Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2. William Wordsworth

a slope above the village school,

        And there along that bank when I have pass'd

        At evening, I believe, that near his grave

        A full half-hour together I have stood,

        Mute – for he died when he was ten years old.

      THE BROTHERS, A PASTORAL POEM

The BROTHERS.1

        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 their summer lasted; some, as wise,

        Upon the forehead of a jutting crag

        Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee,

        And 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,

        Tomb-stone 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,

        Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone

        His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,

        While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire,

        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,

        Risen from his seat, beside the snowy ridge

        Of carded wool – which the old Man had piled

        He laid his implements with gentle care,

        Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path

        Which from his cottage to the church-yard led,

        He took his way, impatient to accost

        The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

        'Twas one well known to him in former days,

        A Shepherd-lad: who ere his thirteenth year

        Had chang'd his calling, with the mariners

        A fellow-mariner, and so had fared

        Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd

        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 fill'd 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 aide, 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.2

                                  And now at length,

        From perils manifold, with some small wealth

        Acquir'd by traffic in the Indian Isles,

        To his paternal home he is return'd,

        With a determin'd purpose to resume

        The life which he liv'd 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 approach'd his home, his heart

        Fail'd in him, and, not venturing to inquire

        Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov'd,

        Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside,

        That, as he knew in what particular spot

        His family were laid, he thence might learn

        If still his Brother liv'd, or to the file

        Another grave was added. – He had found

        Another grave, near which a full half hour

        He had remain'd, but, as he gaz'd, there grew

        Such a confusion in his memory,

        That he began to doubt, and he had hopes

        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 he came that afternoon,

        Through fields which once had been well known to him.

        And Oh! what joy the recollection now

        Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,

        And looking round he thought that he perceiv'd

        Strange alteration wrought on every side

        Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,

        And the eternal hills, themselves were chang'd.

        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

1

This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with which the poem begins.

2

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