The Dog is not of mountain breed ;

It's motions, too, are wild and shy;

With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
Unusual in it's cry:

Nor is there any one in sight

All round, in Hollow or on Height;

Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;

What is the Creature doing here?

It was a Cove, a huge Recess,

That keeps till June December's snow;

A lofty Precipice in front,

A silent Tarn* below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,

Remote from public Road or Dwelling,

Pathway, or cultivated land;

From trace of human foot or hand.

* Tarn is a small Mere or Lake mostly high up in the mountains.

There, sometimes does a leaping Fish
Send through the Tarn a lonely chear;
The Crags repeat the Raven's croak,
In symphony austere ;

Thither the Rainbow comes, the Cloud;

And Mists that spread the flying shroud;
And Sun-beams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past,

But that enormous Barrier binds it fast.

Not knowing what to think, a while
The Shepherd stood then makes his way
Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may ;

Nor far had gone before he found

A human skeleton on the ground,

Sad sight! the Shepherd with a sigh

Looks round, to learn the history.

40

From those abrupt and perilous rocks,
The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:

He instantly recall'd the Name,

And who he was, and whence he came ;
Remember'd, too, the very day

On which the Traveller pass'd this way.

But hear a wonder now, for sake

Of which this mournful Tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,

Repeating the same timid cry,

This Dog had been through three months' space A Dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that since the day

On which the Traveller thus had died

The Dog had watch'd about the spot,
Or by his Master's side:

How nourish'd here through such long time.
He knows, who gave that love sublime,

And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.

60

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the chearful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.