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We have no need of names and epitaphs,
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.
And then for our immortal part, we want
No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
The thought of death sits easy on the man
Who has been born and dies among the mountains:
LEONARD.
Your dalesmen, then, do in each others thoughts
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, Sir, could help me to the history
Of half these Graves?
PRIEST.
With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard,
Perhaps I might, and, on a winter's evening,
If yon were seated at my chimney's nook
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,
We two could, travel, Sir, through a strange round,
Yet all in the broad high-way of the world.
