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By the brook-side-'tis gone--and that dark
cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face which
then it had.
Why, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same
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
As if they had been made that they might be
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
rians Commend me to these vallies.
Yet your church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past. Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of
brass, Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state, Or emblem of our hopes; the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture field.
PRIEST. Why there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me: The Stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their
bread If every English church-yard were like ours: Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth. We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. And then for our immortal part, we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the moun
LEONARD. Your dalesmen, then, do in each others thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these Graves ?
PRIEST. 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 high-way 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 !
'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 church-yard wall.
That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produc'd by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. For five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed 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
the old man still preserv'd A chearful mind, and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
LEONARD. But these two Orphans!
Orphans ! such they were Yet not while Walter liv'd--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,