PART VII

'This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree.

'He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak stump.

'The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk, "Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?"

'"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said-- "And they answer'd not our cheer! The planks look warp'd! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were

'"Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young."

'"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look"-- (The Pilot made reply) "I am a-fear'd"--"Push on, push on!" Said the Hermit cheerily.

'The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.

'Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reach'd the ship, it split the bay: The ship went down like lead.

'Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat.

'Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

'I moved my lips--the Pilot shriek'd And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit.

'I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see The Devil knows how to row.'

'And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

'"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" The Hermit crossed his brow. "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say-- What manner of man art thou?"

'Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.

'Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

'I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; The moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.

'What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!

'O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemèd there to be.

'O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!--

'To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay!

'Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

'He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

_THE HAUNTED PALACE_

I

In the greenest of our valleys, By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace, Radiant palace, reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion, It stood there; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair!

II

Banners--yellow, glorious, golden-- On its roof did float and flow (This, all this, was in the olden Time, long ago); And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A wingèd odour went away.

III

Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tunèd law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen.

IV

And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace-door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.

V

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate;) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

VI

And travellers now within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out for ever And laugh--but smile no more.

E. A. POE.

_THE BARD_

PINDARIC ODE

'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' --Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) And with a Master's hand and Prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert cave Sigh's to the torrent's aweful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay,

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

'Weave the warp, and weave the woof The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

'Mighty victor, mighty Lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warriour fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. The Swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising Morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening-prey.

'Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare, Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled Boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, Brothers, bending o'er the accursèd loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line: Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play. Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

'The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the Cherub-Choir Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, To triumph, and to die, are mine.' --He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

T. GRAY.

_SONG_

Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.

CHORUS

_Eleu loro_, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never!

CHORUS

_Eleu loro_, &c. Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

CHORUS

_Eleu loro_, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it,-- Never, O never!

CHORUS

_Eleu loro_, &c. Never, O never!

SIR W. SCOTT.

_KINMONT WILLIE_

O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope? How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, On Hairibee to hang him up?

Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.

They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back; They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.

They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him on to Carlisle castell, To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.

'My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, And whae will dare this deed avow? Or answer by the Border law? Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?'

'Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! There's never a Scot shall set ye free: Before ye cross my castle yate, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.'

'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie: 'By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,' he said, I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, But I paid my lawing before I gaed.'

Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper, In Branksome Ha' where that he lay, That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day.

He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- 'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 'But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be!

'O is my basnet a widow's curch? Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? Or my arm a lady's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly me!

'And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of Border tide? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Is Keeper here on the Scottish side?

'And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Can back a steed, or shake a spear?

'O were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle castell high, Tho' it were builded of marble stone.

'I would set that castell in a low, And sloken it with English blood! There's nevir a man in Cumberland Should ken where Carlisle castell stood.

'But since nae war's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be; I'll neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!'

He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd The laird of Stobs, I mean the same.

He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch; With spur on heel, and splent on spauld, And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.

There were five and five before them a', Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright; And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, Like warden's men, arrayed for fight.

And five and five, like a mason gang, That carried the ladders lang and hie; And five and five, like broken men; And so they reached the Woodhouselee.

And as we cross'd the Bateable Land, When to the English side we held, The first o' men that we met wi', Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde?

'Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?' Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell to me!' 'We go to hunt an English stag, Has trespass'd on the Scots countrie.

'Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?' Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell me true! 'We go to catch a rank reiver, Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch.'

'Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?' 'We gang to herry a corbie's nest, That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.'

'Where be ye gaun ye broken men?' Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell to me!' Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, And the never a word o' lear had he.

'Why trespass ye on the English side? Row-footed outlaws, stand!' quo' he; The nevir a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie.

Then on we held for Carlisle toun, And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd; The water was great and meikle of spait, But the niver a horse nor man we lost.

And when we reach'd the Staneshaw-bank, The wind was rising loud and hie; And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, For fear that they should stamp and nie.

And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, The wind began full loud to blaw; But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'.

We crept on knees, and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa'; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell To mount the first, before us a'.

He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead-- 'Had there not been peace between our lands, Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!

'Now sound out, trumpets!' quo' Buccleuch; 'Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!' Then loud the warden's trumpet blew-- '_O wha dare meddle wi' me?_'

Then speedilie to work we gaed, And raised the slogan ane and a', And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead, And so we wan to the castle ha'.

They thought King James and a' his men Had won the house wi' bow and spear; It was but twenty Scots and ten, That put a thousand in sic a stear!

Wi' coulters, and wi' fore-hammers, We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Until we cam to the inner prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie.

And when we cam to the lower prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie-- 'O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the morn that thou's to die?'

'O I sleep saft, and I wake aft; It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me; Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, And a' gude fellows that spier for me.'

Then Red Rowan has hente him up, The starkest man in Teviotdale-- 'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.

'Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!' he cried-- 'I'll pay you for my lodging maill, When first we meet on the Border side.'

Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont's airns played clang!

'O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 'I have ridden horse baith wild and wood; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.

'And mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 'I've pricked a horse out oure the furs; But since the day I backed a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!'

We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men, in horse and foot, Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.

Buccleuch has turned to Eden water, Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them thro' the stream.

