Is neither epitaph nor monument, • Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread, Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open" air With back and forward steps. 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, The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 'Twas one well known to him in former days, Thro' twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd 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 Flash'd 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 graz'd On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country grey Which he himself had worn.* And now at length, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Fail'd in him, and, not venturing to inquire This description of the Calenture is stretched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, Author of the Hurricane. He had remain'd, but, as he gaz'd, there grew That he began to doubt, and he had hopes That it was not another grave, but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale he came that afternoon, And Oh! what joy the recollection now 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, He scann'd him with a gay complacency. The happy man will creep about the fields Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd The good man might have commun'd with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, LEONARD. 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; And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten |