Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary;
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen;

Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.

"O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!
O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low!
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying;
And fast through the woodland approaches the foe."-
Scarce could he faulter the tidings of sorrow,

And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair : And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, Forever he set to the Brave, and the Fair.

VOL. III.

HELLVELLYN.

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 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 desart 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.

BALLADS

FROM

THE GERMAN.