He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he-- 'If ye like na my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!'

All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, He stood as still as rock of stane; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, When thro' the water they had gane.

'He is either himsell a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wadna have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie.'

MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.

_THE LAST MAN_

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its Immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulph of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,--the brands Still rested in their bony hands; In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by, Saying, 'We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.

'What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;-- Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrownèd king of day: For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts.

'Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again: Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe.

'E'en I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death-- Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,-- The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost!

'This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory,-- And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste-- Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God!'

T. CAMPBELL.

_IVRY_

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save our Lord the King!' 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.'

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies, upon them with the lance. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, 'Remember St. Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, 'No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

LORD MACAULAY.

_SIR PATRICK SPENS_

The king sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine: 'O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship of mine?'

O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee-- 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter, And sealed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea?'

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.'

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wedensday.

They hadna been a week, a week In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say:

'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.' 'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie!

'For I hae brought as much white monie As gane my men and me-- And I hae brought a half-fou' o' gude red gowd Ont o'er the sea wi' me.

'Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'Now ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm!

'I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn.

'O where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast; To see if I can spy land?'

'O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till ye get up to the tall top-mast: But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in.

'Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in.'

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in.

O laith laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang ere a' the play was play'd They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed That floated on the faem, And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair came hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white-- The maidens tore their hair; A' for the sake of their true loves-- For them they'll see na mair.

O lang lang may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!

And lang lang may the maidens sit, Wi' the goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves-- For them they'll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

_LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY_

Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a fairy's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean and sing A fairy's song.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew; And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighèd deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes-- So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss, And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide, The latest dream I ever dreamed, On the cold hill-side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors--death-pale were they all; Who cried, 'La Belle Dame Sans Mercy Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloom, With horrid warning gapèd wide; And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill-side.

And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering: Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

J. KEATS.

_THE CHILD AND THE SNAKE_

Henry was every morning fed With a full mess of milk and bread. One day the boy his breakfast took, And ate it by a purling brook. Which through his mother's orchard ran. From that time ever when he can Escape his mother's eye, he there Takes his food in th' open air. Finding the child delight to eat Abroad, and make the grass his seat, His mother lets him have his way. With free leave Henry every day Thither repairs, until she heard Him talking of a fine _grey bird_. This pretty bird, he said, indeed, Came every day with him to feed, And it loved him and loved his milk, And it was smooth and soft like silk. His mother thought she'd go and see What sort of bird this same might be. So the next morn she follows Harry, And carefully she sees him carry Through the long grass his heap'd-up mess. What was her terror and distress, When she saw the infant take His bread and milk close to a snake! Upon the grass he spreads his feast, And sits down by his frightful guest, Who had waited for the treat; And now they both began to eat. Fond mother! shriek not, O beware The least small noise, O have a care-- The least small noise that may be made, The wily snake will be afraid-- If he hear the lightest sound, He will inflict th' envenom'd wound.

--She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe, As she stands the trees beneath; No sound she utters; and she soon Sees the child lift up his spoon, And tap the snake upon the head, Fearless of harm; and then he said, As speaking to familiar mate, 'Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:' The snake then to the other side, As one rebukèd, seems to glide; And now again advancing nigh, Again she hears the infant cry, Tapping the snake, 'Keep further, do; 'Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you.' The danger's o'er--she sees the boy (O what a change from fear to joy!) Rise and bid the snake 'Good-bye;' Says he, 'Our breakfast's done, and I 'Will come again to-morrow day;' --Then, lightly tripping, ran away.

M. LAMB.

_TOM BOWLING_

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful below he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd; For though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft.

C. DIBDIN.

_THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES_

That way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves--one--two--and three-- From the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending,-- To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute. --But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now--now one-- Now they stop, and there are none: What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in th' eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure!

'Tis a pretty baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here, for neither Babe nor me, Other play-mate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space And this vale so blithe a place, Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood; And, among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside. Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out; Hung--head pointing towards the ground-- Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin! Prettiest Tumbler ever seen! Light of heart and light of limb; What is now become of Him? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy: Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety? Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature; Whatso'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show, Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks, Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Dora's face; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! And I will have my careless season, Spite of melancholy reason, Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. --Pleased by any random toy; By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy; I would fare like that or this, Find my wisdom in my bliss; Keep the sprightly soul awake; And have faculties to take, Even from things by sorrow wrought Matter for a jocund thought; Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

W. WORDSWORTH.

_THE PILGRIM_

Who would true valour see Let him come hither! One here will constant be, Come wind, come weather: There's no discouragement Shall make him once relent His first-avow'd intent To be a Pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round With dismal stories, Do but themselves confound: His strength the more is. No lion can him fright; He'll with a giant fight; But he will have a right To be a Pilgrim

Nor enemy, nor fiend, Can daunt his spirit; He knows he at the end Shall Life inherit:-- Then, fancies, fly away; He'll not fear what men say; He'll labour, night and day To be a Pilgrim.

J. BUNYAN.

_THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK_

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,-- I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more! My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-wingèd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

--But the seafowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

W. COWPER.

_THE EVE OF ST. JOHN_

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, He spurr'd his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear; He went not 'gainst the English yew, To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack[4] was braced, and his helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore; At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space, And his looks were sad and sour; And weary was his courser's pace, As he reach'd his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor Ran red with English blood; Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, His acton pierced and tore, His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,-- But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, His name was English Will.

'Come thou hither, my little foot-page; Come hither to my knee; Though thou art young, and tender of age, I think thou art true to me.

'Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true! Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, What did thy lady do?'

'My lady, each night, sought the lonely light, That burns on the wild Watchfold; For, from height to height, the beacons bright Of the English foemen told.

'The bittern clamour'd from the moss, The wind blew loud and shrill; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross To the eiry Beacon Hill.

'I watched her steps, and silent came Where she sat her on a stone; No watchman stood by the dreary flame; It burned all alone.

'The second night I kept her in sight, Till to the fire she came, And, by Mary's might! an Armed Knight Stood by the lonely flame.

'And many a word that warlike lord Did speak to my lady there; But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast And I heard not what they were.

'The third night there the sky was fair, And the mountain-blast was still, As again I watch'd the secret pair, On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

'And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve; And say, "Come this night to thy lady's bower; Ask no bold Baron's leave.

'"He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch; His lady is all alone; The door she'll undo, to her knight so true, On the eve of good St. John."

'"I cannot come; I must not come; I dare not come to thee; On the eve of St. John I must wander alone: In thy bower I may not be."

'"Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! Thou should'st not say me nay; For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, Is worth the whole summer's day.

'"And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair; So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St. John, I conjure thee, my love, to be there!"

'"Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, And the warder his bugle should not blow, Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, And my footstep he would know."

'"O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east! For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en; And there to say mass, till three days do pass, For the soul of a knight that is slayne."--

'He turn'd him around, and grimly he frown'd; Then he laugh'd right scornfully-- "He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight May as well say mass for me.

'"At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, In thy chamber will I be." With that he was gone, and my lady left alone, And no more did I see.'--

Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow, From the dark to the blood-red high; 'Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, For, by Mary, he shall die!'

'His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light; His plume it was scarlet and blue; On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, And his crest was a branch of the yew.'

'Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, Loud dost thou lie to me! For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, All under the Eildon-tree.'

'Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! For I heard her name his name; And that lady bright, she called the knight Sir Richard of Coldinghame.'

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow, From high blood-red to pale-- 'The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- So I may not trust thy tale.

'Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain, Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, That gay gallant was slain.

'The varying light deceived thy sight, And the wild winds drown'd the name; For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!'

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-grate, And he mounted the narrow stair, To the bartizan seat, where, with maids that on her wait, He found his lady fair.

That lady sat in mournful mood; Look'd over hill and vale; Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood, And all down Teviotdale.

'Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!' 'Now hail, thou Baron true! What news, what news, from Ancram fight? What news from the bold Buccleuch?'

'The Ancram moor is red with gore, For many a southern fell; And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, To watch our beacons well.'

The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said; Nor added the Baron a word: Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord.

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said-- 'The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave deep ... It cannot give up the dead!'--

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St. John.

The lady look'd through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there-- Sir Richard of Coldinghame!

'Alas! away, away!' she cried, For the holy Virgin's sake!'-- 'Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake.

'By Eildon tree, for long nights three, In bloody grave have I lain; The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, But, lady, they are said in vain.

'By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, Most foully slain, I fell; And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, For a space is doom'd to dwell.

'At our trysting-place, for a certain space, I must wander to and fro; But I had not had power to come to thy bower, Had'st thou not conjured me so.'--

Love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd; 'How, Richard, hast thou sped? And art thou saved, or art thou lost?' The Vision shook his head!

'Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; So bid thy lord believe: That lawless love is guilt above, This awful sign receive.'

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; His right upon her hand: The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorch'd like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four, Remains on that board impress'd; And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, Ne'er looks upon the sun: There is a monk in Melrose tower, He speaketh word to none.

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, That monk, who speaks to none-- That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron.

SIR W. SCOTT.

[4] The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe.

_LEADER HAUGHS_

Sing Erlington and Cowdenknowes where Homes had ance commanding, And Drygrange with the milk-white ewes, 'twixt Tweed and Leader standing. The bird that flees through Reedpath trees, and Gledswood banks ilk morrow, May chant and sing sweet Leader Haughs, and bonny howms of Yarrow. But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage his grief while life endureth, To see the changes of this age that fleeting time procureth, For mony a place stands in hard case, where blyth folk kenned nae sorrow, With Homes that dwelt on Leader braes, and Scott that dwelt on Yarrow.

MINSTREL BURN.

_EPITAPH ON A HARE_

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' russet peel, And, when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear, But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade He finds his long last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.

W. COWPER.

_BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE_

It fell about the Lammas tide, When the muir-men win their hay, The doughty Earl of Douglas rode Into England, to catch a prey.

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes, With them the Lindesays, light and gay; But the Jardines wald not with him ride, And they rue it to this day.

And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne, And part of Bambrough shire: And three good towers on Roxburgh fells, He left them all on fire.

And he march'd up to Newcastle, And rode it round about; 'O wha's the lord of this castle, Or wha's the lady o't?'

But up spake proud Lord Percy, then, And O but he spake hie! 'I am the lord of this castle, My wife's the lady gay!'

