THE BROTHERS

1800. 1800

This poem was composed in a grove at the north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by turning the high-road along the side of the water. The few trees that are left were spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called The Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left midway on the rock.

"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us!

needs must live

A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder? In our church-

yard

10

Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name - only the turf we tread

And a few natural graves."

To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate

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

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His wife sate 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. To-
wards 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, 3o 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 church-yard

led,

90

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 oh 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,

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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

funeral

Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen

months;

Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home

Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.

Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!

The stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their bread

If every English churchyard were like ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our firesides. And then, for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:

15:

Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little yet a little, — and old Walter, 210
They left to him the family heart, and land
With other burthens than the crop it bore.
Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
And went into his grave before his time.
Poor Walter! whether it was care that
spurred him

God only knows, but to the very last
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
His pace was never that of an old man: 220
I almost see him tripping down the path
With his two grandsons after him: - but

Is distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed

Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,

Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained

At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,

Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,

260

Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid

leg deep,

Their two books lying both on a dry stone,
Upon the hither side: and once I said,
As I remember, looking round these rocks
And hills on which we all of us were born,
That God who made the great book of the
world
Would bless such piety-
Leonard.

It may be thenPriest. Never did worthier lads break English bread:

The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 270 Could never keep those boys away from

church,

Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.

Leonard and James! I warrant, every cor

ner

Among these rocks, and every hollow place That venturous foot could reach, to one or both

Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.

Like roe-bucks 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

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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 house and field
That, if he be alive, he has it yet.

Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be

A comfort to each other

Priest. That they might 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

Leonard. Then James still is left among

If that day Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him;

He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
As any that should meet him

Priest.
Happy! Sir-
Leonard. You said his kindred all were
in their graves,

And that he had one Brother-
Priest.

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That is but

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

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Leonard. But these are all the graves of full-grown men !

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, 't is my belief His absent Brother still was at his heart.