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Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Barn, and mill, and wine-vat's treasures,
What the dream, but vain rebelling,
Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Sow thy seed and reap in gladness!
HELLVELLYN. -- Sir W. Scott.
In 1805, a young gentleman, who was fond of wandering amidst the romantic scenery of the "Lake District," in the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland, in England, lost his way on the Hellvellyn Mountains, and perished there. Three months afterwards his remains were found, guarded by a faithful terrier-dog, the sole companion of his rambles.
I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And Catchedicam* its left verge was defending,
Dark 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 clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite 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 num
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, 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
Unhonored 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 by the canopied pall;
*Hills in the Lake District.
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,
In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far down 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
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. — Longfellow.
THERE is a reaper, whose name is Death,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is swee: to me, I will give them all back again."
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He bound them in his sheaves
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
They shall all bloom in fields of light,
And saints, upon their garments white,
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
She knew she should find them all again
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.- Mrs. Cockburn.
I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling,
I've felt all its favors, and found its decay; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, But soon it is fled, it is fled far away.
I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay; Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air per
But now they are withered, and a' wede away,
I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams,
Grow drumly* and dark, as he rolled on his way.
O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting?
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede away.
THE marriage-blessing on their brows,
THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE. Milnes.
They loiter not where Argeles,
contented with the wealth