THE MAID OF TORO. O, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. "O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending; "Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry, "Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, "My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die !" All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle, Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; Slowly approaching a warrior was seen; Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary, “O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying! 66 66 O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying, "And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.”— Scarce could he faulter the tidings of sorrow, And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair: And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, For ever he set to the Brave, and the Fair. HELLVELLYN. In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrierbitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain-heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber; When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start; How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,- When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desart lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellyellyn and Catchedicam, |