His own and his dear scholars' souls to what pure souls should dare; Bold to rebuke enthroned sin, with calm undazzled faith, Since then, what wars, what tumults, what change has Europe seen; But never since in Itchen's vale has war or tumult been. Yet Wykeham's works are green and fresh beside the crystal stream. Four hundred years and fifty their rolling course have sped Since the first serge-clad scholar to Wykeham's feet was led; And still his seventy faithful boys, in these presumptuous days, Learn the old truths, speak the old words, tread in the ancient ways: Still for their daily orisons resounds the matin chime; Still linked in bands of brotherhood St. Catherine's steep they climb; Still to their Sabbath worship they troop by Wykeham's tomb; And at th'appointed seasons, when Wykeham's bounties claim With grateful thoughts o'erflowing at the mercies they behold, They shall praise their sainted fathers, the famous men of old. Sir Roundell Palmer. I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, 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, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, 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 a Prince to the fate of the 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: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eye Among the scattered rocks: And now at distance can discern The dog is not of mountain breed ; Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; What is the creature doing here? Scott. It was a cove, a huge reccss, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below; Far in the bosom of Hellvellyn, From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud- Not free from boding thoughts, awhile Nor far had gone before he found From those abrupt and perilous rocks He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came ; Remembered too the very day On which the traveller passed that way. But here a wonder for whose sake A lasting monument of words The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watch'd about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished there through that long time, Wordsworth. 39. EPITAPH ON A HARE. HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to 'domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack-hare. Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. |