doubt, and even to hope And O 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 churchyard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb, Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, The happy man will creep about the fields, Write fool upon his forehead. - Planted thus Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared self, 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 churchyard 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, — 't is gone!— and that dark cleft! -- To me it does not seem to wear the face 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, w 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 Leonard. Yet your churchyard 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, 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! The stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their bread |