REMEMBRANCE

OF THE PICTURES PAINTED ALONG THE MILL-BRIDGE AT LUZERN.*

THERE is a sad procession passing by;
It is the Dance Macabre, and the eye
Of each who takes in that sad pomp a part
In passing shoots an ice-pang to the heart.
Death leads the way, and on his skinny drum
With bones beats time to those who after come:
Death leads the way, ah! see his glance so grim;
He knows full well that all must follow him:

Attendant Deaths swell out the gloomy crowds,

Scythes in their hands, round them the winding shrouds. Ah! whither doth that ghastly crew repair?

Unto the open graves, which, scatter'd there,

Cover the mount with many a hill and hole,
While slow and solemn sounds the funeral knoll.
Behold, the Pope, no pompous train attending,
Unto the tomb with Death is slowly wending!
Fall'n off his triple crown; the lurid rays,
Of yonder setting sun, his face displays,

*See Note B.

Rigid with terror, and in vain he craves

To turn his footsteps from the yawning graves.
And see, advancing with his train, a King,

A Death with flag and trumpet following.
Death whispers in his ear, "Thy earthly crown,
With pomp and pageant, thou must now lay down ;"
See, how the courtiers tremble with affright,

Fain would they leave their prince, if leave they might,
But they this once must follow in procession
Him for whose steps is no more retrogression!
And see! Death leads a merchant, and behold!
A miser comes clutching his bag of gold;
His toil through life hath been that gold to save,
Yet Death will rob him of it at the
grave.
But once again look on that grim array,

For Death guides one whose face and mien is gay,
And who, though weigh'd down with a heavy load,
Outstrips his guide upon the gloomy road:
It is a beggar, one who leaves behind

A cold, harsh world; beyond the grave to find
Some rest for labours, and of griefs the end
He surely hopes, and Death as his best friend
He looks to, nor would change his present lot
For all that Pope, or King, or Lord hath got:
They had their treasures while they walk'd the earth,
He had his ills, his sorrows, and his dearth

Of all things good; now they their pleasures leave,
While he by Death hopes pleasures to receive,

OLD SCENES REVISITED.

WHAT strange thoughts come upon me,
Of mingled joy and pain,
When old familiar places

I visit once again :

When each spot known in childhood
I gaze upon once more,
Though years, long years of absence

To me have passèd o'er.

The garden that I planted

When yet a little child,

And with my young hands tended,
Uncared for lies, and wild:

The ploughshare has uprooted

The fields where once I stray'd,

From the green groves where I sported Has vanish'd all the shade.

But still 'tis not for places

Deserted that I mourn,

But that familiar faces

For ever should be gone:

The garden bowers may wither,
Vanish the pleasant shade,

But oh, for those I once loved best
Who in the tomb are laid!

THE FOWLERS OF ST. KILDA.*

HACON the brave old fowler gat him up
After his meal, and said unto his wife,

"We go to gather birds, bring here the rope;"
And his wife smil'd, and brought the well-wrought rope,
Strengthen'd with many a thong of well-cur'd hide,
And gave it to her husband; silently

He smil'd and took it, then, with his two sons,

(Brave youths and comely,) pass'd away from home,
Leaving the woman spinning by the hearth,
And all the younger children at their play.
And now the three pass'd on along the cliffs,
Whose base is ever wash'd with ceaseless waves,
Unto the highest point, and looking down.
The father cried, "See, 'tis a goodly year

For seagulls' breeding!" and his merry sons

Took up huge blocks of stones, and roll'd them down,

*This story is taken from the late excellent Bishop Stanley's History of Birds.