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 weeks,

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 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,
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 inquire
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,
He to the solitary churchyard 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,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
Through fields which once had been well known
to him:

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,
'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 overarched the gate

Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared
The good man might have communed with him-

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,
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.

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
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 fireside.
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,
Commend me to these valleys!

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