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Is neither epitaph nor monument,

• Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread,
And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening, and he sate

Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage, as it chanced that day,
Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife sat near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glit-
tering wire,

He fed the spindle of his youngest child,

Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open" air

With back and forward steps. Towards the field

In which the parish chapel stood alone,

Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had

sent

Many a long look of wonder, and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snowy ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled,
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path
Which from his cottage to the church-yard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost

The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'Twas one well known 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

Thro' 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 water-falls, 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 side, 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,

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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 a
Which to an only brother he bas 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 Church-yard he had turn'd aside,
That, as he knew in what particular spot
His family were laid, he thence might leam
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

This description of the Calenture is stretched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, Author of the Hurricane.

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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,
Thro' 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 church-yard 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 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 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 interchanged, 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 church-yard 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

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