Oh, for that small, small beer anew! That washed my sweet meals down; The master even! - and that small Turk worse is now my work That fagged me! A fag for all the town! Oh, for the lessons learned by heart! Should mark those hours again; The' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! 66 The omne bene" - Christmas come ! The prize of merit, won for home, Merit had prizes then! But now I write for days and days, For fame a deal of empty praise, -- Without the silver pen! Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach :— The joyous shout, the loud approach, The winding horns like rams'! The meeting sweet that made me thrill, When that I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, HELVELLYN. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. In the spring of 1805 a young Gentleman of talent, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the Mountain of Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered until three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn; Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide: All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red tarn was bending, 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, 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 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 stretched before When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tap'stry waves dark round 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-arched 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, 'wildered, 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 one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. E THE LAMENT OF ABBA THULE FOR HIS SON PRINCE LEE BOO. BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. See The History of the Pelew Islands. I CLIMB the highest cliff: I hear the sound Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless - no shadow No speck Sun, that returnest bright, beneath whose eye These native woods, these rocks, and torrents grey, |