Chapter 2

They did--and truly, But that was what we almost overlook'd, They were such darlings of each other. For Though from their cradles they had liv'd with Walter, The only kinsman near them in the house, Yet he being old, they had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them! from their house the School Was distant three short miles, and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridg'd stream, such as you may have notic'd Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps Remain'd 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, Aye, more than once I've seen him mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone Upon the hither side:--and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety--

LEONARD.

It may be then--

PRIEST.

Never did worthier lads break English bread: The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw, With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep these boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks and every hollow place Where foot could come, to one or both of them Was known as well as to the flowers that grew there. Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills: They play'd like two young ravens on the crags: Then they could write, aye and speak too, as well As many of their betters--and for Leonard! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A Bible, and I'd wager twenty pounds, That, if he is alive, he has it yet.

LEONARD.

It seems, these Brothers have not liv'd to be A comfort to each other.--

PRIEST.

That they might Live to that end, is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wish'd, And what, for my part, I have often pray'd: But Leonard--

LEONARD.

Then James still is left among you--

PRIEST.

'Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking: They had an Uncle, he was at that time A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas: And, but for this same Uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud. For the Boy lov'd the life which we lead here; And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old; His soul was knit to this his native soil. But, as I said, old Walter was too weak To strive with such a torrent; when he died, The estate and house were sold, and all their sheep, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbauks for a thousand years. Well--all was gone, and they were destitute. And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake, Resolv'd to try his fortune on the seas. 'Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him. If there was one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the great Gavel [3], down by Leeza's Banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a very festival, And those two bells of ours, which there you see Hanging in the open air--but, O good Sir! This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him Living or dead--When last we heard of him He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary Coast--'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the Lad Was sadly cross'd--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.

[Footnote 3: The great Gavel, so called I imagine, from its resemblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a River which follows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.]

LEONARD.

If that day Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be as happy then As any that should meet him--

PRIEST. Happy, Sir--

LEONARD.

You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one Brother--

PRIEST. That is but A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate, And Leonard being always by his side 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 check'd, 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 droop'd, and pin'd and pin'd;

LEONARD.

But these are all the graves of full grown men!

PRIEST.

Aye, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us. He was the child of all the dale--he liv'd 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 liv'd 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 mov'd! Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judg'd 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 Spring returns, He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs, With two or three companions whom it chanc'd Some further business summon'd to a house Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir'd perhaps, Or from some other cause remain'd behind. 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, Whence by our Shepherds it is call'd, the Pillar. James, pointing to its summit, over which They all had purpos'd to return together, Inform'd them that he there would wait for them: They parted, and his comrades pass'd that way Some two hours after, but they did not find him At the appointed place, a circumstance Of which they took no heed: but one of them, Going by chance, at night, into the house Which at this time was James's home, there learn'd That nobody had seen him all that day: The morning came, and still, he was unheard of: The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the Brook Some went, and some towards 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 Lad, and there he lies.

LEONARD.

And that then _is_ his grave!--Before his death You said that he saw many happy years?

PRIEST.

Aye, that he did--

LEONARD.

And all went well with him--

PRIEST.

If he had one, the Lad had twenty homes.

LEONARD.

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 turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talk'd about him with a chearful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallow'd end!

PRIEST.

Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mention'd A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him, and we all conjectur'd 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 walk'd, and from the summit had fallen head-long, And so no doubt he perish'd: at the time, We guess, that in his hands he must have had His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff It had been caught, and there for many years It hung--and moulder'd there.

The Priest here ended-- The Stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence, And Leonard, when they reach'd the church-yard gate, As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round, And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother." The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare: The other thank'd him with a fervent voice, But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before. All press'd on him with such a weight, that now, This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquish'd all his purposes. He travell'd on to Egremont; and thence, That night, address'd a letter to the Priest Reminding him of what had pass'd 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.

_ELLEN IRWIN, Or the BRAES of KIRTLE_. [4]

[Footnote 4: The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here related took place.]

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the Braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian Maid Adorn'd with wreaths of myrtle. Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches.

From many Knights and many Squires The Brace had been selected, And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected. Sad tidings to that noble Youth! For it may be proclaim'd with truth, If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely, The Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordon's beauteous face? And what are Gordon's crosses To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes Upon the verdant mosses? Alas that ever he was born! The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing, Beholds them bless'd and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, And, starting up, to Bruce's heart He launch'd a deadly jav'lin! Fair Ellen saw it when it came, And, stepping forth to meet the same, Did with her body cover The Youth her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus from the heart of her true-love The mortal spear repelling. And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sail'd away to Spain, And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish Crescent.

But many days and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing: So coming back across the wave, Without a groan on Ellen's grave His body he extended, And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel church-yard view The grave of lovely Ellen: By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid, And, for the stone upon his head, May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn 'Hic jacet'.

Strange fits of passion I have known, And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befel.

When she I lov'd, was strong and gay And like a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath the evening moon.

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea; My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reach'd the orchard plot, And, as we climb'd the hill, Towards the roof of Lucy's cot The moon descended still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And, all the while, my eyes I kept On the descending moon.

My horse mov'd on; hoof after hoof He rais'd and never stopp'd: When down behind the cottage roof At once the planet dropp'd.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head-- "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"

SONG.

She dwelt among th' untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

A Violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the Eye! --Fair, as a star when only one Is shining in the sky!

