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,

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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

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A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
On the soft heath,-and, waiting for his com-

rades,

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:

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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 endedThe Stranger would have thanked him, but he

felt

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A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;

And Leonard, when they reached the church

yard gate,

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As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Bro

ther!"

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, 416 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,

419

And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said: his early years Were, with him :-his long absence, 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: 426 So he relinquished all his purposes.

He travelled back to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, Reminding him of what had passed between them;

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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.

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1800.

II.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

(SEE THE CHRONICLE OF
CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF
MONMOUTH, AND MILTON'S HISTORY
OF ENGLAND.)

WHERE be the temples which in Britain's Isle,
For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised?
Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile
Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed!
Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, 5
They sank, delivered o'er

To fatal dissolution; and, I ween,

No vestige then was left that such had ever been.

Nathless, a British record (long concealed
In old Armorica, whose secret springs,
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed
The marvellous current of forgotten things;
How Brutus came, by oracles impelled,

And Albion's giants quelled,

ΙΟ

15

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 towers,
And pleasure's sumptuous bowers ;

20

Whence all the fixed delights of house and

home,

Friendships that will not break, and love that

cannot roam.

O, happy Britain! region all too fair
For self-delighting fancy to endure
That silence only should inhabit there,
Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure!
But, intermingled with the generous seed,
Grew many a poisonous weed;

25

30

Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth From human care, or grows upon the breast of earth.

Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged

By Guendolen against her faithless lord;
Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged,

Had slain his paramour with ruthless sword:
Then, into Severn hideously defiled,

She flung her blameless child,

35

Sabrina,―vowing that the stream should bear That name through every age, her hatred to declare.

40

So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear
By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift.
Ye lightnings, hear his voice!-they cannot

hear,

45

Nor can the winds restore his simple gift.
But One there is, a Child of nature meek,
Who comes her Sire to seek ;
And he, recovering sense, upon her breast
Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest.

There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes,

And those that Milton loved in youthful years; The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes; The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers; 52 Of Arthur,—who, to upper light restored, With that terrific sword

55

Which yet he brandishes for future war,
Shall lift his country's fame above the polar

star!

What wonder, then, if in such ample field
Of old tradition, one particular flower
Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield,
And bloom unnoticed even to this late hour?
Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant,
While I this flower transplant

Into a garden stored with Poesy;

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Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some weeds be,

That, wanting not wild grace, are from all

mischief free!

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A KING more worthy of respect and love Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day; And grateful Britain prospered far above All neighbouring countries through his righteous sway;

He poured rewards and honours on the good; The oppressor he withstood;

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And while he served the Gods with reverence

due, Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns and cities grew.

He died, whom Artegal succeeds-his son;
But how unworthy of that sire was he!
A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun,
Was darkened soon by foul iniquity.

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