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,
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering
wire,

He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who, in the open air, with due accord

Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps
Her large, round wheel was turning. Towards the
field

In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and down the path
That from his cottage to the churchyard led
He took his way, impatient to accost
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

"T was one well known to him in former days,
A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year
Had left that calling, tempted to intrust
His expectations to the fickle winds.

And perilous waters; with the mariners
A fellow-mariner;

and so had fared

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 imperfect 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.

For accidents and changes such as these,

We want not store of them;

a water-spout