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And then, for our immortal part ! we want


Orphans Such they were No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : Yet not while Walter lived :-for, though their The thought of death sits easy on the man

parents Who has been born and dies among the mountains. Lay buried side by side as now they lie, Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's The old man was a father to the boys, thoughts

Two fathers in one father : and if tears, Possess a kind of second life: no doubt

Shed when he talked of them where they were not, You, Sir, could help me to the history

And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Of half these graves ?

Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, Priest,

For eight-score winters past, This old Man, in the day of his old age, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir, heard,

To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Perhaps I might ; and, on a winter-evening, Heaven bless you when you are among your If you were seated at my chimney's nook,

kindred !
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, Ay-you may turn that way—it is a grave
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Which will bear looking at.
Yet all in the broad highway of the world.


These boys—I hope
Now there's a grave-your foot is half upon it,- They loved this good old Man ?-
It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man Priest.

They did-and truly: ! Died broken-hearted.

But that was what we almost overlooked, Leonard.

'Tis a common case. They were such darlings of each other. Yes, We'll take another : who is he that lies

Though from the cradle they had lived with Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? Walter, It touches on that piece of native rock

The only kinsman near them, and though he Left in the church-yard wall.

Inclined to both by reason of his age,

That's Walter Ewbank. With a more fond, familiar, tenderness;
He had as white a head and fresh a cheek They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
As ever were produced by youth and age

And it all went into each other's hearts.
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
Through five long generations had the heart Was two years taller : 'twas a joy to see,
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds

To hear, to meet them !—From their house the of their inheritance, that single cottage

school You see it yonder ! and those few green fields. Is distant three short miles, and in the time They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to Of storm and thaw, when every water-course

And unbridged stream, such as you may have Each struggled, and each yielded as before

noticed A little-yet a little--and old Walter,

Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, They left to him the family heart, and land Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, With other burthens than the crop it bore. Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained Year after year the old man still kept up At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond, Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, And went into his grave before his time. Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred Their two books lying both on a dry stone, him

Upon the hither side : and once I said, God only knows, but to the very last

As I remember, looking round these rocks He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale :

And hills on which we all of us were born, His pace was never that of an old man :

That God who made the great book of the world I almost see him tripping down the path

Would bless such pietyWith his two grandsons after him :- but you, Leonard.

It may be thenUnless our Landlord be your host to-night, Priest. Never did worthier lads break English Have far to travel,--and on these rough paths

bread; Even in the longest day of midsummer-- The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw Leonard. But those two Orphans !

With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,


Could never keep those boys away from church, And those two bells of ours, which there you see
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir !
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner This is sad talk-they 'll never sound for him--
Among these rocks, and every hollow place Living or dead.—When last we heard of him,
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both He was in slavery among the Moors
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow | Upon the Barbary coast.-—'Twas not a little

That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt,
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; | Before it ended in his death, the Youth
They played like two young ravens on the crags : Was sadly crossed.- Poor Leonard ! when we
Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well parted,
As many of their betters and for Leonard ! He took me by the hand, and said to me,
The very night before he went away,

If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, In my own house I put into his hand

To live in peace upon his father's land, A bible, and I'd wager house and field

And lay his bones among us. That, if he be alive, he has it yet.


If that day Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived Should come,'t would needs be a glad day for him ; to be

He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
A comfort to each other-

As any that should meet him-
That they might

Happy ! Sir, Live to such end is what both old and young Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their In this our valley all of us have wished,

graves, And what, for my part, I have often prayed : And that he had one BrotherBut Leonard


That is but Leonard. Then James still is left among you! | A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth

Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ; They had an uncle;--he was at that time

And Leonard being always by his side A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: Had done so many offices about him, And, but for that same uncle, to this hour That, though he was not of a timid nature, Leonard had never handled rope or shroud: Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy For the boy loved the life which we lead here; In him was somewhat checked; and, when his And though of unripe years, a stripling only,

Brother His soul was knit to this his native soil.

Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, But, as I said, old Walter was too weak

The little colour that he had was soon To strive with such a torrent; when he died, Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and pined, and The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, pinedA pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Leonard. But these are all the graves of fullHad clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years :

grown men! Well-all was gone, and they were destitute, Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we took him And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,

to us ; Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.

