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, He talked about him with a cheerful love. Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end! Priest. Nay, God forbid! — You recollect I mentioned A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down On the soft heath, — 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: And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth, Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think, His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock It had been caught mid-way; and there for years It hung; — and mouldered there. 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; And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate, 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 That Leonard would partake his homely fare: The other thanked him with an earnest 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 And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him: — his long absence, cherished hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 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 to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, Reminding him of what had passed 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 A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.
'Туристам этим, Господи прости, Должно быть, хорошо живется: бродят Без дела день-деньской — и горя мало, Как будто и земли под ними нет, А только воздух, и они порхают, Как мотыльки, все лето. На скале С карандашом и книжкой на коленях Усядутся и что-то строчат, строчат. За это время можно было б смело Пройти миль десять или у соседа На поле выжать целый добрый акр. А этот вот ленивец, что он ищет? Чего ему еще там нужно? Право, У нас на кладбище нет монументов, Нет надписей надгробных, — только дерн Да бедные могилы'. Так заметил Своей жене священник в Эннерделе. Был летний вечер, у крыльца спокойно На каменной приступке он сидел И занят был работой мирной. Тут же Сидела и его жена на камне И шерсть чесала, он же подавал
