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 remain'd; 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;
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd 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 everlasting hills themselves were changed.
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 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 cheek, or solitary smiles, Into his face, until the setting sun
Write Fool upon his forehead.
Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd, The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approach'd; 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.
You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:
Your years make up one peaceful family;
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remember'd? Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months;
And yet, some changes must take place among you:
who dwell here, even among these rocks
Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish.I remember, (For many years ago I pass'd this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side-'tis gone—and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face
Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
That chasm is much the same
Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
That does not play you false.-On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two Springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning-one hath disappear'd;
The other, left behind, is flowing still.* For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them;-a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract !-a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow,
And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens ; or a Shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge- A wood is fell'd:-and then for our own homes! A Child is born or christen'd, a Field plough'd, A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun, The old House-clock is deck'd with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here
A pair of diaries,-one serving, Sir,
For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side
* This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of Hawes-water.
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for Historians, Commend me to these valleys!
Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! The Stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English Church-yard were like ours;
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. And then, for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
The thought of death sits easy on the man
Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
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