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 scann'd him with a gay complacency. Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself; 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business, to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday, The happy man will creep about the fields Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his check, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that overarch'd the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd The good man might have commun'd with himself But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approach'd; he recogniz'd the Priest at once, And after greetings interchang'd, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. LEONARD. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remember'd. Scarce a funeral Comes to this church-yard once, in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you. And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish.--I remember, For many years ago I pass'd this road, There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side--'tis gone--and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had. PRIEST. Why, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same-- LEONARD. But, surely, yonder-- PRIEST.