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green was the spot, mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay ; Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless ciay;
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind moved his garments, how oft didst thou
start? How many long days and long nights didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? But ah! 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 stretched before him,
Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart ?
When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark through 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 arched 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 'wildered 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 distant lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With but one faithful friend to witness thee dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam.
Sir W. Scott.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy!
Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be
solitude терау, , And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.
when summoned from the world and thee,
So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
smile! How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!
THE DAY OF REST.
How still the morning of the ballowed day!
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods : The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping bare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unbeedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldly bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But, chiefly man the day of rest enjoys: Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor
man's day; On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board ; screened from the winter's cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy