Dark green was that 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: Not yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of his master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber-- When the wind waved his garments how oft didst thou start-- How many long days and long nights didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?-- And ah! was it meet that no requiem read o'er him; No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him; And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With escutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And the 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 long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some rock high in stature, And draws his last breath by the side of his dam: And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam. Charles Gough is said to have been a young gentleman of talent, and of an amiable disposition. His remains peacefully repose in the chapel-yard at Patterdale. THE REGATTA; OR, THE LOVERS OF DERWENTWATER. An annual regatta takes place on Derwentwater, when the several sports of racing, rowing, and wrestling, are maintained with great spirit.