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For the Monthly Anthology.

Behr No the misty brow of yonder hill,
Beside a stream that turns the village mill,
Remote from worldly care and courtly strife,
. Once honest Erin led a peaceful life.
Brisk as the bee that sucks the fragrant dew,
He hied afield the stubborn oak to hew;
Or, when rough winter left the leafless bower,
And smiling spring came on in sunny shower;
Jocund he drove the patient ox to toil,
And broke with lagging plough the loosen’d soil.
Oft the lone beat of yonder chapel bell,
That toll'd for frosty age the passing knell,
Allur'd the ruddy swain, with moisten’d brow,
To taste the luncheon spread on wheaten mow.
And when behind the hills the sun withdrew,
And noisy swallows to their lodging flew,
Before his cot, or near some rushy stream,
That faintly twinkled 'neath the silver gleam,
While perfum’d breezes in the tree-tops plays,
Fanning the air as weary light decay’d ;
With merry reed he made the rustick gay,
Returning home at close of busy day.
But hush'd the strain that gladden’d all the plain .
And cheer'd with simple notes the homeward swain;
For now away beneath yon scraggy thorn,
Where nightly sits the bird of eve forlorn,
And tall weeds wave, as sighs the hollow gale,
And gently swells the green sod in the dale,
Releas'd from all this little world's alarms,
He sleeps secure in death's oblivious arms.

Blest was his toil with crops of golden grain, And Erin grew in wealth, and rose in name. But, ah, that pleasing rest, which wealth imparts, Too oft unnerves the frame, unmans our hearts. So far'd it now with late our honest clown ; In ease repos'd he thoughtless sought the town, And loitering day by day, a prey to harm, He left unplough'd the field, unsown the farm. The moments flew. His happy days were gone, Swift as the beam that scales the saffron morn; And now gloom'd round, with chilling frost combin'd, Cold want, that ragged rustled in the wind.

The storm blew bleak, and drifting fast the snow, When Erin left the vale opprest with wo;

emorse with rankling tooth his bosom tore, And wild with grief he saw his home no more.

Dec. 20, 1806.

To the Editors of the Monthly Anthology. GENT LEMEN,

The following Poem was presented to me by a literary female friend at Liverpool, with an assurance it was copied from the manuscript of Walter Scott. G.

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In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and a most amiable disposition, perished, by losing his way, on the mountain Helvellyn the remains were not discovered until three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I cliste'd the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide ;
All was, by fits, when the eagle was yelling—
And starting around me, the echoes replied.
On the left striden edge round the red tarn was bending,
And Catchediccim its right verge was defending,
And one huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain's 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 lov’d remains of his master defended,
And chac'd the hill fox and the ravens away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber 7
When the wind wav'd 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 2
And 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, close stretched before him,
Unhonour'd, the pilgrim from life should depart

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall,
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute in the canopied hall.
Through the vault at deep midnight the torches are gleaming,
In the proudly arch'd chapel the banners are beaming, -
Far adown the long aisle saered musick 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 but one faithful friend to witness thy dying
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchediccim.


For the Anthology.


JHunc.......... diem numera meliore lapillo,
sui tibi labentes apponit candidus annos :
Funde merum &enio. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PERs. Sat. 2d.

L1st to a simple lad! no heir of fame,
Who boasts no greater than a “carrier’s” name :
Who ne'er had share in swelling Faction's roar,
Nor party rancour on his shoulders bore.

He scorns to tell of toils he never knew,
Storms that ne'er rose, and winds that never blew ;
How oft for you, o'er Alps of snow he went,
His breeches tatter'd, and his breath quite spent.
One truth in boards is better, sure, by half,
Than twenty lies, tho' gilt and bound in calf.

Once more old time revolves his iron sphere,
And wonted pastimes hail the new-born year.
On whitest wings the merry moments fly,
Mirth laughs aloud, and grief forgets to sigh;

Now little masters swell themselves to men,
And miss, indulg’d, sits up till half past ten.—
When pale face paupers are securely bold ;
When beggars wish, and wishes turn to gold ;
When wretches ask, who never ask'd before,
And those, who always ask’d now ask the more ;
When even Harpax smiles—upon his wealth,
And thro’ his window drinks his neighbour's health,
Shall a poor boy, alone, of all the train,
Without one single glitt'ring joy remain
Say, if a learned sermon please you well,
Will you not think of him who rang the bell ?
When the musician's skilful fingers fly,
And chain your ears in “organ melody,”
Shall no kind thoughts within your bosom glow,
For the poor boy who did the bellows blow

What? will a land of learned Merchants see
Their muse's carrier pine in poverty

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