IN the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; 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, And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, THE MAID OF TORO. O, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, Sorely sighed to the breezes, and wept to the flood. All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle, With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale. And scarce could she hear them, benumbed with despair: And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, For ever he set to the Brave, and the Fair. THE PALMER. "O OPEN the door, some pity to show; The glen is white with the drifted snow; "No Outlaw seeks your castle-gate, Though even an Outlaw's wretched state Might claim compassion here. "A weary Palmer, worn and weak, O open, for your lady's sake, "I'll give you pardons from the pope, And relics from o'er the sea, O, if for these you will not ope, Yet open for charity. "The hare is crouching in her form, An aged man, amid the storm, "You hear the Ettricke's sullen roar, Dark, deep, and strong is he, "The iron gate is bolted hard, At which I knock in vain ; "Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, The Ranger on his couch lay warm, For lo, when, through the vapours Morn shone on Ettricke fair, WANDERING WILLIE. dank, ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, O weary betide it! I wandered beside it, And banned it for parting my Willie and me. Far o'er the wave hast thou followed thy fortune; Ae kiss of welcome worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, Music to me were the wildest winds roaring, That ere o'er Inch Keith drove the dark ocean faem. When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me Of each bold adventure, of every brave scar: And, trust me, I'll smile, though my e'en they may glisten; And oh how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame. Enough now thy story in annals of glory Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain; No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me, I never will part with my Willie again. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family and a son of the laird of Tushielaw, in Ettricke Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell in a consumption; and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on, without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an incident similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's "Fleur d'Epine." O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, Disease had been in Mary's bower, And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower, All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Till through her wasted hand, at night, By fits, a sultry hectic hue Yet keenest powers, to see and hear, As on the wing to meet him. He came he passed-a heedless gaze, THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree; The moon looks through the drifting storm, There is a voice among the trees That mingles with the groaning oak That mingles with the stormy breeze, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;-- There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the Bard in fitful mood, His song was louder than the blast, As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest passed. "Wake ye from your sleep of death, |