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Sad doom, at sorrow's shrine to kneel
For ever covetous to feel
And impotent to bear:
Such once was hers-to think and think
On severed love, and only sink
From anguish to despair!

But nature to its inmost part
Had faith refined, and to her heart
A peaceful cradle given ;
Calm as the dew-drop, free to rest
Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast
Till it exhales to heaven.

Was ever spirit that could bend
So graciously?—that could descend,
Another's need to suit,
So promptly from her lofty throne !
In works of love, in these alone,
How restless, how minute !

Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek
Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak
When aught had suffered wrong,
When aught that breathes had felt a wound;
Such look the oppressor might confound,
However proud and strong.

But hushed be every thought that springs
From out the bitterness of things;
Her quiet is secure;
No thorns can pierce her tender feet,
Whose life was like the violet sweet,
As climbing jasmine pure;

As snowdrop on an infant's

Or lily heaving with the wave
That feeds it and defends;

vesper, ere the star hath kissed The mountain top, or breathed the mist That from the vale ascends.

Thou takest not away,

O death! Thou strik'st-and absence perisheth, Indifference is no more; The future brightens on our sight; For on the past hath fallen a light That tempts us to adore.


THESE tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live

A profitable life : some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted; some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping son of idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?-In our churchyard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves. To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely priest of Ennerdale.

1 It was a

July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage,-as it anced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who turned her large round wheel in the open air With back and forward steps. Towards the field In which the parish chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,

While half an hour went by, the priest had sent
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 locked ; and, down the path
That 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 reared
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 filled 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
Flashed 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,
Taw mountains, --saw the forms of sheep that grazed

ordant hills-with dwellings among trees,

and now,

And shepherds clad in the same country-gray
Which he himself had worn. And now, at last,
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is returned,
With a determined purpose to resume
The life he had 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 happy 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:
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
Failed in him; and, not venturing to inquire
Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,
Towards the churchyard he had turned 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 remained; 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 afternocn, he walked
Through fields which once had been well known to him:
And, oh, what joy the recollection now
Sent to his heart! He lifted


And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks

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