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GENTLEMEN,

To the Editors of the Monthly Anthology.

The following Poem was presented to me by a literary female friend at Liver pool, with an assurance it was copied from the manuscript of Walter Scott.

G.

HELVELLYN.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and a most amiable disposition, perished, by losing his way, on the mountain Helvellyn; the remains were not dis covered until three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I 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 left striden edge round the red tarn was bending,
And Catchediccim its right verge was defending,
And one huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain's heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay;
Like the corpse of an outcast, abandon'd to weather,
'Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much lov'd remains of his master defended,
And chac'd the hill fox and the ravens away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind wav'd his garments, how oft didst thou start }
How many long days and long nights didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee....the friend of thy heart?
And ah! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, close stretched before him,
Unhonour'd, the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall,
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute in the canopied hall.

Through the vault at deep midnight the torches are gleaming,
In the proudly arch'd chapel the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred musick 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 wilder'd 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 desart lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchediccim.

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He scorns to tell of toils he never knew,
Storms that ne'er rose, and winds that never blew ;
How oft for you, o'er Alps of snow he went,
His breeches tatter'd, and his breath quite spent.
One truth in boards is better, sure, by half,
Than twenty lies, tho' gilt and bound in calf.

Once more old time revolves his iron sphere,
And wonted pastimes hail the new-born year.
On whitest wings the merry moments fly,
Mirth laughs aloud, and grief forgets to sigh;

Now little masters swell themselves to men,
And miss, indulg'd, sits up till half past ten.-
When pale face paupers are securely bold;
When beggars wish, and wishes turn to gold;
When wretches ask, who never ask'd before,
And those, who always ask'd now ask the more;
When even Harpax smiles upon his wealth,
And thro' his window drinks his neighbour's health,
Shall a poor boy, alone, of all the train,

Without one single glitt'ring joy remain?
Say, if a learned sermon please you well,
Will you not think of him who rang the bell?
When the musician's skilful fingers fly,

And chain your ears in "

organ melody,"

Shall no kind thoughts within your bosom glow,
For the poor boy who did the bellows blow?

What will a land of learned Merchants see

Their muse's carrier pine in poverty?

645

Ne'er shall it be, while tradesmen criticise,
Or ******** quotes Damberger's lies;
Ne'er shall it be, while rich men safely sail,
Or clatt'ring Bozzy hangs at Johnson's tail.

Unlock your hearts, and may your kindness seera
To flow, like circles in a silver stream,
Still, still diverge, and may these circles find
Their common centre in a gen'rous mind.
Thrice happy day! may all its pleasures last,
And years to come be happy as the past.
Boston, Jan. 1, 1807.

SELECTIONS.

From the "WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND."
By James Montgomery.

THE LYRE.

"Ah! who would love the lyre !" G. A. STEVENS.

WHERE the roving rill meander'd Down the green, retiring vale, Poor, forlorn ALCEUS wander'd,

Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Hopeless sorrow, o'er his face
Breathed a melancholy grace,
And fix'd on every feature there
The mournful resignation of despair.

O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Coldly, carelessly he flung;
And, in spirit deep dejected,

Thus the pensive poet sung; While, at midnight's solemn noon, Sweetly shone the cloudless moon, And all the stars, around his head, Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed.

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"The Muse's wretched sons are born "To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.

"That which Alexander sigh'd for, "That which Caesar's soul possess'd,

"That which Heroes, Kings have died for,

"Glory!-animates my breast: "Hark! the charging trumpets throats

"Pour their death-defying notes; "To arms!" they call; to arms 1fly, "Like Wolfe to conquer and like Wolfe to die!

"Soft!-the blood of murder'dlegions "Summons vengeance from the skies ; "Flaming towns, and ravag'd regions, "All in awful judgment rise! -“O then, innocently brave, "I will wrestle with the wave; "Lo! Commerce spreads the daring

sail, "And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.

"Blow ye breezes !-gently blowing, "Waft me to that happy shore, "Where, from fountains ever flowing, "Indian realms their treasures pour;

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