Merciful protectress, kindling Many a captive hath she rescued, Listen yet awhile;-with patience Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains She, fulfilling her sire's office, When his spirit was departed To control the froward impulse Easily a pious training And a steadfast outward power Leave that thought; and here be uttered Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. THE BROTHERS. "THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." Between the tropics filled the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary lin Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad blue wave and spark ling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country gray Which he himself had worn. And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, Of many darling pleasures, and the love -They were the last of all their race: and Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and even to hope And oh what joy this recollection now And everlasting hills themselves were By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Of the world's business to go wild alone: The happy man will creep about the fields The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognized the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: Your years make up oné peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome For accidents and changes such as these For folks that wander up and down like vou, To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies A wood is felled and then for our own homes ! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; Leonard. It looks just like the rest; and yet that man It touches on that piece of native rock To chronicle the time, we all have here For the whole dale, and one for each fireside Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys! Leonard. Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, [state Cross-bones hor skull,-type of our earthly 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, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English church-yard 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 fire-sides. And then, for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains. Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Priest. Of their inheritance, that single cottage→→→ God only knows, but to the very last you, Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel,-and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer- Lay buried side by side as now they lie, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Ar. aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old Man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them.-If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred! Ay-you may turn that way-it is a grave These boys-I hope Though from the cradle they had lived with The only kinsman near them, and though he And it all went into each other's hearts. Is distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 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, Ay, more than once I have seen him, midleg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone, Would bless such piety English bread; The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep those 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 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: [well Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as 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 'you! Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle ;-he was at that time |