He was the child of all the dale-he lived Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. Three months with one, and six months with another; If there were one anong us who had heard And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love : That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, And many, many happy days were his. From the Great Gavel *, down by Leeza's banks, But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief And down the Enna, far as Egremont,

His absent Brother still was at his heart. The day would be a joyous festival ;

And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him)

That often, rising from his bed at night, * The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the

He sought his brother Leonard.—You are moved! several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. Forgive me, Sir : before I spoke to you,

The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Enner. I judged you most unkindly. dale : on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and


But this Youth, is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

How did he die at last?


One sweet May-morning, Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, It had been caught mid way; and there for years With two or three companions, whom their course It hung ;—and mouldered there. Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun—till he, at length,

The Priest here ended Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge

The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt The humour of the moment, lagged behind. A gushing from his heart, that took away You see yon precipice ;-it wears the shape The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; Of a vast building made of many crags ;

And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard And in the midst is one particular rock

gate, That rises like a column from the vale,

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar. And, looking at the grave, he said, “ My Brother !" Upon its aëry summit crowned with heath, The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the place That Leonard would partake his homely fare : On their return, they found that he was gone.

The other thanked him with an earnest voice ; No ill was feared ; till one of them by chance But added, that, the evening being calm, Entering, when evening was far spent, the house He would pursue his journey. So they parted. Which at that time was James's home, there learned That nobody had seen him all that day :

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove The morning came, and still he was unheard of : That overhung the road : he there stopped short, The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed Some hastened ; some ran to the lake : ere noon

All that the Priest had said : his early years They found him at the foot of that same rock

Were with him :-his long absence,cherished hopes, Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after

And thoughts which had been his an hour before, I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies !

All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, Leonard. And that then is his grave!-Before

This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed his death

A place in which he could not bear to live : You say that he saw many happy years ?

So he relinquished all his purposes. Priest. Ay, that he did

He travelled back to Egremont : and thence, Leonard. And all went well with him ?- That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.

Reminding him of what had passed between them; Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, was easy ?

That it was from the weakness of his heart Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that

He had not dared to tell him who he was. time

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless

A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless

fortune, He talked about him with a cheerful love. Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end !

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. Priest. Nay, God forbid !-You recollect I mentioned


MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND) A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured WHERE be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, That, as the day was warm, he had lain down For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised ! On the soft heath,-and, waiting for his comrades, Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed ! He to the margin of the precipice

Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, Had walked, and from the summit had fallen They sank, delivered o'er headlong:

To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween, And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth No vestige then was left that such had ever been.



not roam.

Nathless, a British record (long concealed What wonder, then, if in such ample field
In old Armorica, whose secret springs

Of old tradition, one particular flower
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield,
The marvellous current of forgotten things ; And bloom unnoticed even to this late hour ?
How Brutus came, by oracles impelled,

Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant,
And Albion's giants quelled,

While I this flower transplant
A brood whom no civility could melt,

Into a garden stored with Poesy ; • Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some felt.'

weeds be,

That, wanting not wild grace, are from all mischief By brave Corineus aided, he subdued,

free! And rooted out the intolerable kind; And this too-long-polluted land imbued

A King more worthy of respect and love With goodly arts and usages refined ;

Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day; Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers, And grateful Britain prospered far above

And pleasure's sumptuous bowers ; All neighbouring countries through his righteous Whence all the fixed delights of house and home,

sway; Friendships that will not break, and love that can

He poured rewards and honours on the good ;

The oppressor he withstood ;

And while he served the Gods with reverence due 0, happy Britain ! region all too fair

Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns and For self-delighting fancy to endure

cities grew. That silence only should inhabit there, Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure !

He died, whom Artegal succeeds—his son ;
But, intermingled with the generous seed,

But how unworthy of that sire was he !
Grew many a poisonous weed ;

A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun,
Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth

Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. From human care,or grows upon the breast of earth.

From crime to crime he mounted, till at length Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged

The nobles leagued their strength By Guendolen against her faithless lord ;

With a vexed people, and the tyrant chased ; Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged

And, on the vacant throne, his worthier Brother Had slain his paramour with ruthless sword :

placed. Then, into Severn hideously defiled, She flung her blameless child,

From realm to realm the humbled Exile went, Sabrina,-vowing that the stream should bear Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; That name through every age, her hatred to declare. In many a court, and many a warrior's tent,

He urged his persevering suit in vain. So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear

Him, in whose wretched heart ambition failed, By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift.

Dire poverty assailed ; Ye lightnings, hear his voice !--they cannot hear, And, tired with slights his pride no more could Nor can the winds restore his simple gift.

brook, But One there is, a Child of nature meek, He towards his native country cast a longing look.

Who comes her Sire to seek; And he, recovering sense, upon her breast Fair blew the wished-for wind—the voyage sped ; Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest. He landed ; and, by many dangers scared,

Poorly provided, poorly followed,' There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes, To Calaterium's forest he repaired. And those that Milton loved in youthful years; How changed from him who, born to highest place, The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ;

Had swayed the royal mace,
The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers ; Flattered and feared, despised yet deified,
Of Arthur,—who, to upper light restored, In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's side!

With that terrific sword
Which yet he brandishes for future war,

From that wild region where the crownless King Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star! Lay in concealment with his scanty train,

Supporting life by water from the spring,

“I do not blame thee,” Elidure replied;
And such chance food as outlaws can obtain, “ But, if my looks did with my words agree,
Unto the few whom he esteems his friends I should at once be trusted, not defied,
A messenger he sends ;

And thou from all disquietude be free.
And from their secret loyalty requires

May the unsullied Goddess of the chase, Shelter and daily bread,—the sum of his desires. Who to this blessed place

At this blest moment led me, if I speak While he the issue waits, at early morn

With insincere intent, on me her vengeance wreak! Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to hear A startling outery made by hound and horn,

Were this same spear, which in my hand I grasp, From which the tusky wild boar flies in fear ;

The British sceptre, here would I to thee And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy plain,

The symbol yield; and would undo this clasp, Behold the hunter train !

If it confined the robe of sovereignty. He bids his little company advance

Odious to me the pomp of regal court, With seeming unconcern and steady countenance.

And joyless sylvan sport,

While thou art roving, wretched and forlorn, The royal Elidure, who leads the chase,

Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the forest Hath checked his foaming courser :-can it be!

thorn!" Methinks that I should recognise that face,

Then Artegal thus spake : “I only sought, Though much disguised by long adversity!

Within this realm a place of safe retreat ; He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed,

Beware of rousing an ambitious thought; Confounded and amazed “ It is the king, my brother!” and, by sound

Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet! Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon the

Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind

Art pitiably blind :
Full soon this generous purpose thou may’st rue,

When that which has been done no wishes can undo.
Long, strict, and tender was the embrace he gave,
Feebly returned by daunted Artegal;

Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head, Whose natural affection doubts enslave,

Would balance claim with claim, and right with And apprehensions dark and criminal.

right? Loth to restrain the moving interview,

But thou-I know not how inspired, how ledThe attendant lords withdrew;

Wouldst change the course of things in all men's And, while they stood upon the plain apart, Thus Elidure, by words, relieved his struggling and this for one who cannot imitate

sight! heart.

Thy virtue, who may hate :

For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored, “ By heavenly Powers conducted, we have met;

He reign, thou still must be his king, and sovereign -0 Brother! to my knowledge lost so long,

lord; But neither lost to love, nor to regret, Nor to my wishes lost ;-forgive the wrong, Lifted in magnanimity above (Such it may seem) if I thy crown have borne,

Aught that my feeble nature could perform, Thy royal mantle worn :

Or even conceive; surpassing me in love I was their natural guardian; and 'tis just

Far as in power the eagle doth the worm: That now I should restore what hath been held in I, Brother! only should be king in name, trust."

And govern to my shame;

A shadow in a hated land, while all
A while the astonished Artegal stood mute, Of glad or willing service to thy share would fall.”
Then thus exclaimed: “ To me, of titles shorn,
And stripped of power! me, feeble, destitute, “ Believe it not,” said Elidure; “respect
To me a kingdom ! spare the bitter scorn: Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most
If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, Attends on goodness with dominion decked,
Then, on the wide-spread wings

Which stands the universal empire's boast;
Of war, had I returned to claim my right; This can thy own experience testify :
This will I here avow, not dreading thy despite.”

Nor shall thy foes deny

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