Not free from boding thoughts awhile The shepherd stood: then makes his way Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human figure on the ground; The appall'd discoverer, with a sigh Looks round to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fall'n, that place of fear! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recall'd the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remember'd too the very day, On which the traveller pass'd this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been, through three months' space, A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain, that since that day, When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourish'd here through such long time, He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great, Above all human estimate. The melancholy circumstances connected with the death of Charles Gough have also been beautifully depicted by the powerful pen of Sir Walter Scott, who has paid a pleasing tribute to the "pilgrim of nature" in some highly pathetic stanzas, which, by the by, are rendered additionally interesting from the following anecdote connected with them:--"Our two charming poets, Walter Scott and Campbell, walking together" (says Ryan, in his _Poetry and the Poets_), "and speaking of this incident, each agreed, in the spirit of amicable rivalship, to make it the subject of a poem. Scott, on his way home, composed the following exquisite lines, which he sent the next day to Campbell, who returned them with this reply:--'I confess myself vanquished: if I were to live a thousand years, I could never write anything equal to this, on the same subject;' and he never attempted it." 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, Striding Edge round the Red Tarn was bending, And Catchedecam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in front was impending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer died.