THE

These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air. And they were butterflies to wheel about

Long as their summer lasted; some, as wise, Upon the forehead of a jutting crag Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee, And look and scribble, scribble on and look,

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping son of Idleness Why can he tarry yonder?— In our church-yard

Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread. And a few natural graves. To Jane, his Wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.

It was a July evening, and he sate Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage, as it chanced that day, Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone

His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air

With back and forward steps. Towards the field In which the parish chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent

Many a long look of wonder, and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snowy ridge Of carded wool — which the old Man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care,

Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path Which from his cottage to the church-yard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

‘ Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad: who ere his thirteenth year Had chang'd his calling, with the mariners A fellow-mariner, and so had fared

Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard

The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds Of caves and trees; and when the regular wind Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,

Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence would often hang Over the vessel's aide, and gaze and gaze,

And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam Flash'd round him images and hues, that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome,

Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that graz'd On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,

And Shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn. And now at length, From perils manifold, with some small wealth

Acquir'd by traffic in the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is return'd, With a determin'd purpose to resume The life which he liv'd there, both for the sake

Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne 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 approach'd his home, his heart Fail'd in him, and, not venturing to inquire

Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov'd, Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside, That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn

If still his Brother liv'd, or to the file Another grave was added.— He had found Another grave, near which a full half hour He had remain'd, but, as he gaz'd, there grew

Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt, and he had hopes 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 he came that afternoon, Through fields which once had been well known to him. And Oh! what joy the recollection now

Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, And looking round he thought that he perceiv'd Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,

And the eternal hills, themselves were chang'd. By this the Priest who down the field had come Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopp'd short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb

He scann'd him with a gay complacency. Aye, 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 check, or solitary smiles

Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that overarch'd the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd

The good man might have commun'd with himself But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approach'd; he recogniz'd the Priest at once, And after greetings interchang'd, and given

By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.