Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,
The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs
Upon a slope above the village school,
And there along that bank when I have pass'd
At evening, I believe, that near his grave
A full half-hour together I have stood,
Mute--for he died when he was ten years old.




THE

BROTHERS,

A PASTORAL POEM.


The BROTHERS. [1]

[Footnote 1: This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a
series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains
of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the
abruptness with which the poem begins.]



These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live
A profitable life: some glance along