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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.-'Twas not a little
That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,
Before it ended in his death, the youth

Was sadly cross'd-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.

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 delicato :
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 check'd; 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 droop'd, and pined, and pined

LEONARD.

But these are all the graves of full-grown men !

PRIEST.

Ay, sir, that pass'd 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, or 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 lived 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.

LEONARD.

But this youth,

How did he die at last?

PRIEST.

One sweet May morning

(It will be twelve years since when spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs,
With two or three companions, whom it chanced
Some further business summon'd to a house
Which stands at the dale-head. James, tired perhaps,
Or from some other cause, remain'd behind.
You see yon precipice; it almost looks

Like some 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 call'd THE PILLAR.
James pointed to its summit, over which
They all had purposed to return together,

And told them that he there would wait for them;
They parted, and his comrades pass'd that way
Some two hours after, but they did not find him
Upon the summit-at the appointed place.
Of this they took no heed: but one of them,
Going by chance, at night, into the house

Which at that time was James's home, there learn'd
That nobody had seen him all that day:
The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the brook
Some went, and 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!

LEONARD.

And that then is his grave? Before his death
You said that he saw many happy years?

Ay, that he did—

PRIEST.

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 ?

E

PRIEST.

Yes, long before he died he found that time

Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless

His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talk'd about him with a cheerful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallow'd end!

PRIEST.

Nay, God forbid !-You recollect I mention'd
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 walk'd, and from the summit had fallen headlong ;
And so no doubt he perish'd: at the time,

We guess, that in his hands he must have had
His shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff
It had been caught; and there for many years
It hung-and moulder'd there.

The Priest here ended-
The stranger would have thank'd 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 reach'd the churchyard gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd 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 thank'd 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 reach'd a grove
That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd
All that the Priest had said: his early years
Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All press'd on him with such a weight, that now
This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd
A place in which he could not bear to live:
So he relinquish'd all his purposes.

He travell'd on to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,

Reminding him of what had pass'd 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 grey-headed mariner.

THE SPARROW'S NEST.

BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discover'd sight
Gleam'd like a vision of delight.-
I started-seeming to espy
The home and shelter'd bed,-

The sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My father's house, in wet or dry,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.

She look'd at it as if she fear'd it;
Still wishing, dreading to be near it :
Such heart was in her, being then
A little prattler among men.
The blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

I'VE watch'd you now a full half-hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly, indeed,

I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless; and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours;

My trees they are, my sister's flowers;

Here rest your wings when they are weary;

Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song;

And summer days when we were young:
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

A FAREWELL.*

FAREWELL, thou little nook of mountain ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair

Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found.
Farewell!-we leave thee to Heav'n's peaceful care,
Thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchor'd by the shore,
And safely she will ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that decorate our door
Will prosper, though untended and alone :
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none;
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes and sun doth shine upon,
Here are they in our sight-we have no more.
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought;
We leave you here in solitude to dwell

With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky well.
We go for one to whom ye will be dear;
And she will prize this bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, building without peer!
-A gentle maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
She'll come to you,-to you herself will wed, -
And love the blessed life which we lead here.

Dear spot! which we have watch'd with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness register'd and known;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle place,
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily in thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And say'st when we forsake thee, "Let them
Thou easy-hearted thing, with thy wild race

• Composed in the year 1802.

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