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to him in former days,

       A Shepherd-lad: who ere his thirteenth year

       Had chang’d his calling, 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 aide, 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 graz’d

       On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,

       And Shepherds clad in the same country grey

       Which he himself had worn.

      And now at length,

       From perils manifold, with some small wealth

       Acquir’d by traffic in the Indian Isles,

       To his paternal home he is return’d,

       With a determin’d purpose to resume

       The life which he liv’d 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 lov’d,

       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 liv’d, 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 gaz’d, 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 he came that afternoon,

       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 he thought that he perceiv’d

       Strange alteration wrought on every side

       Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,

       And the eternal hills, themselves were chang’d.

      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

       He scann’d him with a gay complacency.

       Aye, 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 check, or solitary smiles

       Into his face, until the setting sun

       Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus

       Beneath a shed that overarch’d the gate

       Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appear’d

       The good man might have commun’d with himself

       But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,

       Approach’d; he recogniz’d the Priest at once,

       And after greetings interchang’d, and given

       By Leonard to the Vicar as to one

       Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

      LEONARD.

      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 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

       Which then it had.

      PRIEST.

      Why, Sir, for aught I know,

       That chasm is much the same —

      LEONARD.

      But, surely, yonder —

      PRIEST.

      Aye, 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: 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. —

       For accidents and changes such as these,

       Why we have store of them! a water-spout

       Will bring

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