These founts are dry, which used to pour
At pity's call the plenteous shower,
And not one tear supply:

The last on Laura's grave was shed,
And there, ere long, this aching head
In death's cold lap shall lie.

Dread tyrant! one fell shaft from thee
For ever fix'd iny destiny,

And robb'd my soul of bliss.
My fond, my dove-like maid is gone;
And thou, Ŏ parent earth! alone,
Can yield this bosom peace.

I mark'd her rose of life grow pale,
And endless slumber's shadowy veil
Her languid orbs o'ercast;

And while in ceaseless, fruitless prayer
I wearied Heaven my saint to spare,
She kiss'd, and breathed her last.

I caught, as faint it died away,
Her latest sigh, and sought to stay
Her spirit on its flight;

And press'd her chill damp lips to mine;
And frantic cursed that hand divine
Which closed her eyes in night.

I saw her chaste unspotted clay
Enhearsed, and pass in black array,
Slow, on the churchyard road :
And went and heard the burial rite;
And gazed, till lost, alas! to sight,
She fill'd her dark abode.

Thou too, Fate's helpmate, true to trust,'
I saw heap high the hallow'd dust,
And raise the narrow mound;
And heard the parting requiem toll'd,
And, deep'ning as its echoes roll'd,
O'er vaulted earth resound.

O oft invoked and envious power,
Yet fond, in fortune's dawning hour,
The ready stroke to give!
Why, on the happy and the gay,
Dost thou still urge thy fateful sway,
And leave the wretch to live?

But cease, my heart, this mournful tone;
Lo! from the tomb is comfort shown,-
Even death is kind at last :

He comes; and soon from misery free,
Yon warning knell, unheard by me,
Shall swell the sweeping blast.

And yet my seraph's grave is new,
Nor winter's rain, nor summer's dew
Have clothed the sod with green;
Nor has the snow-drop, flower of spring,
Meek Nature's virgin offering,

Been on its surface seen.

Nor yet, at her unconscious head,
The humble monument is laid,
Which bears her sacred name:
It waits till mine, engraven there,
Shall ask for two the generous tear
Which sorrow's victims claim.

Then, while our blended dust decays,
Round the low ridge, with pitying gaze,
The village muse shall stray,

And pluck the intrusive weeds that grow,
And weeping, as her numbers flow,
A pensive tribute pay.

Oft too the stranger, wandering by,
O'er the plain stone shall pause and sigh,
And dwell with humid eyes;

And note the epitaph, and think
How weak life's closest, tenderest link,

How slender earthly ties.

All this shall be, till on that stone
Mouldering with age, with moss o'ergrown,
The long rank grass shall wave;
Unknown whose relics rest below,
And scarce a vestige left to show
The place once bloom'd a grave.

I. U.

AN EXCURSION TO THE TOP OF SKIDDAW.

WE now pursued a path which is rendered very safe and pleasant since Gray's time, to the entrance of the valley of Borrowdale. Gray was so frightened at the terrific rocks that overhung the path, and the immense fragments that had been separated from them, and which nearly blocked up the way, that he went no farther than the farmer's at Grange. We, however, had no such obstacles to encounter; and, having crossed the outlet of the lake by a rustic bridge, we soon entered the romantic valley of Borrowdale. The wood winds about in every direction round the bases of the mountains: at times we seemed to be completely enclosed, and the eye in vain sought to find the probable place of an outlet. One spot in particular excited our admiration; it was a small valley, nearly circular, walled in closely by mountains, which rose to the height of nearly a thousand feet around it.

After proceeding two or three miles farther on, we came to the Bowder Stone. This is an immense rock, which many years ago was detached from the neighbouring cliff, and came thundering into the valley below. The place is easily discerned from which it was riven; and tremendous must have been the fall. It weighs many thousand tons, and is so singularly poised upon a very sharp edge, that persons on each side may shake hands together through a small hollow. Some poor people who inhabit a neighbouring cottage contrive to

pick up a living by showing it to visitors, and have made a sort of ladder, by which we ascended to the top.

There is a beautiful view from it of the valley, near its termination; the river is seen winding along, like a streak of light, through a highly cultivated and charming vale, closed up by the immense mountains of Eagle Crag, Langdale Pikes, and others, the names of which I cannot give you. The inhabitants rarely leave this peaceful seclusion-and seem to live in almost primitive simplicity. We now returned as far as Grange. Having been reading that part of Gray's journal the night before which alludes to Borrowdale, we just recollected the young farmer he mentions at Grange, who showed him such civilities. The passage is as follows:

"Here we met a civil young farmer, overseeing his reapers (for it is now oat-harvest), who conducted us to a neat white house in the village of Grange, &c. His mother and he brought us butter that Siserah would have jumped at, though not in a lordly dish; bowls of milk, thin oaten cakes, and ale; and we had carried a cold tongue thither with us. Our farmer was himself the man that last year plundered the eagles' eyrie: all the dale are up in arms on such an occasion, for they lose abundance of lambs yearly, not to mention hares, partridges, grouse," &c.-Just recollecting this, we ventured a question to the guide, if he remembered any thing of this young farmer; when, to our surprise, he said he knew him well, and that he was still living, and would be glad to see us. We accordingly went, and met with a very friendly reception from the old gentleman; he was sitting in his arm-chair, almost sinking under old age; but with all his faculties perfect; and his wife in another opposite to him, unable to leave her chair for the rheumatism;--they had lived together nearly half a century. He remembered Gray very well, described his fine piercing eye, and sharp countenance, and well remembered his fear of venturing any farther in Borrowdale. I read him that part of the journal which alluded to himself, and he

seemed pleased, but said there was one thing he should not forgive him for, viz. that Mr. Gray had forgotten to mention his name. I told him I would make him amends, as far as I could, should I ever publish my journal: he gave it me instantly-CALEB FISHER. He says, the estate on which he lives has been in the possession of this family for upwards of six hundred years; and that the name appears in the deed executed when the inhabitants of Borrowdale bought their freedom from two knights, to whom the estate had been given for some services performed in the Crusades. We took leave of the old gentleman, and once more embarked. Our course was on the west side of the lake. It was a beautiful evening indeed; calm and still; and the prospect all around us too magnificent for words to describe-Skiddaw was before us, clear to the very summit; and the view of this grand elevation induced us directly to agree with our guide for a journey of ascent, with the assistance of ponies. Four the next morning was the time fixed for our departure. The hour came, and with it our conductor punctual to a minute it was then dark, and seemed very cloudy; but the dalesman, accustomed to judge of the weather, assured us it would turn out fine; and we soon dressed and commenced our journey. In leaving the town on our ponies, we passed the house of R. Southey, Esq. who lives here much respected; and after going nearly five miles, came to the beginning of the ascent; the horses, however, kept their footing well:-they rested on their hind legs, and felt about with their fore feet till they had attained a secure footing;-then they sprung forwards. In this manner we proceeded some time, till we came to the foot of a very steep hill, which seemed to us to be the summit; but, on asking our guide, he told us that when we reached that point we should be about half-way. We summoned fresh spirits, and pushed on till we came to an ascent so steep, that we did not choose to sit, on the horses longer; so we dismounted and led them. About a mile from the top we came to more level ground, and here