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How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And, oh! 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

Unhonored 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 fall.

But meeter 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 but one faithful friend to witness thy dying In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

Sir Walter Scott. TO

ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN.

INMA

TNMATE of a mountain dwelling,

Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed
From the watch-towers of Helvellyn;
Awed, delighted, and amazed !

Potent was the spell that bound thee,
Not unwilling to obey;
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee,
Stilled the pantings of dismay.

Lo the dwindled woods and meadows !
What a vast abyss is there !
Lo the clouds, the solemn shadows,
And the glistenings, — heavenly fair !

And a record of commotion
Which a thousand ridges yield;
Ridge and gulf and distant ocean
Gleaming like a silver shield !
Now take flight; possess, inherit
Alps or Andes, — they are thine !
With the morning's roseate spirit,
Sweep their length of snowy line ;

Or survey their bright dominions
In the gorgeous colors drest

Flung from off the purple pinions
Evening spreads throughout the west !
Thine are all the coral fountains
Warbling in each sparry vault
Of the untrodden lunar mountains ;
Listen to their songs ! -- or halt,
To Niphates' top invited,
Whither spiteful Satan steered;
Or descend where the ark alighted,
When the green earth reappeared ; -

For the power of hills is on thee,
As was witnessed through thine eye
Then, when old Helvellyn won thee
To confess their majesty!

William Wordsworth.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

WHERE
THERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O’Kellyn?

Where may the grave of that good man be?
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree !
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown.,

The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Highgate.

IN HIGHGATE CEMETERY.

NAR-SPREAD below doth London wear

Its cloud by day, its fire by night, -
Yet scarce with heavenly presence there

Shrined in the smoke or pallid light.
Incessant troops from that vast throng

Withdraw to silent colonies;
Where houses, lo! are fair and strong,

Though ruins all that dwell in these.
Yet, 'neath the universal sky

Bright children here too run and sing,
Calm verdure waxes green and high,
And grave-side roses smell of spring.

William Allingham.

Holmedon.

HOLMEDON.

MY

liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose and took 't away again;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff. And still he smiled and talked;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
Out of my grief and my impatience
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Answered neglectingly, I know not what,
He should or he should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk, so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds — God save the

mark! -
And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth
Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villánous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed

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