They loved this good old Man?
But that was what we almost overlook'd, They were such darlings of each other. Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to both by reason of his age,
With a more fond, familiar tenderness;
They notwithstanding had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,
To hear, to meet them! From their house the school Is distant three short miles, and in the time
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remain'd At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him, On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I've seen him, mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone, Upon the hither side: and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety,-
It may be, then, Priest. Never did worthier lads break English bread: The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep those boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath-breach. Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks, and every hollow place That venturous foot could reach, to one or both Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; They play'd like two young ravens on the crags: Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as well As many of their betters; and, for Leonard, The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand
A Bible, and I'd wager house and field
That, if he be alive, he has it yet.
Leon. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other,
Live to such end, is what both old and young
In this our valley all of us have wish'd,'
And what, for my part, I have often pray'd: But Leonard -
Leon. Then James still is left among you? Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle; - he was at that time A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas: And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud: For the boy loved the life which we lead here; And, though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil. But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
To strive with such a torrent; when he died, Th' estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years; Well, all was gone, and they were destitute, And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the Great Gavel," down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a joyous festival;
And those two bells of ours, which there you see Hanging in the open air,-but, O good Sir! This is sad talk,—they'll never sound for him Living or dead. When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary coast. "Twas not a little. That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the Youth
Was sadly cross'd.-Poor Leonard! when we parted,
5 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of
a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.
6 The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.
He took me by the hand, and said to me, If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, To live in peace upon his father's land,
And lay his bones among us.
Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then that should meet him, any
Leon. You said his kindred all were in their graves,
And that he had one Brother,
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
And Leonard being always by his side
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 check'd; and, when his Brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
The little colour that he had was soon
Stol'n from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined,- Leon. But these are all the graves of full-grown men! Priest. Ay, Sir, that pass'd 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.
One sweet May-morning, (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns,) He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd 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, lagg'd 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 call'd THE PILLAR. Upon its aëry summit crown'd with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was fear'd; till one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learn'd That nobody had seen him all that day: The morning came, and still he was unheard of: The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the brook Some hasten'd; 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! Leon. And that, then, is his grave! - Before his death You say that he saw many happy years? Priest. Ay, that he did. Leon.
And all went well with him? Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. Leon. 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 turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talk'd about him with a cheerful love.
Leon. He could not come to an unhallow'd end! Priest. Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mention'd 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 fall'n asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice
Had walk'd, and from the summit had fall'n headlong: And so no doubt he perish'd. 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 midway; and there for years
7 The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd nad fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called The Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left midway on the rock. The Author's Notes.
It hung; and mouldered there.
The Priest here ended. The Stranger would have thank'd 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 reach'd the church-yard gate, As the l'riest lifted up the latch, turn'd 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 thank'd 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 reach'd a grove That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him: his long absence, cherish'd hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All press'd on him with such a weight, that now This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquish'd all his purposes.
He travell'd back to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, Reminding him of what had pass'd 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.
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR.
The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed lays, on which, at different houses, they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.
I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk;8
And he was seated, by the highway side, Ou a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
8 Observed, and with great bencfit to my own heart, when I was a child. The political economists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving also. This heartless
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