Many a long look of wonder; and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled, He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path Which from his cottage to the churchyard led, He took his way, impatient to accost
The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
'Twas one well known to him in former days, A shepherd-lad ; — who ere his sixteenth year, Had left that calling, tempted to intrust His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters, with the mariners A fellow-mariner, and so had fared
Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees :—and when the regular wind Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless main, he in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn.*
*This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of 'The Hurricane.'
From perils manifold, with some small wealth, Acquired by traffic in the Indian isles, To his parental home he is return'd, With a determined purpose to resume
The life which he lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother shepherds on their native hills.
They were the last of all their race and now, When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart Fail'd in him; and, not venturing to inquire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, Towards the churchyard he had turn'd aside, — That as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added. He had found Another grave, -near which a full half-hour He had remain'd: but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory,
That he began to doubt; and he had hopes That he had seen this heap of turf before,- That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd
Through fields which once had been well known to him: And oh ! what joy, the recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, And the eternal hills themselves were changed.
By this the Priest, who down the field had come Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate Stopp'd short,— and thence, at leisure, limb by limb, Perused him with a gay complacency.
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone : His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheeks, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun
Write fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate
Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appear'd, The good man might have communed within himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approach'd; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar, as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
You live sir, in these dales, a quiet life : Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remember'd? Scarce a funeral Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months; And yet some changes must take place among you : And you who dwell here, even among these rocks Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years and ten, We are not all that perish. I remember,
For many years ago I pass'd this road,
There was a footway all along the fields
By the brook-side-'tis gone and that dark cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Nay, sir, for ought I know,
That chasm is much the same
Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false.
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: ten years back, Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag Was rent with lightning, - one is dead and gone, The other, left behind, is flowing still.x For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them! a waterspout Will bring down half a monntain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract : a sharp May storm, Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge- A wood is fell'd: - and then for our own homes ! A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd, A daughter sent to service, a web spun,
The old house clock is deck'd with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here
A pair of diaries, - one serving, sir,
For the whole dale, and one for each fireside - Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to those valleys !
* This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of Hawes Water.
Was happy that she lived to greet Her mute companion as it lay In love and pity at her feet; How happy in her turn to meet That recognition! the mild glance Beam'd from that gracious countenance; Communication, like the ray
Of a new morning, to the nature And prospects of the inferior creature!
A mortal song we frame, by dower Encouraged of celestial power; Power which the viewless spirit shed By whom we were first visited;
Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings
Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, When, left in solitude, erewhile
We stood before this ruin'd pile,
And quitting unsubstantial dreams,
Sang in this presence kindred themes;
Distress and desolation spread
Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,— Dead- but to live again on earth,
A second and yet nobler birth; Dire overthrow, and yet how high The re-ascent in sanctity! From fair to fairer ; day by day A more divine and loftier way! Even such this blessed pilgrim trod, By sorrow lifted tow'rds her God; Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturb'd mortality.
Her own thoughts loved she, and could bend
A dear look to her lowly friend;
There stopp'd; her thirst was satisfied
With what this innocent spring supplied —
Her sanction inwardly she bore,
And stood apart from human cares : But to the world return'd no more,
Although with no unwilling mind
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