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And many, many happy days were his.
But this Youth, How did he die at last?
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 humour 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 aëry 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; but one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
Which at that time was James's home, there learned
He to the margin of the precipice
The Priest here ended 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 church-yard 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, Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare: The Other thanked him with a fervent 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 in his heart: his 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 on to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
Reminding him of what had passed between them;
This done, he went on shipboard, and is now
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,
They sank, delivered o'er
Nathless, a British record (long concealed
And Albion's giants quelled — A brood whom no civility could melt, “Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt."
By brave Corineus aided, he subdued,
And Pleasure's sumptuous bowers;
0, happy Britain! region all too fair
Grew many a poisonous weed;
Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged
She flung her blameless child,
So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear
Who comes her Sire to seek;