Dear caresses given in pity, Time passed on; the Child was happy, Scarcely less than sacred passions, Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, Many a captive hath she rescued, Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains 40 She, fulfilling her sire's office, 45 What then wants the Child to temper, 50 And a steadfast outward power Watchful as a wheeling eagle, Should the country need a heroine, 60 She might prove our Maid of Arc. 65 70 75 80 85 "THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, 5 Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, While half an hour went by, the Priest Many a long look of wonder: and at last, ridge 31 Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Until a man might travel twelve stout Each in the other locked; and down the miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 10 Is neither epitaph nor monument, And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate 16 Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 41 Upon the long stone-seat beneath the A fellow-mariner; and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been eaves Of his old cottage, -as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 20 His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, reared 44 Among the mountains, and he in his heart The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds While, from the twin cards toothed with Of caves and trees :-and when the regular Between the tropics filled the steady When Leonard had approached his home, And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 56 Flashed round him images and hues that wrought his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, He to the solitary church-yard turned; 80 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 halfhour 85 In union with the employment of his He had remained; but, as he gazed, there heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 61 Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed 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, On verdant hills-with dwellings among That it was not another grave; but one 90 He had forgotten. He had lost his trees, And shepherds clad in the same country path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to him: And oh what joy this recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, 95 And, looking round, imagined that he The happy man will creep about the fields, Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend Following his fancies by the hour, to That does not play you false.-On that bring tall pike Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate As if they had been made that they Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, 115 But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still. 145 Approached; he recognised the Priest at For accidents and changes such as these, And welcome gone, they are so like each Will come with loads of January snow, other, And in one night send twenty score of sheep They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral 125 To Can trace the finger of mortality, feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies some untoward death among the rocks: 155 The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; A wood is felled:-and then for our own homes! And see, that with our threescore years A child is born or christened, a field 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, 170 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, 'tis true, might beg their bread 175 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 180 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. 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 score. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds 205 Of their inheritance, that single cottageYou see it yonder! and those few green fields. They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little-yet a little, and old Walter, 210 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, 215 Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter! whether it was care that each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt 185 Priest. For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, I almost see him tripping down the path Perhaps I might; and, on a winter- With his two grandsons after him :-but |