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Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill;

'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, list'ning to the sound, Lies mute and still!

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumb'ring with the dead to-morrow
In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb, or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep!

Well!-there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;
Oh! most to him

Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey-drop to shed
Round mis'ry's brim.

Yes, he can smile serene at death:

Kind Heav'n! do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping,
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES GOUGH.*

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, And, starting around me, the echoes replied. On the right Strathen-edge round the Red Tarn was bending,

And Catchedecam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock on the front was impending,

When I mark'd the sad spot where the wand'rer had died.

Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain 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 chas'd the hill fox and the raven away.

This gentleman was travelling in April 1805, with no other company than a favourite spaniel, over Red Tarn Crag in Patterdale, Cumberland; but a heavy fog coming on, he' had lost his way, and fallen over a precipice about 200 yards high. He was not heard of till about two months afterwards, when his remains were found, still attended by the spaniel.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

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? And oh! 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 stretch'd before him,

Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;

With escutcheons 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-arch'd chapel the banners are beam

ing,

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, 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 desert 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 Catchedecam.

SONG.

ANONYMOUS.

How many new years have grown old

Since first your servant old was new ; How many long hours have I told,

Since first my love was vow'd to you! And yet, alas! she doth not know

Whether her servant love or no.

How many walls as white as snow,
And windows clear as any glass,
Have I conjur'd to tell you so,

Which faithfully performed was!
And yet you'll swear you do not know
Whether your servant love or no.

How often hath my pale lean

With true characters of my love, Petitioned to you for grace,

Whom neither sighs nor tears can move! O cruel! yet you do not know Whether your servant love or no.

And wanting oft a better token,

I have been fain to send my heart, Which now your cold disdain hath broken, Nor can you heal't by any art: O look upon't, and you shall know Whether your servant love or no.

GENIUS.

ANONYMOUS.

WHAT is Genius? 'Tis a flame
Kindling all the human frame;
'Tis a ray that lights the eye,
Soft in love, in battle high.
'Tis the lightning of the mind,
Unsubdu'd and undefin'd;
'Tis the flood that pours along
The full clear melody of song;
'Tis the sacred boon of Heaven,
To its choicest favourites given.
They who feel can paint it well,
What is Genius? Byron, tell!

SONG.

MOORE.

WHY does azure deck the sky?

'Tis to be like thine eyes of blue. Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright?

That they may seem thy golden hair!

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