She _liv'd_ unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceas'd to be; But she is in her Grave, and Oh! The difference to me.

A slumber did my spirit seal, I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force She neither hears nor sees Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course With rocks and stones and trees!

_The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE_.

"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf, Exclaim'd a thundering Voice, Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!" A falling Water swoln with snows Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose, That all bespatter'd with his foam, And dancing high, and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home.

"Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffer'd long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be pass'd: But seeing no relief, at last He venture'd to reply.

"Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not! Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this, our natal spot, Once liv'd a happy life! You stirr'd me on my rocky bed-- What pleasure thro' my veins you spread! The Summer long from day to day My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay."

When Spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreath to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers; And in my leaves now shed and gone The linnet lodg'd and for us two Chaunted his pretty songs when you Had little voice or none.

But now proud thoughts are in your breast-- What grief is mine you see. Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blest Together we might be! Though of both leaf and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left-- Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I in my humble way Would deck you many a Winter's day, A happy Eglantine!

What more he said, I cannot tell. The stream came thundering down the dell And gallop'd loud and fast; I listen'd, nor aught else could hear, The Briar quak'd and much I fear. Those accents were his last.

The OAK and the BROOM,

A PASTORAL.

His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills; A careful student he had been Among the woods and hills. One winter's night when through the Trees The wind was thundering, on his knees His youngest born did Andrew hold: And while the rest, a ruddy quire Were seated round their blazing fire, This Tale the Shepherd told.

I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a chearful noon-- The thaw-wind with the breath of June Breath'd gently from the warm South-west; When in a voice sedate with age This Oak, half giant and half sage, His neighbour thus address'd.

"Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge The Frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up, and think, above your head What trouble surely will be bred; Last night I heard a crash--'tis true, The splinters took another road-- I see them yonder--what a load For such a Thing as you!"

You are preparing as before To deck your slender shape; And yet, just three years back--no more-- You had a strange escape. Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke, It came, you know, with fire and smoke And hither did it bend its way. This pond'rous block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, 'Tis hanging to this day.

The Thing had better been asleep, Whatever thing it were, Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep, That first did plant you there. For you and your green twigs decoy The little witless Shepherd-boy To come and slumber in your bower; And trust me, on some sultry noon, Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour.

"From me this friendly warning take"-- --The Broom began to doze, And thus to keep herself awake Did gently interpose. "My thanks for your discourse are due; That it is true, and more than true, I know and I have known it long; Frail is the bond, by which we hold Our being, be we young or old, Wise, foolish, weak or strong."

Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant Heritage; My Father many a happy year Here spread his careless blossoms, here Attain'd a good old age.

Even such as his may be may lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not In truth a favor'd plant! The Spring for me a garland weaves Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves, And, when the Frost is in the sky, My branches are so fresh and gay That You might look on me and say This plant can never die.

The butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my Blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own. When grass is chill with rain or dew, Beneath my shade the mother ewe Lies with her infant lamb; I see The love, they to each other make, And the sweet joy, which they partake, It is a joy to me.

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renew'd. But in the branches of the Oak Two Ravens now began to croak Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; And to her own green bower the breeze That instant brought two stripling Bees To feed and murmur there.

One night the Wind came from the North And blew a furious blast, At break of day I ventur'd forth And near the Cliff I pass'd. The storm had fall'n upon the Oak And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away; And in one hospitable Cleft The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day.

LUCY GRAY.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of day The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wild Moor, The sweetest Thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night, You to the Town must go, And take a lantern, Child, to light Your Mother thro' the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon."

At this the Father rais'd his hook And snapp'd a faggot-band; He plied his work, and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe, With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time, She wander'd up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reach'd the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the Moor; And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd "In Heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the Mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross'd, The marks were still the same; They track'd them on, nor ever lost, And to the Bridge they came.

They follow'd from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome Wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

_The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS_,

OR

_DUNGEON-GILL FORCE_, [5] _A PASTORAL_.

[Footnote 5: 'Gill', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.]

I.

The valley rings with mirth and joy, Among the hills the Echoes play A never, never ending song To welcome in the May. The Magpie chatters with delight;

The mountain Raven's youngling Brood Have left the Mother and the Nest, And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food, Or thro' the glittering Vapors dart In very wantonness of Heart.

II.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two Boys are sitting in the sun; It seems they have no work to do Or that their work is done. On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas Hymn, Or with that plant which in our dale We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail Their rusty Hats they trim: And thus as happy as the Day, Those Shepherds wear the time away.

III.

Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song; The thrush is busy in the Wood, And carols loud and strong. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born! both earth and sky Keep jubilee, and more than all, Those Boys with their green Coronal, They never hear the cry, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.

IV.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew I'll run with you a race."--No more-- Away the Shepherds flew. They leapt, they ran, and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill, Seeing, that he should lose the prize, "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries-- James stopp'd with no good will: Said Walter then, "Your task is here, 'Twill keep you working half a year."

V.

"Till you have cross'd where I shall cross, Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat." James proudly took him at his word, But did not like the feat. It was a spot, which you may see If ever you to Langdale go: Into a chasm a mighty Block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock; The gulph is deep below, And in a bason black and small Receives a lofty Waterfall.

VI.

With staff in hand across the cleft The Challenger began his march; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd The middle of the arch. When list! he hears a piteous moan-- Again! his heart within him dies-- His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost, He totters, pale as any ghost, And, looking down, he spies A Lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent.

VII.