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

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 then
Priest. 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

281

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 any that should meet him—

As

Priest.

Happy! SirLeonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves,

And that he had one Brother -
Priest.

329

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 !

340

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.

Of occupation led from height to height 360
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

371

On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was feared; till 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:

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:

400

And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth

Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we

think,

His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock

It had been caught mid-way; and there for

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 churchyard gate,

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,

410

And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"

The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating

That Leonard would partake his homely fare:

The other thanked him with an earnest voice;

But added, that, the evening being calm,

Written at Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as "The Brothers." The Sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north.

IF from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,

You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold as

cent

The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.

And to that simple object appertains

20

A story-unenriched with strange events,
Yet 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
For passions that were not my own, and

think

30