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rupted ascent, on the side of a green declivity. At the northern end of the vale there is another lake called Bassenthwaite closed in like a wedge between two mountains, and bounding the view; the vale with both its lakes opened upon us as we ascended. The second stage was infinitely more laborious, being so steep, though still perfectly safe, that we were many times forced to halt for breath, and so long that before we had completed it the first ascent seemed almost levelled with the vale. Having conquered this, the summit appeared before us, but an intervening plain, about a mile across, formed the third stage of the journey; this was easy travelling over turf and moss. The last part was a ruder ascent over loose stones with gray moss growing between them,-on the immediate summit there is no vegetation. We sat down on a rude seat formed by a pile of the stones, and enjoyed a boundless prospect, that is, one which extended as far as the reach of the human eye, but the distance was dim and indistinct. We saw the sea through a hazy atmosphere, and the smoke of some towns upon the coast about six leagues off, when we were directed where to look for them the Scotch mountains appeared beyond like clouds, and the Isle of Man, we were told, would have been visible had the weather been clearer. The home scene of mountains was more impressive, and in particular the lake of Bassenthwaite lying under a precipice beneath us. They who visit the summit usually scratch their names upon one of the loose stones which form the back to this rude seat. We felt how natural and how vain it was to leave behind us these rude memorials, which

so few could possibly see, and of those few in all human probability none would recognise,-yet we followed the example of our predecessors. There are three such seats upon the three points of the mountain; all which we visited. It is oftentimes piercingly cold here, when the weather is temperate in the vale.

This inconvenience we did not perceive, for the wind was in the south,-but it brought on rain as we were descending, and thoroughly wetted us before we reached home.

After dinner, as the rain still continued, and we could not go further from home, we went to see an exhibition of pictures of the lakes, a few doors distant. There were several views of one called Was. water, which is so little visited that our book of directions is silent concerning it. It seemed to us however to be of so striking a character, and so different from all which we have yet seen, that we consulted with our host concerning the distance and the best mode of getting there, and have accordingly planned a route which is to include it, and which we shall commence to

morrow.

The people here wear shoes with wooden soles. D., who had never seen any thing of the kind before, was inclined to infer from this that the inhabitants were behind the rest of England in improvement; till I asked him whether in a country so subject to rain as by experience we knew this to be, a custom which kept the feet dry ought not to be imputed to experience of its utility rather than to ignorance; and if, instead of their following the fashions of the south of England, the other peasantry would not do wisely in imitating them. 3 U 3 POETRY.

POETRY.

ODE for the NEW YEAR, 1806.

By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq. Poet-Laureat.

WH

WHEN ardent zeal for virtuous fame,
When virtuous honour's holy flame,
Sit on the gen rous warrior's sword,
Weak is the loudest lay the Muse can sing,
His deeds of valour to record;

And weak the boldest flight of Fancy's wing :--
Far above her high career,

Upborne by worth th' immortal chief shall rise,
And to the lay-coraptur'd ear

Of seraphs, list'ning from th' empyreal sphere,
Glory, her by mn divine, shall carol through the skies.

For though the Muse in all unequal strain
Sung of the wreaths that Albion's warriors bore
From ev'ry region and from ev'ry shore,
The naval triumphs of her George's reign-
Triumphs by many a valiant son

From Gaul Iberia, and Batavia won ;
Or by St. Vincent's rocky mound,
Or sluggish Texel's shoaly sound;
Or Haffnia's+ hyperborean wave,
Or where Canopus' billows lave

Th' Egyptian coast, while Albion's genius guides
Her dauntless hero through the fav'ring tides,
Where rocks, nor sands, nor tempests' roar,
Nor batteries thund'ring from the shore,

* Alluding to a poem called Naucratia, written by the author, and dedicated by permission to his majesty.

+ Copenhagen.

Arrest

1

Arrest the fury of his naval war,

When Glory shines the leading star;
Still higher deeds the lay recording claim,
Still rise Britannia's sons to more exalted fame.

The fervid source of heat and light,
Descending through the western skies,
Though veil'd awhile from mortal sight,
Emerging soon with golden beam shall rise,
In orient climes with brighter radiance shine,
And sow th' ethereal plains with flame divine.
So, damp'd by Peace's transient smile,
If Britain's glory seem to fade awhile,
Yet, when occasion's kindling rays
Relumine valour's gen'rous blaze,
Higher the radiant flames aspire,

And shine with clearer light, and glow with fiercer fire.

From Europe's shores th' insidious train,
Eluding Britain's watchful eye,

Rapid across th' Atlantic fly

To Isles that stud the western main ;
There proud their conqu'ring banners seem to rise,
And fann'd by shadowy triumphs, flout the skies :
But, lo! th' avenging Pow'r appears,

His victor flag immortal Nelson rears;
Swift as the raven's ominous race,

Fly the strong eagle o'er th' ethereal space,

The Gallic barks the billowy deep divide,

Their conquests lost in air, o'erwhelm'd in shame their pride.

The hour of vengeance comes-by Gades' tow'rs,
By high Trafalgar's ever-trophied shore,

The godlike warrior on the adverse Pow'rs

Leads his resistless fleet with daring prore.

Terrific as th' electric bolt that flies

With fatal shock athwart the thund'ring skies,
By the mysterious will of Heaven

On man's presuming offspring driven,

Full on the scatter'd foe he hurls his fires,

Performs the dread behest, and in the flash expires

But not his fame-While chiefs who bleed

For sacred duty's holy meed,

With glory's amaranthine wreath,

By weeping Veitory crown'd in death,

3 U 4

In

In History's awful page shall stand
Foremost amid th' heroic band;
Nelson! so long thy hallow'd name
Thy country's gratitude shall claim;
And while a people's Pæans raise
To thee the choral hymn of praise,
And while a patriot Monarch's tear
Bedews and sanctifies thy bier,

Each youth of martial hopes shall feel
True valour's animating zeal;

With emulative wish thy trophies see,
And heroes, yet unborn, shall Britain owe to thee.

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But o'er the renovated plain

See Maia lead her smiling train

Of halcyon hours along ;

While burst from every echoing grove

Loud strains of harmony and love,

Preluding to the choral song,

Which opening June shall votive pour

To hail with proud acclaim our Monarch's natal hour.

Still must that day, to Britain dear,

To Britons joy impart ;

Cloudy or bright, that day shall wear
The sunshine of the heart.

And as before the fervid ray

That genial glows in summer skies, Each cloud that veil'd the beam of day

Far from the azure welkin flies:

Se

So may each cheerless mist that seems
Awhile to cloud our prospects fair,
Dispell'd by Hope's enlivening beams,

Our brightening ether fly, and melt away in air.

Awhile though Fortune adverse frown-
By timid friends their cause betray'd,
With bosom firm and undismay'd,
On force depending all their own,

A living rampire round their parent Lord,
The British warriors grasp th' avenging sword ;
While youths of royal hope demand the fight,
To assert a Monarch and a Father's right.
United in one patriot band,

From Albion's, Erin's, Caledonia's land,
Elate in arms indignant shine

The kindred heroes of the Briton line,

To whelm invasion 'neath our circling flood,

Or stain our verdant fields with Gallia's hostile blood.

THE LAST MINSTREL.

(From the Lag of the Last Minstrel).

TH

By WALTER SCOTT, Esq.

HE way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day ;
The harp his sole remaining joy
Was carried by an orphan boy;
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.
For well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead ;
And he neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn ;
No longer courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay;

Old times were changed, old manners gone,
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ;

The

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