Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition)

Resolv’d to try his fortune on the seas.

’Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him.

If there was one among us who had heard

That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,

From the great Gavel , down by Leeza’s Banks,

And down the Enna, far as Egremont,

The day would be a very festival,

And those two bells of ours, which there you see

Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir!

This is sad talk — they’ll never sound for him

Living or dead — When last we heard of him

He was in slavery among the Moors

Upon the Barbary Coast—’Twas not a little

That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt,

Before it ended in his death, the Lad

Was sadly cross’d — Poor Leonard! when we parted,

He took me by the hand and said to me,

If ever the day came when he was rich,

He would return, and on his Father’s Land

He would grow old among us.

LEONARD.

If that day

Should come, ‘twould needs be a glad day for him;

He would himself, no doubt, be as happy then

As any that should meet him —

PRIEST.

Happy, Sir —

LEONARD.

You said his kindred all were in their graves,

And that he had one Brother —

PRIEST.

That is but

A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth

James, though not sickly, yet was delicate,

And Leonard being always by his side

Had done so many offices about him,

That, though he was not of a timid nature,

Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy

In him was somewhat check’d, and when his Brother

Was gone to sea and he was left alone

The little colour that he had was soon

Stolen from his cheek, he droop’d, and pin’d and pin’d;

LEONARD.

But these are all the graves of full grown men!

PRIEST.

Aye, Sir, that pass’d away: we took him to us.

He was the child of all the dale — he liv’d

Three months with one, and six months with another:

And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love,

And many, many happy days were his.

But, whether blithe or sad, ‘tis my belief

His absent Brother still was at his heart.

And, when he liv’d beneath our roof, we found

(A practice till this time unknown to him)

That often, rising from his bed at night,

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping

He sought his Brother Leonard — You are mov’d!

Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,

I judg’d 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-dropp’d lambs,

With two or three companions whom it chanc’d

Some further business summon’d to a house

Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir’d perhaps,

Or from some other cause remain’d behind.

You see yon precipice — it almost looks

Like some 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 call’d, the Pillar.

James, pointing to its summit, over which

They all had purpos’d to return together,

Inform’d them that he there would wait for them:

They parted, and his comrades pass’d that way

Some two hours after, but they did not find him

At the appointed place, a circumstance

Of which they took no heed: but one of them,

Going by chance, at night, into the house

Which at this time was James’s home, there learn’d

That nobody had seen him all that day:

The morning came, and still, he was unheard of:

The neighbours were alarm’d, and to the Brook

Some went, and some towards the Lake; ere noon

They found him at the foot of that same Rock

Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after

I buried him, poor Lad, and there he lies.

LEONARD.

And that then is his grave! — Before his death

You said that he saw many happy years?

PRIEST.

Aye, that he did —

LEONARD.

And all went well with him —

PRIEST.

If he had one, the Lad 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 turn’d on Leonard’s luckless fortune,

He talk’d about him with a chearful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallow’d end!

PRIEST.

Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mention’d

A habit which disquietude and grief

Had brought upon him, and we all conjectur’d

That, as the day was warm, he had lain down

Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades

He there had fallen asleep, that in his sleep

He to the margin of the precipice

Had walk’d, and from the summit had fallen headlong,

And so no doubt he perish’d: at the time,

We guess, that in his hands he must have had

His Shepherd’s staff; for midway in the cliff

It had been caught, and there for many years

It hung — and moulder’d there.

The Priest here ended —

The Stranger would have thank’d him, but he felt

Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence,

And Leonard, when they reach’d the churchyard gate,

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn’d 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 thank’d 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 reach’d a grove

That overhung the road: he there stopp’d short,

And, sitting down beneath the trees, review’d

All that the Priest had said: his early years

Were with him in his heart: his cherish’d hopes,

And thoughts which had been his an hour before.

All press’d on him with such a weight, that now,

This vale, where he had been so happy, seem’d

A place in which he could not bear to live:

So he relinquish’d all his purposes.

He travell’d on to Egremont; and thence,

That night, address’d a letter to the Priest

Reminding him of what had pass’d between them.

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,

That it was from the weakness of his heart,

He had not dared to tell him, who he was.

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now

A Seaman, a grey headed Mariner.

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Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

Upon the Braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian Maid

Adorn’d with wreaths of myrtle.

Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,

And there did they beguile the day

With love and gentle speeches,

Beneath the budding beeches.

From many Knights and many Squires

The Brace had been selected,

And Gordon, fairest of them all,

By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble Youth!

For it may be proclaim’d with truth,

If Bruce hath lov’d sincerely,

The Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordon’s beauteous face?

And what are Gordon’s crosses

To them who sit by Kirtle’s Braes

Upon the verdant mosses?

Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couch’d behind a thorn,

Sees them and their caressing,

Beholds them bless’d and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts