And hills on which all of us were born,
That God who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety-
Never did worthier lads break English bread;
The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep these boys away from church,
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach.
Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner
Among these rocks, and every hollow place
Where foot could come, to one or both of them
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
Like roebucks they went bounding o'er the hills:
They played like two young ravens on the crags:
Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well
As many of their betters-and for Leonard!
The very night before he went away,
In my own house I put into his hand
A Bible, and I'd wager twenty pounds,
That, if he is alive, he has it yet.
It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other.-
Live to such end, is what both old and young,
In this our valley, all of us have wished,
And what, for my part, I have often prayed:
But 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:
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.
For the boy loved the life which we lead here;
And, though of unripe years, a stripling only,
His soul was knit to this his native soil.
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years :-
Well-all was gone, and they were destitute.
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
"Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him.
If there was one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
From the great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks,
And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
The day would be a very festival;
And those two bells of ours, which there you see--
Hanging in the open air-but, O good sir!
This is sad talk-they'll never sound for him-
Living or dead.-When last we heard of him
He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary coast.-'Twas not a little
That would bring down his spirit; and, no doubt,
Before it ended in his death, the youth
Was sadly crossed-Poor Leonard! when we parted,
He took me by the hand and said to me,
If ever the day came when he was rich,
He would return, and on his father's land
He would grow old among us.
Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
As any that should meet him
You said his kindred all were in their graves,
And that he had one Brother-
A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
And Leonard being always by his side
Had done so many offices about him,
That, though he was not of a timid nature,
Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy
In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother
Was gone to sea and he was left alone,
The little colour that he had was soon
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined-
But these are all the graves of full-grown men !
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.
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.
(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 mangled limbs. The third day after
I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies!
And that then is his grave?-Before his death
You said that he saw many happy years?
And all went well with him
If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.
And you believe, then, that his mind was easy
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.
He could not come to an unhallowed end!
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.
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:
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