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He has taen three locks o' her yellow hair,
And he brought the harp to her father's hall,
He laid this harp upon a stone,
"O yonder sits my father, the king!
Was, "Woe to my sister, false Helen!"
CHAMBERS's SCOTTISH BALLADS.
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,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown meadow heather,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
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 beaming, 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,
Complaint of being Pestered by Bad
FROM THE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.
SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigued I said,
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
Is there a parson much bemused in beer,
A clerk fore-doomed his father's soul to cross,
Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
With honest anguish and an aching head;
"Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Obliged by hunger,—and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; "I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace; "I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libelled me-" but here 's a letter 'Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine; “He'll write a journal, or he 'll turn divine.”
Bless me! a packet.-" "T is a stranger sues, “A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.” If I dislike it, "furies, death, and rage If I approve," commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fired that the house reject him, "'S death I 'll print it, "And shame the fools-your interest, Sir, with Lintot."
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much :"
"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks:
At last he whispers, "Do, and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Now that the winter 's gone, the earth has lost