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Her wasted form : Death gave her back a look
From the clear stream, but with so sweet a smile
That almost could she be in love with him.

the pool

If chance you met her, she would weep and say, ,
How fitting for a lover's grave
Would be, for there were nightingales to frame
A dirge for the departed, woods to guard
The secrets of the tomb, soft silvery waters
To kiss the buried as they glided by,
And spring to scatter sweets; then would she pause,
And say—the spot was meant to be her grave.
These are but idle records ;' but to hearts
Attuned to sympatby, the slightest word,
The slightest recollection of a friend
Or relative, on whom the grave hath closed,
And whom we long have valued, will awake,
As from a sleep of death, the drowsy thought.
Moons waned, and Ellen's virginal spring was nipp’d
I'the bud; her voice was gone, and had no strength
To
say

her heart was broken : but the cheek
Wan with the hue of thought, the hollow eye,
The tomb of dead expression, told a tale
Of wasting dissolution yet to be.

It came at last, the hour of parting came To Ellen and her sorrowing: the day Was bright, and on the western slopes the sun Pour'd a faint track of light: 'twas here they stood, Here on the mountainous steep, where the sweet girl First heard a lover's tale ; excellent well She knew the haunt, for often from that hour With lingering footstep bad she sought the spot, And worn a little path-way with her tread. She sought it now; for she believed that death Was gaining fast, and 'twould be treachery, She said, to die in other place than this. We met her as she rambled up the steep, And gazed as on an angel: onward still She pass’d, hymning a plaintive air to soothe The conflict of her young and broken heart;The sun set, and the night came glooming o’er In frowning majesty, meek twilight still Brighten'd the scene :-but Ellen's sun was set, To brighten ne'er again on earth ; she died On the dear spot she loved in life so much.

Now, sweet one, fare thee well! The spring shall bloom And

pass away, but thou shalt never see it;

The thrush shall sing. but thou shalt never hear it;
For thee in vain the deafening winter wind
Shall sound alarum on the wold, and call
From their dark caves his dreamy brotherhood :
Unbroken shall thy slumber be; but long
As the wild note of mountain pipe shall wake
The woodland echo, long as the cool wind
Shall flirt with the young cglantine-thy name
Shall be a thing of sweetness, blossoming
Like Sharon's rose in the wide wilderness.

A FISHING EXCURSION

AMONG THE

Black Mountains.

“ We three
Fishermen be."

OLD SONG.

On wandering through the village of LlandiloVauhr, which the natives in their simplicity dignify by the name of a town, it was our good fortune to espy a small travelling tent exposed to sale. It looked so completely the thing, that we could not resist the temptation of a purchase; and with due consideration to our worldly interests, emptied the wealthy breeches-pockets of our brother angler, Shenkin-ap-Morgan. Well, the tent was boughtpaid for—and consequently to be turned to account. In what way? you will perhaps ask. prose shall tell you as you read.”

“Go on, my

On returning to our cottage, a council of war (at the instigation of Drake Somerset, an ensign and brother angler, who was quartered with us at the time) was held on the propriety of making immediate trial of the tent in our next fishing excursion. No sooner said than done. There are some pusillanimous gentlefolks who always deliberate before they act; we always act before we deliberate, for it is with us as with the irritable, “the blow and the word,” by which vigorous process a world of consideration is saved,

After divers disputes, the 12th of July, anno domini 1821, was appointed for our excursion to Llynn-y-Van, or the pool among the Carmarthenshire Black Mountains. The previous time was spent in necessary preparations. Drake Somerset employed himself in making trout-flies from the plumes of an old military cap, while Shenkin wrought wonders in the way of tackle-mending. The kitchen, meanwhile, echoed with the beautifully blended hissings of roast and boiled, the shelves bent in graceful acknowledgment of their load, and the women-kind were up to their knees in the gore of defunct poultry.

The day at last arrived, “the great, the important day, big with the fate”-of us and of the trout. We rose, as agreed on over a jug of hot punch on

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