Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd 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, nis masters And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. sill

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 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 stretch'd before him

Unhonour'd 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-arch'd chapel the banners are beam

ing;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

12 tenantless clay, body without soul 13 extended, stretched out
14 mute favourite, speechless dog

21 meet, fit requiem, funeral service

25 has died

26 tapestry, rich hangings on walls 27 scutcheons, shields 28 pages, servants: canopied, covered

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain
lamb,

When, wilder'd, 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 Catchedicam.
Sir W. Scott

Far in the has am

of Helvellyn

* 63 *

A REVERIE

WHEN, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Something, my Friend, we yet may gain;
There is a pleasure in this pain :
It soothes the love of lonely rest,
Deep in each gentler heart impress'd.
'Tis silent amid worldly toils,
And stifled soon by mental broils;
But, in a bosóm thus prepared,
Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
'Twixt resignation and content.

Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
By lone Saint Mary's silent lake;

Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge,
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ;
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink;
And just a trace of silver sand

Marks where the water meets the land.

33 meeter, fitter

I musing, thinking the mind

38 obsequies, funeral service 40 surrounded by
6 impressed, stamped 8 by troubles of
17 going straight up

16 pollute, spoil

tirn

дад

Far in the mirror, bright and blue,
Each hill's huge outline you may view;
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,
Save where, of land, yon slender line
Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine.
Yet even this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour:
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing conceal'd might lie;
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,

Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell;
There's nothing left to fancy's guess,

You see that all is loneliness:

And silence aids-though the steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills;
In summer-tide, so soft they weep,
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood ;-
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past ;--and Man forgot.
Bishop King

26 thwart, crossing 36 rills, little streams 10 entomb'd, buried

* 65 *

JOHN ANDERSON

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither :

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

* 66*

A LESSON

THERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,

R. Burns

That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, And the first moment that the sun may shine,

Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again !

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on

swarm,

Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,

Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm

In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

I jo, love
7 pow, head

2 acquent, acquainted 10 thegither, together

13 maun, must

4 brent, smooth II canty, cheerful

But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,
And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
'This neither is its courage nor its choice,
But its necessity in being old.

'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew 'It cannot help itself in its decay;

;

'Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,' And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

To be a prodigal's favourite-then, worse truth,
A miser's pensioner -- behold our lot!

O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
W. Wordsworth

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make Man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere :
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night

It was the plant and flower of Light!
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
B. Jonson

21 a prodigal's favourite, wasting the many gifts of Youth 22 a miser's pensioner, getting the little we can from Age

9 just, true