There were two Springs which bubbled side by side, And in one night send twenty score of sheep A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun, The old House-clock is decked 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 Yours was a stranger's judgment: for Historians, Commend me to these valleys. LEONARD. Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, An orphan could not find his mother's grave: PRIEST. 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; 8 Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth. We talk about the dead by our fire-sides, Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these Graves? PRIEST. For eight-score winters past, With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and, on a winter's evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round, Yet all in the broad high-way of the world. 'Now there's a grave-your foot is half upon it, It looks just like the rest; and yet that Man Died broken-hearted. LEONARD. "Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall. PRIEST. That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Each struggled, and each yielded as before Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : I almost see him tripping down the path LEONARD. But these two Orphans! PRIEST. Orphans! Such they were: |