"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 the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will 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 churchyard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone 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 sat 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 turned 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 snow-white 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 That from his cottage to the churchyard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.