His own and his dear scholars' souls to what pure souls should

dare;

Bold to rebuke enthroned sin, with calm undazzled faith,
Whether amid the pomp of courts, or on the bed of death;
Firm against kingly terrors in his free country's cause,
Faithful to GoD's anointed against a world's applause.

Since then, what wars, what tumults, what change has Europe

seen;

But never since in Itchen's vale has war or tumult been.
GOD's mercies have been with us, His favour still has blest
The memories sweet and glorious deeds of the good men at rest:
The many prayers, the daily praise, the nurture in the Word,
Have not in vain ascended up before the gracious LORD:
Nations, and thrones, and reverend laws, have melted like a
dream;

Yet Wykeham's works are green and fresh beside the crystal

stream.

Four hundred years and fifty their rolling course have sped Since the first serge-clad scholar to Wykeham's feet was led; And still his seventy faithful boys, in these presumptuous days, Learn the old truths, speak the old words, tread in the ancient

ways:

Still for their daily orisons resounds the matin chime;

Still linked in bands of brotherhood St. Catherine's steep they climb;

Still to their Sabbath worship they troop by Wykeham's tomb;
Still in the summer twilight sing their sweet song of IIome.

And at th'appointed seasons, when Wykeham's bounties claim
The full heart's solemn tribute from those who love his name,
Still shall his white-robed children, as age on age rolls by,
At Oxford and at Winchester, give thanks to God Most High:
And amid kings and martyrs shedding down glorious light,
While the deep-echoing organ swells to the vaulted height,

With grateful thoughts o'erflowing at the mercies they behold, They shall praise their sainted fathers, the famous men of old. Sir Roundell Palmer.

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 the 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 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 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, 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 grey plover flying,

With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,

A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts, and searches with his eye

Among the scattered rocks:

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed ;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its 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?

Scott.

It was a cove, a huge reccss,

That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below;

Far in the bosom of Hellvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;

From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak,
In symphony austere ;

Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud-
And mists that spread the flying shroud,
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That if it could would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground:
The appalled discoverer with a sigh
Looks round to learn the history.

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 recalled the name,

And who he was, and whence he came ; Remembered too the very day

On which the traveller passed that way.

But here a wonder for whose sake
This lamentable 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

When this ill-fated traveller died,

The dog had watch'd about the spot,

Or by his master's side:

How nourished there through that long time,
He knows Who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling great,
Above all human estimate.

Wordsworth.

39.

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo',

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care, And to 'domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite.