Identifier: balladslyrics02lodg (find matches)
Title: Ballads and lyrics
Year: 1880 (1880s)
Authors: Lodge, Henry C., (from old catalog) comp
Subjects:
Publisher: Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

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d hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone, and forever! Sir Walter Scott. HELYELLYN. 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 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. 4
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Lakes, mountains beneath me gleamed misty and weird. See p. 164. HELVELLYN. 165 How long didst thou think that his silence was slum-ber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thoustart ? 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 oerhim. No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. And thou, little guardian, alone stretched beforehim — Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart? 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 ;In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming.Far adown the lono- aisle sacred music is streamino*,Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. To lay down thy head like the meek m

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