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 approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, He to the solitary churchyard turned; 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 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 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 Through fields which once bad been well known to him: And oh what joy this recollection now Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, And everlasting hills themselves were changed. By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. 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, 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-arched the gate Of this rude churchyard, 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 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 remembered? Scarce a funeral Comes to mis churchyard 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 passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields 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, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same — 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, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still. For accidents aud changes such as these, We want not store of them; — a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you,