'If thou'rt the lord of this castle, Sae weel it pleases me! For, ere I cross the border fells, The tane of us sall die.'

He took a lang spear in his hand, Shod with the metal free, And for to meet the Douglas there, He rode right furiouslie.

But O how pale his lady look'd, Frae aff the castle wa', When down, before the Scottish spear, She saw proud Percy fa'.

'Had we twa been upon the green, And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell; But your sword sall gae wi' mee.'

'But gae ye up to Otterbourne And wait there dayis three; And, if I come not ere three dayis end, A fause knight ca' ye me.'

'The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn; 'Tis pleasant there to be; But there is nought at Otterbourne, To feed my men and me.

'The deer rins wild on hill and dale, The birds fly wild from tree to tree; But there is neither bread nor kale, To fend[5] my men and me.

'Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, Where you sall welcome be; And, if ye come not at three dayis end, A fause lord I'll ca' thee.'

'Thither will I come,' proud Percy said, 'By the might of Our Ladye!'-- 'There will I bide thee,' said the Douglas, 'My trowth I plight to thee.'

They lighted high on Otterbourne, Upon the bent sae brown; They lighted high on Otterbourne, And threw their pallions down.

And he that had a bonnie boy, Sent out his horse to grass; And he that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was.

But up then spake a little page, Before the peep of dawn-- 'O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, For Percy's hard at hand.'

'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! Sae loud I hear ye lie: For Percy had not men yestreen, To dight my men and me.

'But I hae dream'd a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Sky; I saw a dead man win a fight, And I think that man was I.'

He belted on his good braid sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the helmet good, That should have kept his brain.

When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wat he was fu' fain! They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain.

But Percy with his good braid sword, That could so sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, Till he fell to the ground.

Then he call'd on his little foot-page, And said--'Run speedilie, And fetch my ain dear sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomery.

'My nephew good,' the Douglas said, 'What recks the death of ane! Last night I dream'd a dreary dream, And I ken the day's thy ain.

'My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the braken bush, That grows on yonder lilye lee.

'O bury me by the braken bush, Beneath the blooming briar, Let never living mortal ken, That ere a kindly Scot lies here.'

He lifted up that noble lord, Wi' the saut tear in his e'e; He hid him in the braken bush, That his merrie men might not see.

The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew, But mony a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew.

The Gordons good, in English blood They steeped their hose and shoon; The Lindesays flew like fire about, Till all the fray was done.

The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other were fain; They swakked swords, and they twa swat, And aye the blude ran down between.

'Yield thee, O yield thee, Percy!' he said, 'Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!' 'Whom to shall I yield,' said Earl Percy, 'Now that I see it must be so?'

'Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; But yield thee to the braken bush, That grows upon yon lilye lee!'

'I will not yield to a braken bush, Nor yet will I yield to a briar; But I would yield to Earl Douglas, Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here.'

As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, He stuck his sword's point in the gronde; And the Montgomery was a courteous knight, And quickly took him by the honde.

This deed was done at Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, And the Percy led captive away. . . . . . .

MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.

[5] _Fend_, 'support.'

_LYCIDAS_

ELEGY ON A FRIEND DROWNED IN THE IRISH CHANNEL

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse, So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd urn; And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star, that rose, at evening, bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his west'ring wheel Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten flute, Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream! Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorrèd shears And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise,' Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; 'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glist'ring foil Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies; But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy meed.'

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beakèd promontory: They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotadès their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panopè with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flow'r inscribed with woe. 'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge!' Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake, 'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said; But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'

Return, Alphèus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flow'rets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks: Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes That on the green turf suck the honied showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! whilst thee the shores, and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide, Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves, Where other groves, and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing, in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay: At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue; To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

J. MILTON.

_ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD_

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Forgive, ye Proud, th' involuntary fault If Memory to these no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death!

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense, kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

'The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon agèd thorn.'

_The Epitaph_

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misr'y all he had, a tear: He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

T. GRAY.

_ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY_

This is the month, and this the happy morn Wherein the Son of heav'n's eternal king Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should release, And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty Wherewith He wont at Heav'n's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome Him to this His new abode, Now while the heav'n by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far, upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at His blessèd feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel quire, From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

THE HYMN

It was the winter wild While the heav'n-born Child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to Him Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathise: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw, Confounded that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But He, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace; She crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung, The hookèd chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood, The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng, And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sov'reign Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild oceàn, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.

The stars with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringèd noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heav'n and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shamefac'd night array'd; The helmèd Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.

Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung, Ana cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep,

Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time, And let the bass of Heav'n's deep organ blow; And with your nine-fold harmony Make up full consort to th' angelic symphony.

For if such holy song Inwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will set between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering: And Heav'n, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says, No, This must not yet be so, The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify; Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway, And wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs thro' the archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathèd spell Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flow'r-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; And moonèd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn. In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue: The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshow'r'd grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worship'd ark.

He feels from Juda's land The dreaded infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Not all the gods beside, Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.

So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to th' infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted Fayes Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending; Heav'n's youngest teemèd star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.

J. MILTON.

_WINTER_

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy Tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy Brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah, would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writh'd not at passèd joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbèd sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

J. KEATS.

_CHRISTABEL_

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock! Tu--whit!--Tu--whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch From her kennel beneath the rock Maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud: Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 'Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak, But moss and rarest misletoe; She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is, she cannot tell.-- On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek-- There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up to the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel! Jesu, Maria, shield her well! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak. What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck, and arms were bare: Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were; And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair. I guess, 'twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she-- Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now! (Said Christabel), And who art thou?

The lady strange made answer meet, And her voice was faint and sweet:-- Have pity on my sore distress, I scarce can speak for weariness. Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear, Said Christabel, How camest thou here? And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet Did thus pursue her answer meet:--

My sire is of a noble line, And my name is Geraldine: Five warriors seized me yestermorn, Me, even me, a maid forlorn: They choked my cries with force and fright, And tied me on a palfrey white. The palfrey was as fleet as wind, And they rode furiously behind. They spurred amain, their steeds were white; And once we crossed the shade of night.

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, I have no thought what men they be; Nor do I know how long it is (For I have lain entranced I wis) Since one, the tallest of the five, Took me from the palfrey's back, A weary woman, scarce alive. Some muttered words his comrades spoke: He placed me underneath this oak, He swore they would return with haste Whither they went I cannot tell-- I thought I heard, some minutes past, Sounds as of a castle bell. Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand And comforted fair Geraldine: O well bright dame may you command The service of Sir Leoline; And gladly our stout chivalry Will he send forth and friends withal To guide and guard you safe and free Home to your noble father's hall. She rose: and forth with steps they passed That strove to be, and were not, fast. Her gracious stars the lady blest, And thus spake on sweet Christabel; All our household are at rest, The hall as silent as the cell, Sir Leoline is weak in health And may not well awakened be, But we will move as if in stealth; And I beseech your courtesy This night, to share your couch with me.

They crossed the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; A little door she opened straight, All in the middle of the gate; The gate that was ironed within and without, Where an army in battle-array had marched out. The lady sank, belike through pain, And Christabel with might and main Lifted her up, a weary weight, Over the threshold of the gate: Then the lady rose again, And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear, They crossed the court: right glad they were. And Christabel devoutly cried To the lady by her side, Praise we the Virgin all divine Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! Alas, alas! said Geraldine, I cannot speak for weariness. So free from danger, free from fear, They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. The mastiff old did not awake, Yet she an angry moan did make! And what can ail the mastiff bitch? Never till now she uttered yell Beneath the eye of Christabel. Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: For what can ail the mastiff bitch?

They passed the hall, that echoes still, Pass as lightly as you will! The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying; But when the lady passed, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame; And Christabel saw the lady's eye, And nothing else saw she thereby, Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. O softly tread, said Christabel, My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, And jealous of the listening air They steal their way from stair to stair, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, And now they pass the Baron's room. As still as death with stifled breath! And now have reached her chamber door; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air, And not a moonbeam enters here. But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously, Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain, For a lady's chamber meet: The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below.

'O weary lady, Geraldine, I pray you, drink this cordial wine! It is a wine of virtuous powers; My mother made it of wild flowers.'

'And will your mother pity me, Who am a maiden most forlorn?' Christabel answered--'Woe is me! She died the hour that I was born. I have heard the grey-hair'd friar tell, How on her death-bed she did say, That she should hear the castle-bell Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. O mother dear! that thou wert here!' 'I would,' said Geraldine, 'she were!'

But soon with altered voice, said she-- 'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! I have power to bid thee flee.' Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? Why stares she with unsettled eye? Can she the bodiless dead espy? And why with hollow voice cries she, 'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine-- Though thou her guardian spirit be, Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.'

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, And raised to heaven her eyes so blue-- 'Alas!' said she, 'this ghastly ride-- Dear lady! it hath 'wilder'd you! The lady wiped her moist cold brow, And faintly said, ''Tis over now!'

Again the wild-flower wine she drank: Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, And from the floor whereon she sank, The lofty lady stood upright: She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countrèe.

And thus the lofty lady spake-- 'All they who live in the upper sky, Do love you, holy Christabel! And you love them, and for their sake And for the good which me befell, Even I in my degree will try, Fair maiden, to requite you well. But now unrobe yourself; for I Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.' Quoth Christabel, 'So let it be!' And as the lady bade, did she. Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe So many thoughts moved to and fro, That vain it were her lids to close; So half-way from the bed she rose, And on her elbow did recline To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, And slowly roll'd her eyes around; Then drawing in her breath aloud Like one that shudder'd, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast: Her silken robe, and inner vest, Dropt to her feet, and full in view, Behold! her bosom and half her side---- A sight to dream of, not to tell! O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; Ah! what a stricken look was hers! Deep from within she seems half-way To lift some weight with sick assay, And eyes the maid and seeks delay; Then suddenly, as one defied, Collects herself in scorn and pride, And lay down by the maiden's side!-- And in her arms the maid she took, Ah well-a-day! And with low voice and doleful look These words did say: 'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; But vainly thou warrest, For this is alone in Thy power to declare, That in the dim forest Thou heard'st a low moaning, And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair; And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'

S. T. COLERIDGE.

_YARROW UNVISITED_

1803

From Stirling Castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travell'd; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my 'winsome Marrow,' 'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow.'

'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land Made blythe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow?

'What's Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder.' --Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; My true-love sigh'd for sorrow, And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow!

'Oh! green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow.

'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-Mill meadow; The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow.

'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow!

'If care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,-- Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow!'

W. WORDSWORTH.

_YARROW VISITED_

_September 1814_

And is this--Yarrow?--This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream, An image that hath perished? O that some minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why?--a silvery current flows With uncontroll'd meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning. The Water-wraith ascended thrice-- And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation: Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated Nature; And rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in, For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of studious ease and generous cares, And every chaste affection!

How sweet on this autumnal day The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my true-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own? 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.

I see--but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of Fancy still survives-- Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-- Sad thought, which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me--to heighten joy And cheer my mind in sorrow.

W. WORDSWORTH.

_SIR HUGH; OR, THE JEW'S DAUGHTER_

Yesterday was brave Hallowday, And, above all days of the year, The schoolboys all got leave to play, And little Sir Hugh was there.

He kicked the ball with his foot, And kepped it with his knee, And even in at the Jew's window, He gart the bonnie ba' flee.

Out then came the Jew's daughter 'Will ye come in and dine?' 'I winna come in and I canna come in, Till I get that ball of mine.

'Throw down that ball to me, maiden, Throw down the ball to me.' 'I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh, Till ye come up to me.'

She pu'd the apple frae the tree, It was baith red and green, She gave it unto little Sir Hugh, With that his heart did win.

She wiled him into ae chamber, She wiled him into twa, She wiled him into the third chamber, And that was warst o't a'.

She took out a little penknife, Hung low down by her gair, She twined this young thing o' his life, And a word he ne'er spak mair.

And first came out the thick, thick blood, And syne came out the thin, And syne came out the bonnie heart's blood There was nae mair within.

She laid him on a dressing-table, She dress'd him like a swine, Says, 'Lie ye there, my bonnie Sir Hugh, Wi' ye're apples red and green.'

She put him in a case of lead, Says, 'Lie ye there and sleep;' She threw him into the deep draw-well Was fifty fathom deep.

A schoolboy walking in the garden, Did grievously hear him moan, He ran away to the deep draw-well And on his knee fell down.

Says 'Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh, I pray you speak to me; If you speak to any body in this world, I pray you speak to me.'

When bells were rung and mass was sung, And every body went hame, Then every lady had her son, But Lady Helen had nane.

She rolled her mantle her about, And sore, sore did she weep; She ran away to the Jew's castle When all were fast asleep.

She cries, 'Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, I pray you speak to me; If you speak to any body in this world, I pray you speak to me.'

'Lady Helen, if ye want your son, I'll tell ye where to seek; Lady Helen, if ye want your son, He's in the well sae deep.'

She ran away to the deep draw-well, And she fell down on her knee; Saying, 'Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, I pray ye speak to me, If ye speak to any body in the world, I pray ye speak to me.'

'Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother The well it is wondrous deep, The little penknife sticks in my throat, And I downa to ye speak.

'But lift me out o' this deep draw-well, And bury me in yon churchyard; Put a Bible at my head,' he says, 'And a testament at my feet, And pen and ink at every side, And I'll lie still and sleep.

'And go to the back of Maitland town, Bring me my winding-sheet; For it's at the back of Maitland town That you and I sall meet.'

O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom The broom that makes full sore; A woman's mercy is very little, But a man's mercy is more.

ANONYMOUS.

_A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE_

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, _Every nighte and alle_, Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte, _And Christe receive thye saule_.

When thou from hence away art paste, _Every nighte and alle_, To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste, _And Christe receive thye saule_.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, _Every nighte and alle_, Sit thee down and put them on, _And Christe receive thye saule_.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, _Every nighte and alle_, The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane; _And Christe receive thye saule_.

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, _Every nighte and alle_, To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste, _And Christe receive thye saule._

* * * * *

From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe, _Every nighte and alle_, To Purgatory fire thou comest at last, _And Christe receive thye saule_.

If ever thou gavest meat or drink, _Every nighte and alle_, The fire sall never make thee shrinke, _And Christe receive thye saule_.

If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, _Every nighte and alle_, The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; _And Christe receive thye saule_.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, _Every nighte and alle_, Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte, _And Christe receive thye saule_.

_THE RED FISHERMAN; OR, THE DEVIL'S DECOY_

'Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified.'--_Romeo and Juliet._

The Abbot arose, and closed his book, And donned his sandal shoon, And wandered forth, alone, to look Upon the summer moon: A starlight sky was o'er his head, A quiet breeze around; And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed, And the waves a soothing sound: It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught But love and calm delight; Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought On his wrinkled brow that night.

He gazed on the river that gurgled by, But he thought not of the reeds; He clasped his gilded rosary, But he did not tell the beads; If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke The Spirit that dwelleth there; If he opened his lips, the words they spoke Had never the tone of prayer. A pious priest might the Abbot seem, He had swayed the crozier well; But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, The Abbot were loath to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more He traced the windings of the shore. Oh, beauteous is that river still, As it winds by many a sloping hill, And many a dim o'erarching grove, And many a flat and sunny cove, And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades The honeysuckle sweetly shades, And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers, So gay they are with grass and flowers! But the Abbot was thinking of scenery About as much, in sooth, As a lover thinks of constancy, Or an advocate of truth. He did not mark how the skies in wrath Grew dark above his head; He did not mark how the mossy path Grew damp beneath his tread; And nearer he came, and still more near, To a pool, in whose recess The water had slept for many a year Unchanged and motionless; From the river-stream it spread away The space of half a rood; The surface had the hue of clay And the scent of human blood; The trees and the herbs that round it grew Were venomous and foul, And the birds that through the bushes flew Were the vulture and the owl; The water was as dark and rank As ever a company pumped, And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped; And bold was he who thither came At midnight, man or boy, For the place was cursed with an evil name, And that name was 'The Devil's Decoy!'

The Abbot was weary as abbot could be, And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree: When suddenly rose a dismal tone,-- Was it a song, or was it a moan?-- 'O ho! O ho! Above,--below,-- Lightly and brightly they glide and go! The hungry and keen on the top are leaping, The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping; Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy, Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy! In a monstrous fright, by the murky light, He looked to the left and he looked to the right, And what was the vision close before him, That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him? 'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise, And the life-blood colder run: The startled Priest struck both his thighs, And the abbey clock struck one!

All alone, by the side of the pool, A tall man sat on a three-legged stool, Kicking his heels on the dewy sod, And putting in order his reel and rod; Red were the rags his shoulders wore, And a high red cap on his head he bore; His arms and his legs were long and bare; And two or three locks of long red hair Were tossing about his scraggy neck, Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck. It might be time, or it might be trouble, Had bent that stout back nearly double, Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets That blazing couple of Congreve rockets, And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin Till it hardly covered the bones within. The line the Abbot saw him throw Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago. And the hands that worked his foreign vest Long ages ago had gone to their rest: You would have sworn, as you looked on them, He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Minnow or gentle, worm or fly,-- It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye; Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem, And its shape was the shape of a diadem. It was fastened a gleaming hook about By a chain within and a chain without; The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin, And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!

From the bowels of the earth Strange and varied sounds had birth: Now the battle's bursting peal, Neigh of steed, and clang of steel; Now an old man's hollow groan Echoed from the dungeon stone; Now the weak and wailing cry Of a stripling's agony!-- Cold by this was the midnight air

But the Abbot's blood ran colder, When he saw a gasping Knight lie there, With a gash beneath his clotted hair, And a hump upon his shoulder. And the loyal churchman strove in vain To mutter a Pater Noster; For he who writhed in mortal pain Was camped that night on Bosworth plain-- The cruel Duke of Gloster!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a haunch of princely size, Filling with fragrance earth and skies. The corpulent Abbot knew full well The swelling form, and the steaming smell: Never a monk that wore a hood Could better have guessed the very wood Where the noble hart had stood at bay, Weary and wounded, at close of day.

Sounded then the noisy glee Of a revelling company,-- Sprightly story, wicked jest, Rated servant, greeted guest, Flow of wine and flight of cork, Stroke of knife and thrust of fork: But, where'er the board was spread, Grace, I ween, was never said!-- Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat; And the Priest was ready to vomit, When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat, And a nose as red as a comet. 'A capital stew,' the Fisherman said, 'With cinnamon and sherry!' And the Abbot turned away his head, For his brother was lying before him dead The Mayor of St. Edmund's Bury!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a bundle of beautiful things,-- A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings, A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl, A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl, And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours rolled, That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted. And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.

Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, Stifled whispers, smothered sighs, And the breath of vernal gales, And the voice of nightingales: But the nightingales were mute, Envious, when an unseen lute Shaped the music of its chords Into passion's thrilling words: 'Smile, Lady, smile! I will not set Upon my brow the coronet.

Till thou wilt gather roses white To wear around its gems of light. Smile, Lady, smile!--I will not see Rivers and Hastings bend the knee, Till those bewitching lips of thine Will bid me rise in bliss from mine. Smile, Lady, smile! for who would win A loveless throne through guilt and sin? Or who would reign o'er vale and hill, If woman's heart were rebel still?'

One jerk, and there a lady lay, A lady wondrous fair; But the rose of her lip had faded away, And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay, And torn was her raven hair. 'Ah, ha!' said the Fisher, in merry guise, 'Her gallant was hooked before;' And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs, For oft he had blessed those deep-blue eyes, The eyes of Mistress Shore!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Many the cunning sportsman tried, Many he flung with a frown aside; A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest, Jewels of lustre, robes of price, Tomes of heresy, loaded dice, And golden cups of the brightest wine That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre, As he came at last to a bishop's mitre!

From top to toe the Abbot shook, As the Fisherman armed his golden hook, And awfully were his features wrought By some dark dream or wakened thought. Look how the fearful felon gazes On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry With the thirst which only in death shall die: Mark the mariner's frenzied frown As the swirling wherry settles down, When peril has numbed the sense and will, Though the hand and the foot may struggle still:

Wilder far was the Abbot's glance, Deeper far was the Abbot's trance: Fixed as a monument, still as air, He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer But he signed--he knew not why or how,-- The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow. There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he stalked away with his iron box. 'O ho! O ho! The cock doth crow; It is time for the Fisher to rise and go. Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine! He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line; Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!'

The Abbot had preached for many years With as clear articulation As ever was heard in the House of Peers Against Emancipation: His words had made battalions quake, Had roused the zeal of martyrs, Had kept the Court an hour awake, And the King himself three-quarters: But ever since that hour, 'tis said, He stammered and he stuttered, As if an axe went through his head With every word he uttered. He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, He stuttered drunk or dry; And none but he and the Fisherman Could tell the reason why!

W. M. PRAED.

_BOADICEA_

AN ODE

When the British warrior-queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Ev'ry burning word he spoke, Full of rage and full of grief.

'Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.

'Rome shall perish--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt.

'Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-- Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.

'Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

'Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

'Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow, Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heav'n awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you.

W. COWPER.

_ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT_

_FROM ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES_ [1831]

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height; Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

W. WORDSWORTH.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 13 Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 81 Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, 265 Ah! what avails the sceptred race, 72 A lake and a fairy boat, 87 Allen-a-dale has no fagot for burning, 126 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 255 And is this--Yarrow?--This the Stream, 324 Annan Water's wading deep, 178 Arethusa arose, 191 As I was walking all alane, 78 As it fell upon a day, 206 A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 6 As slow our ship her foamy track, 65 At midnight, in the month of June, 207 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 343 Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise, 167 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 164 A weary lot is thine fair maid, 194

Behold her, single in the field, 90 Bird of the wilderness, 198 By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 63

Come live with me and be my love, 135 Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 94 Could love for ever, 71

Down in yon garden sweet and gay, 163

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see, 89 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 92 Fair stood the wind for France, 18 Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 199 From Stirling Castle we had seen, 322 Full fathom five thy father lie, 71

Good people all, of every sort, 38

Hail to thee, blithe spirit, 203 Hear what Highland Nora said, 17 Helen, thy beauty is to me, 198 Hence, loathèd Melancholy, 144 Hence, vain deluding Joys, 150 Henry was every morning fed, 268 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 270 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 285 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 88

I am monarch of all I survey, 276 If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 121 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 100 I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 128 I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 182 In a drear-nighted December, 311 In the greenest of our valleys, 240 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 142 I remember, I remember, 3 It fell about the Lammas tide, 286 It is an ancient Mariner, 215 It was a' for our rightfu' King, 68 It was many and many a year ago, 96 It was the schooner Hesperus, 46 I've heard them lilting, at the ewe-milking, 137 I wandered lonely as a cloud, 119 I wish I were where Helen lies, 115

John Gilpin was a citizen, 28

Little Lamb, who made thee? 4 Look not thou on beauty's charming, 73 Loving friend, the gift of one, 51

Merry it is in the good greenwood, 55 Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 86

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 108 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, 257

O blithe New-comer! I have heard, 113 O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 40 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 62 Of Nelson and the North, 43 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 8 Oft in the stilly night, 184 O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde, 248 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story, 111 Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, 211 O listen, listen, ladies gay, 213 O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 66 _Once_ it smiled a silent dell, 107 On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest, 109 On Linden, when the sun was low, 36 Orpheus with his lute made trees, 77 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, 27 O, wert thou in the cauld blast, 61 O where have you been, my long, long love, 102 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, 45

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, 176 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 82 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 92

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, 80

Ruin seize thee, ruthless King, 243

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 67 Sing Erlington and Cowdenknowes where Homes had ance commanding, 284 Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king, 210 So, we'll go no more a roving, 181

Tell me not (sweet) I am unkind, 102 That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 94 That way look, my Infant, lo! 271 The Abbot arose, and closed his book, 331 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 82 The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 278 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 298 The day is done, and the darkness, 192 The dews of summer night did fall, 200 The glories of our blood and state, 177 The harp that once through Tara's halls, 70 The king sits in Dunfermline toun, 259 The Love that I have chosen, 106 The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 68 The mountain sheep are sweeter, 187 The noon was shady, and soft airs, 50 The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade, 95 The skies they were ashen and sober, 138 The sun descending in the west, 5 The sun upon the lake is low, 74 The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 123 There is a garden in her face, 176 There lived a wife at Usher's Well, 124 They shot him dead on the Nine-Stone Rig, 111 This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 330 This is the month, and this the happy morn, 303 Thou wast all to me, love, 79 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 312 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won, 129 Twist ye, twine ye! even so, 101

Under a spreading chestnut tree, 37

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 12 We sat within the farm-house old, 185 We walked along, while bright and red, 195 We wander'd to the pine forest, 159 When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte, 171 When icicles hang by the wall, 95 When Love with unconfinèd wings, 117 When maidens such as Hester die, 120 When my mother died I was very young, 16 When the British warrior-queen, 341 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 161 When the voices of children are heard on the green, 1 Where shall the lover rest, 247 Where the bee sucks, there suck I, 181 Where the pools are bright and deep, 2 Where the remote Bermudas ride, 183 While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, 85 Whither, 'midst falling dew, 179 Who is Silvia? what is she, 73 Who would true valour see, 274 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie, 156 With sweetest milk and sugar first, 25

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, 64 Ye Mariners of England, 22 Yesterday was brave Hallowday, 326 Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 291 You meaner beauties of the night, 175

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.

AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW