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'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.
Twelve years are past 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. "T was 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,

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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.
And, when he dwelt 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.


How did he die at last?

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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 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 behina

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; but 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 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!

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He talked about him with a cheerful love.


He could not come to an unhallowed end!


Yes, Long before he died, he found that time
Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless

[See the Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and Milton's History of England.]

His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless for- WHERE be the Temples which, in Britain's Isle,

For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised?
Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile
Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed!-
Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore,
They sank, delivered o'er
To fatal dissolution; and, I ween,

No vestige then was left that such had ever been.


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 hand he must have held
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 church-yard 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.


Nathless, a British record (long concealed
In old Armorica, whose secret springs
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed
The wondrous current of forgotten things;
How Brutus came, by oracles impelled,

And Albion's giants quelled

A brood whom no civility could melt,

"Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt,"

By brave Corineus aided, he subdued,
And rooted out the intolerable kind;
And this too-long-polluted land imbued
With goodly arts and usages refined;
Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers,

And Pleasure's sumptuous bowers;

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"By heavenly Powers conducted, we have met;

-O Brother! to my knowledge lost so long,
But neither lost to love, nor to regret,

Nor to my wishes lost;-forgive the wrong,
'Such it may seem) if I thy crown have borne,

Thy royal mantle worn:

Awhile the astonished Artega) stood mute,
Then thus exclaimed-"To me, of titles shorn,
And stripped of power! me, feeble, destitute,
To me a kingdom!-spare the bitter scorn!
If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings,
Then, on the wide-spread wings

Of war, had I returned to claim my right;
This will I here avow, not dreading thy despite."

"Believe it not," said Elidure; "respect
Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most

I was their natural guardian; and 't is just

That now I should restore what hath been held in Attends on goodness with dominion decked,
Which stands the universal empire's boast;
This can thy own experience testify:"
Nor shall thy foes deny

That, in the gracious opening of thy reign,
Our Father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe again.

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And this for one who cannot imitate

Thy virtue, who may hate:
For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored,
He reign, thou still must be his king, and sovereign ora

"Lifted in magnanimity above

Aught that my feeble nature could perform,
Or even conceive; surpassing me in love
Far as in power the eagle doth the worm;
I, Brother! only should be king in name,

And govern to my shame;

A shadow in a hated land, while all

Of glad or willing service to thy share would fall."

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'HIGH bliss is only for a higher state,' But, surely, if severe afflictions borne With patience merit the reward of peace, Peace ye deserve; and may the solid good, Sought by a wise though late exchange, and here With bounteous hand beneath a cottage roof To you accorded, never be withdrawn, Nor for the world's best promises renounced. Most soothing was it for a welcome friend, Fresh from the crowded city, to behold That lonely union, privacy so deep, Such calm employments, such entire content. So when the rain is over, the storm laid,

A pair of herons oft-times have I seen,
Upon a rocky islet, side by side,

Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease;
And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen,
Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared,
As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light,
Each with the other on the dewy ground,
Where He that made them blesses their repose.·
When wandering among lakes and hills I note,
Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired,
And guarded in their tranquil state of life,
Even as your happy presence to my mind
Their union brought, will they repay the debt,
And send a thankful spirit back to you,
With hope that we, dear friends! shall meet again.


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 feeds

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