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 !
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 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.
(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; 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!
And that then is his grave !-Before his death You say 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 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 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 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
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.
IF from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous Brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey hither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude ;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved ;-not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
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