It was a July evening; and he sat Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sat near him, teasing matted wool, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, "T was one well known to him in former days, And perilous waters; with the mariners and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours 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 imperfect 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 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, '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, 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 see, that with our threescore years and ten 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. For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them; a water-spout |