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,                 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 passed away: we took him to us;                 He was the child of all the dale — he lived                 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.                 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,                 He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping                 He sought his brother Leonard. - You are moved!                 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,                 (It will be twelve years since when Springs 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,                 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge                 The humour of the moment, lagged behind.                 You see yon precipice; — it wears the shape                 Of a vast building made of many crags;                 And in the midst is one particular rock                 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, passing by the place                 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                 That nobody had seen him all that day:                 The morning came, and still he was unheard of:                 The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook                 Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon                 They found him at the foot of that same rock                 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after                 I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies!                                   Leonard.                 And that then is his grave! — Before his death                 You say that he saw many happy years?                                   Priest.                 Ay, that he did —                                   Leonard.                 And all went well with him? —                                   Priest.                 If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes.                                   Leonard.
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