Could never keep those boys away from church, Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; In my own house I put into his hand A bible, and I'd wager house and field That, if he be alive, he has it yet. And those two bells of ours, which there you see- He took me by the hand, and said to me, If that day Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him; to be A comfort to each other Priest. Leonard. Then James still is left among you! Priest. "Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle; he was at that time A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: * The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont. He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale-he lived I judged you most unkindly. One sweet May-morning, Priest. (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun-till he, at length, Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagged behind. You see yon precipice ;—it wears the shape Of a 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. Upon its aëry summit crowned with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was feared; till one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's 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 hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock Dead, and with mangled 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 say that he saw many happy years? Priest. Ay, that he did— 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? y? 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 walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong: And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, The Priest here endedThe 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 church-yard gate, As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,— 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:-his long absence, 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 back 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 grey-headed Mariner. II. ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 1800. (SEE THE CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND) WHERE be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, To fatal dissolution; and, I ween, No vestige then was left that such had ever been. Nathless, a British record (long concealed A brood whom no civility could melt, 'Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt.' By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, Whence all the fixed delights of house and home, not roam. O, happy Britain! region all too fair Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged Had slain his paramour with ruthless sword: She flung her blameless child, So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes, Which yet he brandishes for future war, Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star! |