THE BROTHERS [A]

Composed 1800. [B]--Published 1800

[This poem was composed in a grove at the north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by turning the high road along the side of the water. The few trees that are left were spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called the Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left midway on the rock.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were b.u.t.terflies to wheel about Long as the [1] summer lasted: some, as wise, 5 Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, [2]

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 10 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry _yonder_?--In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name--only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." 15

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, 20 Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who, in the open air, with due accord 25 Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, Her large round wheel was turning. [3] 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 30 Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked; and, down the path 35 That [4] 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 sixteenth year 40 Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters; with the mariners [5]

A fellow-mariner;--and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared 45 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 50 Between the tropics filled 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 55 Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad blue [6] wave and sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish pa.s.sion overcome, 60 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills--with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey 65 Which he himself had worn. [C]

And now, at last, [7]

From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid [8] the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, 70 With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; [9] 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 75 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 approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire 80 Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, [10]

He to the solitary church-yard turned; [11]

That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his Brother lived, or to the file 85 Another grave was added.--He had found Another grave,--near which a full half-hour He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and even to hope [12] 90 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, that afternoon, he walked [13]

Through fields which once had been well known to him: 95 And oh what joy this [14] recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw [15]

Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, 100 And everlasting hills [16] themselves were changed.

By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short,--and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him [17] with a gay complacency. 105 Ay, 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, 110 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, [18] or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead.--Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 120 Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given 120 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 125 And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? 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, 130 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 pa.s.sed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields 135 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_. Nay, Sir, [19] for aught I know, That chasm is much the same--140

_Leonard_. But, surely, yonder--

_Priest_. Ay, 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, [D] 145 As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning--one hath disappeared; [20]

The other, left behind, is flowing still, For accidents and changes such as these, 150 We want not store of them; [21]--a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm 155 Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; 160 A wood is felled:--and then for our own homes!

A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 165 To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries,--one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side-- Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys! 170

_Leonard_. Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of bra.s.s, 175 Cross-bones nor skull,--type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: [22] 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 180 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 185 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 mountains. [E]

_Leonard_. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt 190 You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves?

_Priest_. For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, [23] 195 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,--200 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? 205 It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall.

_Priest_. That's Walter Ewbank. [F]

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age 210 Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.

Through five [24] 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. 215 They toiled 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. 220 Year after year the old man still kept up [25]

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 spurred him 225 G.o.d 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, 230 Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel,--and on [26] these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer--

_Leonard_. But those [27] two Orphans!

_Priest_. Orphans!--Such they were--235 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 talked of them where they were not, 240 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, 245 Heaven bless you when you 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?--250

_Priest_. They did--and truly: But that was what we almost overlooked, They were such darlings of each other. Yes, Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he 255 Inclined to both by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar, tenderness; They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, [28]

And it all went into each other's hearts.

Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 260 Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!--From their house the school Is [29] distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 265 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, [30]

Bearing his brother on his back. I have [31] seen him, 270 On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I have [31] 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 275 And hills on which we all of us were born, That G.o.d 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; 280 The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw [32]

With all its mealy cl.u.s.ters of ripe nuts, Could never keep those [33] boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.

Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner 285 Among these rocks, and every hollow place That venturous foot could reach, to one or both [34]

Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.

Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; They played like two young ravens on the crags: 290 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 house and field 295 That, if he be alive, he has it yet. [35]

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

_Priest_. That they might Live to such end [36] is what both old and young 300 In this our valley all of us have wished, And what, for my part, I have often prayed: But Leonard--

_Leonard_. Then James still is left among you!

_Priest_. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: 305 They had an uncle;--he was at that time A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: And, but for that [37] same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud: For the boy loved the life which we lead here; 310 And though of unripe years, a stripling only, [38]

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, 315 A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:-- Well--all was gone, and they were dest.i.tute, And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 320 Twelve years are past [39] since we had tidings from him.

If there were [40] one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the Great Gavel, [G] down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont. 325 The day would be a joyous festival; [41]

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, 330 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 [42]

Was sadly crossed.--Poor Leonard! when we parted, 335 He took me by the hand, and said to me, If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, To live in peace upon his father's land, And lay his bones among us. [43]

_Leonard_. If that day 340 Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him--