_Priest_. Happy! Sir--

_Leonard_. You said his kindred all were in their graves, 345 And that he had one Brother--

_Priest_. That is but A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side 350 Had done so many offices about him, That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 355 The little colour that he had was soon Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined--

_Leonard_. But these are all the graves of full-grown men!

_Priest_. Ay, Sir, that pa.s.sed away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale--he lived 360 Three months with one, and six months with another; And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: And many, many happy days were his.

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent Brother still was at his heart. 365 And, when he dwelt [44] beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard.--You are moved! 370 Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly.

_Leonard_. But this Youth, How did he die at last?

_Priest_. One sweet May-morning, 375 (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun--till he, at length, 380 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagged behind. [45]

You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; [46]

And in the midst is one particular rock 385 That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.

Upon its aery summit crowned with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretched at ease; but, pa.s.sing by the place 390 On their return, they found that he was gone.

No ill was feared; till one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learned [47]

That n.o.body had seen him all that day: [H] 395 The morning came, and still he was unheard of: The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook Some hastened; some ran to the lake: [48] ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 400 I buried him, poor Youth, [49] and there he lies!

_Leonard_. And that then _is_ his grave!--Before his death You say [50] that he saw many happy years?

_Priest_. Ay, that he did--

_Leonard_. And all went well with him?--405

_Priest_. If he had one, the Youth [51] 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 turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, 410 He talked about him with a cheerful love.

_Leonard_. He could not come to an unhallowed end!

_Priest_. Nay, G.o.d forbid!--You recollect I mentioned A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured 415 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down On the soft heath, [52] and, waiting for his comrades, He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong: 420 And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, [53]

His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock It had been caught mid way; and there for years [54]

It hung;--and mouldered there. 425

The Priest here ended-- The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; [55]

And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 430 As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,-- And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"

The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating [56]

That Leonard would partake his homely fare: 435 The other thanked him with an earnest [57] voice; But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove That overhung the road: he there stopped short, 440 And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him:--his long absence, cherished hopes, [58]

And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 445 This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquished all his purposes.

He travelled back [59] to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, [60] 450 Reminding him of what had pa.s.sed 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 455 A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

... their ... 1800.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

Upon the forehead of a jutting crag Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee, And look and scribble, ... 1800.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

... youngest child, Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air With back and forward steps.... 1800.]

[Variant 4:

1827.

Which ... 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1815.

... who ere his thirteenth year Had chang'd his calling, with the mariners 1800.]

[Variant 6:

1840.

... green ... 1800.]

[Variant 7: