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HELVELLYN. 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 inighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide ; All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

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 marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
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 nights didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, O ! was it meet, that,--no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him,-

Unhonoured the Pilgrim from life should depart?
When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; 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 arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,

Lamenting a Chief of the People should fol.

But mceter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When, wildered, 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 desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedịcam.

THE MAID OF TORO. 0, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, AN as a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow,

Sorely sighed to the breezes, and wept to the flood. O saints ! from the mansions of bliss lowly bencing;

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 lattle,

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.
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary ;

Slowly approaching a warrior was seen ;
Life's ebbing tide marked his footsteps so weary,

Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.
“O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying !

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 falter the tidings of sorrow,

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;

Keen blows the northern wind,
The glen is white with the drifted su?";

And the path is hard to find.
"No Outlaw seeks your castle-gate,

From chasing the king's deer,
Though even an Outlaw's wretched siste

Might claim compassion here.
“A weary Palmer, worn and weak.

I wander for my sin ;
() open, for your lady's sake,

A pilgrim's blessing win!

I'll give you pardons from the pope,

And relics from o'er the sea,----
(), if for these you will not ope,

Yet open for charity.
". The hare is crouching in her form,

The hart beside the hind;
An aged man, amid the storm,

No shelter can I find.
“You hear the Ettricke's sullen roar,

Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettricke o'er,

Unless you pity me.
“The iron gate is bolted hard,

At which I knock in vain ;
The owner's heart is closer barred,

Who hears me thus complain.
“Farewell, farewell ! and Mary grant,

When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want,

That's now denied to me.”
The Ranger on his couch lay warm,

And heard him plead in vain ;
But oft amid December's storm,

He'll hear that voice again.
For lo, when, through the vapours dank,

Morn shone on Ettricke fair,
A corpse amid the alders rank,

The Palmer weltered there.

WANDERING WILLIE.
ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me,

And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon wiele sea;
O weary betide it! I wandered beside it,

And banned it for parting my Willie and me. Tar o'er the wave hast thou followed thy fortunc ;

Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain ; 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,

I sate on the beach wi’ the tear in my e'e,
And thought o'the bark where my Willie was sailing,

And wished that the tempest could a' blaw on me.
Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring,

Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame, 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 mo
But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen,

Of each bold adventure, of every brave scar :
And, trust me, I'll smile, though my e'en they may glisten ;

For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.
And oh how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers,

When there's naething to speak to the heart through the e'e;
How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers,

And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea.
Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I pondered,

If love would change notes like the bird on the tree
Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wandered,

Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.
Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel,

Hardships and danger despising for fame,
Furnishing story for glory's bright annal,

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,

And lovers' ears in hearing ;
And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering,
Disease had been in Mary's bower,

And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower,

To watch her love's returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,

Her form decayed by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,

You saw the taper shining;

By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying ;
By fits, so ashy pale she grew

Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers, to see and hear,

Seemed in her frame residing ;
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear,

She heard her lover's riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenned,

She knew, and waved, to greet him ;
And o'er the battlement did bend,

As on the wing to meet him.
He came-he passedma heedless gaze,

As o'er some stranger glancing,
Her welcome spoke, in faltering phrase,

Lost in his courser's prancing
The castle arch, whose hollow tone

Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan,

Which told her heart was broken.

THE BARD'S INCANTATION,
WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMIN OF 1804

Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register, 1808.
The Forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer

Is whistling the forest lullaby :--
The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
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 yoice 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,

Minstrels and Bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze :
The spectre with his bloody hand,
Is wandering through the wild woodland ;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead I

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