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THE BROTHERS.

* These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs

must live A profitable life : some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder ?-In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread And a few natural graves.''

To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage, -as it chanced, that day,

Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glitter

ing wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who, in the open air, with due accord Of busy hands and back and forward steps, Her large round wheel was turning. Towards

the field In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Many a long look of wonder : and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white

ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked ; and, down the path That from his cottage to the church-yard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The Stranger, whom he still saw lingering

there. 'Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad ;-who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters, with the mariners A fellow mariner,--and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been reareu

Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees —and, when the regular
wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days
and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad green wave and sparkling

foam Flashed round him images and hues that

wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains,—saw the forms of sheep that

grazed On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn.”

* This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of The Hurricane.

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And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there ; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother shepherds on their native hills. - They were the last of all their race: and

now, When Leonard had approached his home, his

heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to inquire Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, He to the solitary church-yard turned ; 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 remained; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and even to hope That he had seen this heap of turf before,-That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon he walked

Through fields which once had been well known

to him: And oh what joy this 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 Stopped 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. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with

himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,

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