Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country gray
Which he himself had worn. *
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is return'd,
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: 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 church-yard he had turn'd aside;
*This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of The Hurricane.
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
near which a full half-hour
He had remain'd; but, as he gazed, there grew
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 everlasting hills themselves were changed.
By this the Priest, who down the field had come Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard 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 cheek, 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 church-yard, till the stars appear'd,
The good Man might have communed with 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 church-yard once in eighteen months;
And yet, some changes must take place among 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..
(For many years ago I pass'd this road)
There was a foot-way 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 aught I know,
That chasm is much the same
Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
That does not play you false.-On that tall pike
(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: the huge crag
Was rent with lightning-one hath disappear'd;
The other, left behind, is flowing still.*.
For accidents and changes such as these,
We want not store of them ;- a water-spout
Will bring down half a mountain; 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 fire-side
* This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of Hawes-water.
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