No More Learning

_Priest_. Ay, that he did--

_Leonard_. And all went well with him? --405

_Priest_. If he had one, the Youth [51] 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, 410
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
A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured 415
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
On the soft heath, [52] and, waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice
Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong: 420
And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth
Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, [53]
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock
It had been caught mid way; and there for years [54]
It hung;--and mouldered there.
425

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; [55]
And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 430
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,
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating [56]
That Leonard would partake his homely fare: 435
The other thanked him with an earnest [57] 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, 440
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
All that the Priest had said: his early years
Were with him:--his long absence, cherished hopes, [58]
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 445
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 back [59] to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, [60] 450
Reminding him of what had passed 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 455
A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

. . . their . . . 1800. ]


[Variant 2:

1827.