Imatges de pàgina

All angel now,yet little less than all,
While still a pilgrim in our world below!
What 'vails it us that patience to recall,
Which hid its own to soothe all other woes;
What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest glow
Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair!
And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know,

That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair,
Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither there!

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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,
And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky
Black clouds of smoke, which, still as they aspire,
From their dark sides there bursts the glowing fire;
At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd,
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost :
Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions torn,
Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne
With loud explosions to the starry skies,
The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,
Then back again with greater weight recoils,
While Ætna thundering from the bottom boils.


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.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

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,
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,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
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 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;
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 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, 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.


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

DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue,
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung,

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