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All angel now,yet little less than all,
That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair,
LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
1782.-ÆTAT. 11 “SCOTT's Autobiography tells us that his translations in verse from Horace and Virgil were often approved by Dr. Adam, [Rector of the High School, Edinburgh.). One of these little pieces, written in a weak boyish scrawl, within pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully preserved by his mother; it was found folded up in a cover, inscribed by the old lady'My Walter's First Lines, 1782.' "-LOCKHART, Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 129.
In awful ruins Ætna thunders nigh,
1805. In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. 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 CLIMB'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Dark-green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd 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 weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
stretch'd before himUnhononr'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;
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
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, wilderd, he drops from some cliff huge in status,
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 grey plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.
THE DYING BARD.
1806. The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on his deathbed, demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted ; requesting that it might be performed at his funeral