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It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps, till June, December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below;
Far in the bosom of Hellvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.
There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
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
This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
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
How nourished there through that long time,
39. — EPITAPH ON A HAKE.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake.
For he would oft beguile
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
Cowper. 40.— THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang trace—for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
When, reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
At the dead of the night, a sweet vision I saw,
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning inarch, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore,
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
"Stay, stay with us! rest! thou art weary and worn!" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
41. —THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
In her ear he whispers gaily,
"And I think thou lov'st me well."
She replies, in accents fainter,
"There is none I love like thee."
He is but a landscape painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips that fondly falter,
Presses his without reproof;
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave her father's roof.
"I can make no marriage present;
"Little can I give my wife:
"Love will make our cottage pleasant,
"And I love thee more than life."
They by parks and lodges going,
See the lordly castles stand:
Summer woods about them blowing,
Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
"Let us see these handsome houses
"Where the wealthy nobles dwell."
So she goes, by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers;
Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
Parks and ordered gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state,
All he shows her makes him dearer:
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,
"Where they twain will spend their days.
O, but she will love him truly!