Their hero has rush'd to the field, His laurels are cover'd with shade,— But where is the spirit that never should yield, In a moment desertion and guile Abandon'd him up to the foe; The dastards that flourish'd and grew in his smile, And the millions that swore they would perish to save, The savage, all wild in his glen, Is nobler and better than thou! At once from thy arms would I sever; And thinking of thee, in my long after-years, Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul! A mockery that never shall die; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd Helvellyn. 289 I Helvellyn. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 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 wanderer had died. Dark green was the spot, mid the brown mountain heather, 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, T When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tap'stry 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 arch'd chapel the banners are beaming, But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, The Heavenly Rest. HERE is an hour of peaceful rest THER To mourning wanderers given; There is a soft, a downy bed, Fair as the breath of even; A couch for weary mortals spread, On the Death of Lord Byron. There is a home for weary souls, By sin and sorrow driven; When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals, There faith lifts up the tearful eye, There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, Irregular Ode, ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. WE BY THE REV. C. C. COLTON. E mourn thy wreck; that mighty mind While wisdom waver'd, half inclined Equipp'd, enrich'd in vain, Of gods the work-of men the boast 291 Lost, even when Greece, with conquest bless'à, Thy gallant bearing hail'd; Then sighs from valour's mailèd breast, And tears of beauty fail'd; Oh! hadst thou in the battle died, Triumphant even in death, The patriot's as the poet's pride, While both Minervas twined thy wreath, Then had thy full career malice and fate defied! What architect, with choice design, A prouder motto marks thy stone He ask'd a fulcrum-thou demandedst none, But, reckless of past, present, and to come, Didst on thyself depend, to shake the world-alone! Thine eye to all extremes and ends And opposites could turn, And, like the congelated lens, Could sparkle, freeze, or burn; But in thy mind's abyss profound, As in some limbo vast, More shapes and monsters did abound, To set the wondering world aghast, Than wave-worn Noah fed, or starry Tuscan found! Was love thy lay-Cithæra rein'd Her car, and own'd the spell! Was hate thy theme—that murky fiend For hotter earth left hell! |