Naught save a rope with running noose,
That dangling hangs up o'er your heade.
Percy's Reliques—Heir of Linne.
53. The mountains, the mountains! amidst them is your home;
To their pure and sparkling fountains impatiently you come;
Their bleak and towering summits invade the dark blue sky,
But o'er their rudest ridges your fancy loves to fly.
Dr. S. H. Dickson.
54. A lowly roof;
Thou know'st it well, and yet 'twill seem more low