And many, many happy days were his. And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found I judged you most unkindly. LEONARD. But this Youth, How did he die at last? PRIEST. 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 The morning came, and still he was unheard of: LEONARD. And that then is his grave! Before his death 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 Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured He to the margin of the precipice Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong. The Priest here ended The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; He would pursue his journey. So they parted. He travelled on to Egremont: and thence, Reminding him of what had passed between them; This done, he went on shipboard, and is now II. ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. (SEE THE CHROnicle of geoffREY OF MONMOUTH, AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. D.) WHERE be the Temples which, in Britain's Isle, To fatal dissolution; and, I ween, No vestige then was left that such had ever been. Nathless, a British record (long concealed A brood whom no civility could melt, "Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt." By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers, Whence all the fixed delights of house and home, Friendships that will not break, and love that cannot roam. O, happy Britain! region all too fair Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth From human care, or grows upon the breast of earth. Hence, and how soon! that war of vengeance waged By Guendolen against her faithless lord; Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged, Had slain his Paramour with ruthless sword: She flung her blameless child, Sabrina vowing that the stream should bear So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear Ye lightnings, hear his voice! — they cannot hear, |