THE MORNING-GLORY. WE wreathed about our darling's head Her little face looked out beneath So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, So always from that happy time For sure as morning came, To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own. There is a solitary tomb, with rankling weeds o'ergrown, A single palm bends mournfully beside the mouldering stone Amidst whose leaves the passing breeze with fitful gust and slow Seems sighing forth a feeble dirge for him who sleeps below. Beside, its sparkling drops of foam a desert fountain showers; And, floating calm, the lotus wreathes its red and scented flowers, Here lurks the mountain fox unseen beside the vulture's nest; And steals the wild hyena forth, in lone and silent quest. Is this deserted resting-place the couch of fallen might? And ends the path of glory thus, and fame's inspiring light? Chief of a progeny of kings renowned and feared afar, How is thy boasted name forgot, and dimmed thine honor's star! A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; The dog is not of mountain breed ; Nor is there any one in sight 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, Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, Nor far had gone before he found From those abrupt and perilous rocks On which the traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, 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 watched about the spot, Or by his master's side. How nourished here through such long time WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. HELVELLYN. [In the spring of 1805 a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months af terwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. | I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide: All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was And more stately thy couch by this desert lake yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain heather, lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, SIR WALTER SCOTT. CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS [The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur de Lion, whe Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the TORCHES were blazing clear, And warriors slept beneath, On the settled face of death Of earthly years to show, - The marble floor was swept As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, Through the stillness of the night, There was heard a heavy clang, He came with haughty look, When he stood beside the bier! He stood there still with a drooping brow, And draws his last sob by the side of his For his father lay before him low, dam. It was Cœur de Lion gazed! A plume waved o'er the noble brow, the brow | The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, - give was fixed and white; He met, at last, his father's eyes, was no sight! VI. answer, where are they? but in them If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay; "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. the sword for now; |