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
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; And wanted neither food, nor 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 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 He sought his brother Leonard.-You are moved! Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.
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-dropped lambs, 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 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 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: The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook Some hastened; some ran to 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 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 conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
On the soft heath,-and, waiting for his comrades,
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: And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, 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 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, As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,— 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, 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, 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: 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; 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.
F from the public way you turn your steps
You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains 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 (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone.
Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes,
When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 'The winds are now devising work for me!' And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; hills, which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain;
Those fields, those hills-what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.
His days had not been passed in singleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old— Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; That small, for flax; and, if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old,-in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son,
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