He would himself, no doubt, be happy then

As

that should meet him any

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 checked; and when his Brother

Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,

The little color that he had was soon

Stolen from his cheek; he dropped, and pined, and

Leonard. But these are all the graves of fullgrown men !

Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took bim

to us;

He was the child of all the dale; - he lived

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, 't is my belief
His absent Brother still was at his heart.

And when he dwelt 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 moved!

Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.

Leonard.

How did he die at last?

Priest.

But this Youth,

One sweet May-morning

(It will be twelve years since, when Spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
With two or three companions, whom their course
Of occupation led from height to height
Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length,

Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge
The humor of the moment, lagged behind.
You see yon precipice ; it wears the shape
Of a 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 called THE PILLAR.
Upon its airy summit crowned with heath,
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,
Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place
On their return, they found that he was gone.
No ill was feared; till one of them by chance
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
Which at that time was James's home, there learned
That nobody had seen him all that day :

The morning came, and still he was unheard of:

The neighbors were alarmed, and to the brook Some hastened; some ran to 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 Youth, and there he lies! Leonard. And that then is his grave! - Before

his death

You say that he saw many happy years?
Priest. Ay, that he did
Leonard.

And all went well with him? Priest. If he had one, the youth' 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 turned on Leonard's luckless fortune,

He talked about him with a cheerful love.

Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end!

Priest. Nay, God forbid! - You recollect I mentioned

A habit which disquietude and grief

Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
On the soft heath, 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. When the Youth
Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think,
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock
It had been caught midway; and there for years
It hung; and mouldered there.

The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard

gate,

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,
And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"
The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating
That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
The other thanked him with an earnest voice;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove That overhung the road: he there stopped short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed All that the Priest had said: his early years Were with him: his long absence, cherished hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All pressed on him with such a weight, that now This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed A place in which he could not bear to live:

So he relinquished all his purposes.

He travelled back to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
Reminding him of what had passed 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 gray-headed Mariner.

II.

1800.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

(SEE THE CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

WHERE be the temples which, in Britain's isle,
For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised?
Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile
Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed!
Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore,
They sank, delivered o'er

To fatal dissolution; and, I ween,

No vestige then was left that such had ever been.

Nathless, a British record (long concealed
In old Armorica, whose secret springs
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed