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The Brothers.

HESE tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live | A profitable life : fome glance along,

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the Summer lasted: fome, as wise,
Upon the forehead of a jutting crag
Sit perched, with book and pencil on their knee,
And look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Os reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But for that moping son of idleness,

Why can he tarry yonder?-In our churchyard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone 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,
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife fate near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,
He fed the spindle of the youngest child,
Who turned 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 snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled,
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and, down the path
Which from his cottage to the churchyard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'T was one well known to him in former days,
A shepherd-lad :—who ere his sixteenth year
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters,—with the mariners
A fellow-mariner,—and so had fared
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared

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 filled the steady fail,
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 side, and gaze and gaze ;
And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam
Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverith passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains— saw the forms of Theep that grazed
On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country grey
Which he himself had worn.

And now at last From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic in the Indian Iles, To his parental home he is returned,

With a determined purpose to resume
The life which he lived there; both for the fake
Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
In all his hardships, fince that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother-thepherds 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 inquire
Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,
Towards the churchyard he had turned aside,
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 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, that afternoon, he walked
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, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side,
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks
And the eternal 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 liinb 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 cheeks, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting fun 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.

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