How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, TO OUR ELDEST HEIR.—Mrs. Henry Coleridge. DEEM not that our eldest heir Wins too much of love and care; See in yonder plot of flowers Catching beams and kindly showers Which the heavens are shedding. While the younger plants below High and richly spreading. She that latest leaves the nest, Though the most protected, Or in thought neglected. 'Gainst the islet's rocky shore Nature favors it no less Than the guarded, still recess, THE HUSBANDMAN. - Sterling. EARTH, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with corn and wine; He who best would aid a brother Shares with him these gifts divine. Many a power within her bosom Noiseless, hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom, Golden ear and clustered wreath. These to swell with strength and beauty Is the royal task of man; Man's a king, his throne is Duty, Since his work on earth began. Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage, 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 Wes'moreland and Cumberland, in England, lost his way on the Hell ellyn 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 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, 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 ber, 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 *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 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 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 sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise |