_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 125 And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remembered? 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, 130 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 passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields 135 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_. Nay, Sir, [19] for aught I know, That chasm is much the same--140 _Leonard_. But, surely, yonder-- _Priest_. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false.--On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, [D] 145 As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning--one hath disappeared; [20] The other, left behind, is flowing still, For accidents and changes such as these, 150 We want not store of them; [21]--a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm 155 Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks: The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge; 160 A wood is felled:--and then for our own homes! A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 165 To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries,--one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side-- Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys! 170 _Leonard_. Yet your Church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, 175 Cross-bones nor skull,--type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: [22] the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.