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Ay, that he did

PRIEST.

LEONARD.

And all went well with him

PRIEST.

If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.

LEONARD.

And you believe, then, that his mind was easy

PRIEST.

Yes, long before he died, he found that time

Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless

His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talked about him with a cheerful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallowed end!

PRIEST.

Nay, God forbid !-You recollect I mentioned
A habit which disquietude and grief

Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
Upon the grass,—and, waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice

Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong,
And so no doubt he perished: at the time,

We guess, that in his hands he must have had
His shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff
It had been caught; and there for many years
It hung-and mouldered there.

The Priest here ended--
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away

The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate,

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,-
And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother."
The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated
That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
The other thanked him with a fervent voice;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
That overhung the road: he there stopped short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
All that the Priest had said: his early years
Were with him in his heart: his cherished hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now.

PRIEST.

Ay, sir, that passed away: we took him to us;

He was the child of all the dale-he lived

Three months with one, and six months with another;

And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:

And many, many happy days were his.

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief

His absent Brother still was at his heart.

And, when he lived beneath our roof, we found
(A practice till this time unknown to him)
That often, rising from his bed at night,

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
He sought his brother Leonard.-You are moved!
Forgive me, sir: before I spoke to you,

I judged you most unkindly.

LEONARD.

How did he die at last?

PRIEST.

But this youth,

One sweet May morning,

(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
With two or three companions, whom it chanced
Some further business summoned to a house

Which stands at the dale-head. James, tired perhaps,
Or from some other cause, remained behind.

You see yon precipice ;-it almost looks

Like some vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock

That rises like a column from the vale,

Whence by our shepherds it is called THE PILLAR.
James pointed to its summit, over which
They all had purposed to return together,

And told them that he there would wait for them;
They parted, and his comrades passed that way
Some two hours after, but they did not find him
Upon the summit-at the appointed place.
Of this they took no heed: but one them,
Going by chance, at night, into the house

Which at that time was James' home, there learned
That nobody had seen him all that day:
The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook
Some went, and some towards the lake: ere noon
They found him at the foot of that same rock--
Dead, and with mangied limbs. The third day after
I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies!

LEONARD.

And that then is his grave ?-Before his death
You said that he saw many happy years?

Ay, that he did

PRIEST.

LEONARD.

And all went well with him

PRIEST.

If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.

LEONARD.

And you believe, then, that his mind was easy

PRIEST.

Yes, long before he died, he found that time

Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless

His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talked about him with a cheerful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallowed end!

PRIEST.

Nay, God forbid !-You recollect I mentioned
A habit which disquietude and grief

Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
Upon the grass,-and, waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice

Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong,
And so no doubt he perished: at the time,

We guess, that in his hands he must have had
His shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff
It had been caught; and there for many years
It hung-and mouldered there.

The Priest here ended-
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away

The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate,

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,-
And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother."
The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated
That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
The other thanked him with a fervent voice;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
That overhung the road: he there stopped short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
All that the Priest had said: his early years
Were with him in his heart: his cherished hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now.

This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed
A place in which he could not bear to live:
So he relinquished all his purposes.

He travelled on to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
Reminding him of what had passed between them:
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,
That it was from the weakness of his heart
He had not dared to tell him who he was.

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now
A seaman, a gray-headed mariner.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

I'VE watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly! indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas

More motionless! and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours;

My trees they are, my sister's flowers;

Here rest your wings when they are weary;

Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song;

And summer days when we were young;

Sweet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now.

A FAREWELL.

FAREWELL, thou little nook of mountain ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair

Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet garden orchard, eminently fair,

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,

Farewell!-we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care
Thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And safely she will ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that decorate our door
Will prosper, though untended and alone:

Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none;
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes and sun doth shine upon;
Here are they in our sight-we have no more.

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought;
We leave you here in solitude to dwell

With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky well.

We go for one to whom you will be dear;
And she will prize this bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, building without peer!
-A gentle maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
She'll come to you,-to you herself will wed,-
And love the blessed life which we lead here.

Dear spot which we have watched with tender heed
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle place,
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily in thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And say'st when we forsake thee, "Let them go!"
Thou easy-hearted thing, with thy wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,-
And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell her tales of years gone by,

And this sweet spring the best beloved and best.

Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest.

Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast

Glittered at evening like a starry sky;

And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sung one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,

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