And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps
Remained at home, go staggering through the fords.
Bearing his Brother on his back. I've seen him,
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,
Ay, more than once I've seen him, mid-leg deep,
Their two books lying both on a dry stone
Upon the hither side. .
It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other.
Live to such end, is what both old and young
In this our valley, all of us have wished,
And what, for my part, I have often prayed:
But Leonard— .
Poor Leonard! when we parted,
He took me by the hand and said to me,
If ever the day came when he was rich,
He would return, and on his father's land
He would grow old among us.
You said his kindred all were in their graves,
And that he had one Brother—
A fellow-tale of sorrow.
James, though not sickly,
That is but
From his youth
yet was delicate:
And, when his Brother
was left alone,
The little colour that he had was soon
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined.
You see yon precipice ;-it almost looks
Like some vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale.
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!
We all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
Upon the grass,-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.
And Leonard, when they reached the Church-yard gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,—
And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother."
NEAR yonder thorn that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where greybeard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place:
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
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