Of mirth and jocund din. And, when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill,

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs Upon 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.*

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.

* 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.