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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.
ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN.
[NMATE of a mountain dwelling,
Potent was the spell that bound thee,
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee,
Lo the dwindled woods and meadows!
Lo the clouds, the solemn shadows,
And a record of commotion
Now take flight; possess, inherit
Or survey their bright dominions
Flung from off the purple pinions
Thine are all the coral fountains
To Niphates' top invited,
For the power of hills is on thee,
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.
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,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
IN HIGHGATE CEMETERY.
AR-SPREAD below doth London wear
Incessant troops from that vast throng
Withdraw to silent colonies;
Yet, 'neath the universal sky
Bright children here too run and sing,
Y 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,
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
He gave his nose and took 't away again;
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest demanded
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
He should or he should not; for he made me mad,
And talk, so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds God save the
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth