Another Landseer "Attachment"
Sometime in 1805, a young man named Charles Gough, who had been hiking in the mountains of the Lake District of Scotland failed to return. For 3 months neither he nor his dog were seen. Then, one day the young man's body, weathered and decomposed but untouched by mountain animal or bird, was discovered on a rocky ledge. Beside it, keeping watch, was his faithful terrier, or so the story goes.
Sir Walter Scott immortalized the event in his poem "Helvellyn."
I climd'd the dark brow of mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh, 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 stretch'd before him -
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?
When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the rim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the court, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;
In proudly-arch'd 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, wilder'd, he drops from some huge cliff in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by the desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grave plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.
