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      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 chanc’d

       Some further business summon’d to a house

       Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir’d 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, pointing to its summit, over which

       They all had purpos’d to return together,

       Inform’d 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

       At the appointed place, a circumstance

       Of which they took no heed: but one of them,

       Going by chance, at night, into the house

       Which at this 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 Lad, and there he lies.

      LEONARD.

      And that then is his grave! — Before his death

       You said that he saw many happy years?

      PRIEST.

      Aye, that he did —

      LEONARD.

      And all went well with him —

      PRIEST.

      If he had one, the Lad had twenty homes.

      LEONARD.

      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 chearful love.

      LEONARD.

      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 conjectur’d

       That, as the day was warm, he had lain down

       Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades

       He there had fallen asleep, that in his sleep

       He to the margin of the precipice

       Had walk’d, and from the summit had fallen headlong,

       And so no doubt he perish’d: at the time,

       We guess, that in his hands he must have had

       His Shepherd’s staff; for midway in the cliff

       It had been caught, and there for many years

       It hung — and moulder’d there.

      The Priest here ended —

       The Stranger would have thank’d him, but he felt

       Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence,

       And Leonard, when they reach’d the churchyard gate,

       As the Priest 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,

       Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated

       That Leonard would partake his homely fare:

       The other thank’d him with a fervent 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 in his heart: his 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 on to Egremont; and thence,

       That night, address’d 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.

ELLEN IRWIN.

       Table of Contents

      Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.

      Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

       Upon the Braes of Kirtle,

       Was lovely as a Grecian Maid

       Adorn’d with wreaths of myrtle.

       Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,

       And there did they beguile the day

       With love and gentle speeches,

       Beneath the budding beeches.

      From many Knights and many Squires

       The Brace had been selected,

       And Gordon, fairest of them all,

       By Ellen was rejected.

       Sad tidings to that noble Youth!

       For it may be proclaim’d with truth,

       If Bruce hath lov’d sincerely,

       The Gordon loves as dearly.

      But what is Gordon’s beauteous face?

       And what are Gordon’s crosses

       To them who sit by Kirtle’s Braes

       Upon the verdant mosses?

       Alas that ever he was born!

       The Gordon, couch’d behind a thorn,

       Sees them and their caressing,

       Beholds them bless’d

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