Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, sir, could help me to the history
Of half these graves?

PRIEST.

For eight-score winters past, With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and, on a winter's evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world. Now there's a grave-your foot is half upon it,— It looks just like the rest; and yet that man Died broken-hearted.

LEONARD.

"Tis a common case.

We'll take another: who is he that lies

Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?
It touches on that piece of native rock
Left in the churchyard wall.

PRIEST.

That's Walter Ewbank.

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
As ever were produced by youth and age
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
Through five long generations had the heart
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds
Of their inheritance, that single cottage-
You see it yonder; and those few green fields.
They toil'd and wrought, and still from sire to son,
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little yet a little-and old Walter,
They left to him the family heart and land
With other burthens than the crop it bore.
Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
And went into his grave before his time.
Poor Walter whether it was care that spurr'd him,
God only knows, but to the very last
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
His pace was never that of an old man :
I almost see him tripping down the path

With his two grandsons after him :-but you,
Unless our landlord be your host to-night,
Have far to travel,-and on these rough paths
Even in the longest day of midsummer-

But those two orphans

LEONARD.

PRIEST.

Orphans !-Such they were

Yet not while Walter lived :-for, though their parents

Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
The old man was a father to the boys,

Two fathers in one father: and if tears,

Shed when he talk'd of them where they were not,
And hauntings from the infirmity of love,

Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
This old man, in the day of his old age,

Was half a mother to them.-If you weep, sir,

To hear a stranger talking about strangers,

Heaven bless you when your are among your kindred! Ay-You may turn that way-it is a grave

Which will bear looking at.

LEONARD.

These boys-I hope

They loved this good old man?—

PRIEST.

They did-and truly:

But that was what we almost overlook'd,

They were such darlings of each other. For

Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he

Inclined to them 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 Was distant three short miles-and in the time

Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse

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 perhaps
Remain'd at home, go staggering through the 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 all of us were born,

That God who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety-

LEONARD.

It may be then-
PRIEST.

Never did worthier lads break English bread;

The finest Sunday that the autumn saw,
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep these 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
Where foot could come, to one or both of them
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
Like roebucks 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 twenty pounds,
That, if he is alive, he has it yet.

LEONARD.

It seems, these brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other.-

PRIEST.

That they might

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-

LEONARD.

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,
The 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.

"Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him.
If there was one among us who had heard

That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,

From the Great Gavel,* down by Leeza's banks,

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. 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.

And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
The day would be a very 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,
He took me by the hand and said to me,
If ever the day came when he was rich,
He would return, and on his father's land
He would grow old among us.

LEONARD.

If that day

Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then

As any that should meet him

PRIEST.

Happy! Sir

LEONARD.

You said his kindred all were in their graves,

And that he had one brother

PRIEST.

That is but

A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth
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

Stolen from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined—

LEONARD.

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, or 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 lived 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.

LEONARD.

But this youth,

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-dropp'd lambs,
With two or three companions, whom it chanced
Some further business summon'd to a house
Which stands at the dale-head. James, tired perhaps,
Or from some other cause, remain'd behind.
You see yon precipice; it almost looks

Like some 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.
James pointed to its summit, over which
They all had purposed to return together,

And told them that he there would wait for them;
They parted, and his comrades pass'd that way
Some two hours after, but they did not find him
Upon the summit-at the appointed place.
Of this they took no heed: but one of them,
Going by chance, at night, into 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 went, and some towards 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 said that he saw many happy years?

Ay, that he did

PRIEST.

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?—

E