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Bespotted-with innumerable isles : • Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk; observe • His capital city! Thence, along a tract Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears, His finger moved, distinguishing the spots Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged; Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields On which the sons of mighty Germany Were taught a base submission.-- Here behold • A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land, • Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods, • And mountains white with everlasting snow! -And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow, Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best Of that young peasantry, who, in our days, Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rightsAh, not in vain !--or those who, in old time, For work of happier issue, to the side Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, When he had risen alone! No braver Youth Descended from Judean heights, to march With righteous Joshua; nor appeared in arms When grove was felled, and altar was cast down, And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed, And strong in hatred of idolatry.”

The Pastor, even as if by these last words Raised from his seat within the chosen shade, Moved toward the grave;—instinctively his steps We followed; and my voice with joy exclaimed : “Power to the Oppressors of the world is given, A might of which they dream not.

Oh! the curse, To be the awakener of divinest thoughts,

Father and founder of exalted deeds;
And, to whole nations bound in servile straits,
The liberal donor of capacities
More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet
Deserve the least return of human thanks;
Winning no recompense but deadly hate
With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn!"

When this involuntary strain had ceased, The Pastor said: “ So Providence is served ; The forked weapon of the skies can send Illumination into deep, dark holds, Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce, Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast Pity away, soon shall ye quake with fear ! For, not unconscious of the mighty debt Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, Europe, through all her habitable bounds, Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore, By horror of their impious rites, preserved ; Are still permitted to extend their pride, Like cedars on the top of Lebanon Darkening the sun.

But less impatient thoughts, And love all hoping and expecting all,' This hallowed grave demands, where rests in peace 1 humble champion of the better cause ; A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked No higher name ; in whom our country showed, As in a favorite son, most beautiful. In spite of vice, and misery, and disease,

Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts,
England, the ancient and the free, appeared
In him to stand before my swimming eyes,
Unconquerably virtuous and secure.
-No more of this, lest I offend his dust:
Short was his life, and a brief tale remains.

One day-a summer's day of annual pomp And solemn chase—from morn to sultry noon His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, The red-deer driven along its native heights With cry of hound and horn; and, from that toil Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed, This generous Youth, too negligent of self, Plunged--'mid a gay and busy throng convened To wash the fleeces of his Father's flockInto the chilling flood. Convulsions dire Seized him, that self-same night; and through the

space Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched, Till nature rested from her work in death. To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid A soldier's honors. At his funeral hour Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blueA golden lustre slept upon the hills; And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, From some commanding eminence had looked Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen A glittering spectacle; but every face Was pallid: seldom hath that eye been moist With tears, that wept not then; nor were the few, Who from their dwellings came not forth to join In this sad service, less disturbed than we.

They started at the tributary peal
Of instantaneous thunder, which announced,
Through the still air, the closing of the Grave,
And distant mountains echoed with a sound
Of lamentation, never heard before !"

The Pastor ceased.—My venerable Friend, Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye; And, when that eulogy was ended, stood Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived The prolongation of some still response, Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, Its rights and virtues—by that Deity Descending, and supporting his pure heart With patriotic confidence and joy. And, at the last of those memorial words, The pining Solitary turned aside; Whether through manly instinct to conceal Tender emotions spreading from the heart To his worn cheek; or with uneasy shame For those cold humors of habitual spleen That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. -Right toward the sacred Edifice his steps Had been directed; and we saw him now Intent upon a monumental stone, Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall, Or rather seemed to have grown into the side Of the rude pile; as oft-times trunks of trees, Where nature works in wild and craggy spots,

Are seen incorporate with the living rock-
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note
Of his employment, with courteous smile

“ The sagest Antiquarian's eye
That task would foil ;" then, letting fall his voice
While he advanced, thus spake: “ Tradition tells
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight
Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired,
And fixed his home in this sequestered vale.
'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath,
Or as a stranger reached this deep recess,
Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought
I sometimes entertain, that haply bound
To Scotland's court in service of his Queen,
Or sent on mission to some northern Chief
Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen
With transient observation; and thence caught
An image fair, which, brightening in his soul
When joy of war and pride of chivalry
Languished beneath accumulated years,
Had power to draw him from the world, resolved
To make that paradise his chosen home
To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned.

Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest Upon unwritten story fondly traced From sire to son, in this obscure retreat The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, and borne Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked With broidered housings. And the lofty Steed His sole companion, and his faithful friend, Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range

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