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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.
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,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
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?
Unhonoured the Pilgrim from life should depart?
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,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
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;
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die !"-
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen ;
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.
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.
Keen blows the northern wind,
And the path is hard to find.
From chasing the king's deer,
Might claim compassion here.
I wander for my sin ;
A pilgrim's blessing win!
“I'll give you pardons from the pope,
And relics from o'er the sea,----
Yet open for charity.
The hart beside the hind;
No shelter can I find.
Dark, deep, and strong is he,
Unless you pity me.
At which I knock in vain ;
Who hears me thus complain.
When old and frail you be,
That's now denied to me.”
And heard him plead in vain ;
He'll hear that voice again.
Morn shone on Ettricke fair,
The Palmer weltered there.
And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon wiele sea;
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.
I sate on the beach wi’ the tear in my e'e,
And wished that the tempest could a' blaw on me.
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
Of each bold adventure, of every brave scar :
For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.
When there's naething to speak to the heart through the e'e;
And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea.
If love would change notes like the bird on the tree
Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.
Hardships and danger despising for fame,
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame.
Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain ;
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 ;
Can lend an hour of cheering,
And slow decay from mourning,
To watch her love's returning.
Her form decayed by pining,
You saw the taper shining;
By fits, a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek was flying ;
Her maidens thought her dying.
Seemed in her frame residing ;
She heard her lover's riding;
She knew, and waved, to greet him ;
As on the wing to meet him.
As o'er some stranger glancing,
Lost in his courser's prancing
Returns each whisper spoken,
Which told her heart was broken.
THE BARD'S INCANTATION,
Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register, 1808.
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
Is whistling the forest lullaby :--
That mingles with the groaning oak-
And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;--
Minstrels and Bards of other days!
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze :