The old house-clock is decked with a new face; [dates And hence, so far from wanting facts or To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries,-one serving, sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fireside[historians, Yours was a stranger's judgment: for Commend me to these valleys! Leonard. Yet your church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with

you,

state

To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: [of brass, Here's neither head nor footstone, plate Cross-bones nor skull,―type of our earthly [home Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. Priest. Why, there, sir, is a thought that's new to me! [their bread The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg If every English church-yard were like [truth:

ours;

Yet your conclusion wanders from the 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

Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, sir, could help me to the history
Of half these graves?

Priest. For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,

Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, sir, through a strange round;

Yet all in the broad highway of the world. Now there's a grave-your foot is half upon it,

It looks just like the rest, and yet that man
Died broken-hearted.
Leonard.

'Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?

It touches on that piece of native rock
Left in the church-vard wall.

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
As ever were produced by youth and age
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
Through five long generations had the heart
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the
bounds

Of their inheritance, that single cottage-
You see it yonder!-and those few green
fields.
[to son,
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little yet a little-and old Walter,
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 :
I almost see him tripping down the path
With his two grandsons after him:-but 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—
Leonard. But those two orphans !

Priest. Orphans !-Such they wereYet not while Walter lived:-for, though their parents

Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father and if tears, Shed when he talked of them where they were not,

And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are 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 Which will bear looking at.

Leonard.

These boys-I hope They loved this good old man ? Priest.

They did and truly: But that was what we almost overlooked, They were such darlings of each other. For, Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter,

The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to them by reason of his age,

With a more fond, familiar tenderness; They, notwithstanding, had much love to

spare,

And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!-From their house the school

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 perhaps [the fords Remained at home, go staggering through Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him,

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I've 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 finest Sunday that the autumn saw, With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep these boys away from church,

them

Ortempt 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
[grow there.
Was known as well as to the flowers that
Like roebucks they went bounding o'er
the hills;
[the crags:
They played like two young ravens on
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 house and field
That if he is 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[you? Leonard. Then James still is left among 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, [know.

A pretty flock, and which, for aught I 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 passed since we had tidings from him.

If there were one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home
again,
[banks,

From the great_Gavel,* down by Leeza's
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

[him Living or dead.-When last we heard of He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast.-'Twas not a little [doubt, That would bring down his spirit; and no 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.

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 moun

tains.

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, Evne,

or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

Leonard.

If that day Should come, 'twould 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.
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-

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; [love: And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor 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
[moved!

He sought his brother Leonard.-You are
Forgive me, sir: before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.
Leonard.

But this youth, How did he die at last? Priest. One sweet May morning, (It will be twelve years since when spring returns) [lambs, He had gone forth among the new-dropped 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 on 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 (learned. Which at that time was James's home, there That nobody had seen him all that day: The morning came, and still he was unheard of: [brook The neighbours were alarmed, and to the Some hastened, some towards the lake:

You say that he saw many happy years? Priest. Ay, that he did—

Leonard. And all went well with him ?— Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.

Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?—

Priest. 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. Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end!

Priest. Nay, God forbid!-You recollect I mentioned

A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him; and we all con-
jectured
[down
That, as the day was warm, he had lain
Upon the grass,—and waiting for his com-
rades,
[sleep

He there had fallen asleep; that in his
He to the margin of the precipice
Had walked, and from the summit had

fallen headlong.

held

His shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff It had been caught; and there for many years

It hung, and mouldered there

"

A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; [yard gate, And Leonard, when they reached the churchAs the priest lifted up the latch, turned round,Brother!" And looking at the grave, he said, My! The vicar did not hear the words: and now, Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare: [voice; The other thanked him with a fervent 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, [viewed! And, sitting down beneath the trees, reAll that the priest had said: his early years Were with him in his heart: his cherished hopes, 'before, And thoughts which had been his an hour All pressed on him with such a weight, [seemed This vale, where he had been so happy, 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

that now,

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.

been.

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

Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged

now

sword:

He died, whom Artegal succeeds-his son;
But how unworthy of such sire was he!
A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun,
Was darkened soon by foul iniquity.
From crime to crime he mounted, till at
length

The nobles leagued their strength With a vexed people, and the tyrant chased; And, on the vacant throne, his worthier brother placed.

. From realm to realm the humbled exile went,

Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain;
In many a court, and many a warrior's tent,
He urged his persevering suit in vain.
Him, in whose wretched heart ambition
failed,

Dire poverty assailed; And, tired with slights which he no more could brook, [look. Towards his native soil he cast a longing

sped;

He landed; and, by many dangers scared, "Poorly provided, poorly followed," To Calaterium's forest he repaired. How changed from him who, born to highest place,

Had swayed the royal mace, Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's side!