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So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young

Lochinvar.”
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,
“Now tread we a measure !” said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whisperd, “ 'Twere better by far,
To have match d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have you e'er heard of gallant like young

Lochinvar?

SIR W. SCOTT.

XIV.-ON THE DOWNFAL OF POLAND.
OA! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceas'd a while,
And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandours and her fierce hussars,
Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum and twang'd her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion, from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,
() Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save!-
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow men! our country yet remains !
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high !
And swear for her to live !--with her to die !

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death,—the watchword and reply;
Then peald the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm !

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :-
Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Clos'd her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And freedom shriek'd-as Kosciusko fell !

The sun went down, nor ceas'd the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook-red meteors flash'd along the sky, And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!

Oh! righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God;
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yok'd in wrath, and thunder'd from afar?
Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host
Of blood-stain’d Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heav'd an ocean on their march below 2

Departed spirits of the mighty dead !
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled !
Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,

And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot TELL—THE BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN!

CAMPBELL

XV.-THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden show'd another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet sound array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade;
And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ;
And volleying like the bolts of Heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery.
And redder still these fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
"Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
When furious Frank and

Hun
Shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens : On ye brave !
Who rush to glory and the grave.
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry.
Oh! few shall part where many meet ;
The snow shall be your winding sheet ;
And every turf beneath your feet
Shall mark the soldier's cemetery.

CAMPBELL

XVI.-APPROBATION, OR THE POWER OF PRAISE.

THERE is a voice of magic power

To charm the old, delight the young-
In lordly hall, in rustic bower,

In every clime, in every tongue.

Howe'er its sweet vibration rung,
In whispers low, in poet's lays,

There lives not one who has not hung
Enraptur'd on the voice of praise.
The timid child, at that soft voice,

Lifts for a moment's space the eye;
It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,

And stays the steps prepar'd to fiy:

'Tis pleasure breathes that short quick sigh, And flushes o'er that rosy face;

Whilst shame and infant modesty Shrink back with hesitating grace. The lovely maiden's dimpled cheek

At that sweet voice still deeper glows; Her quivering lips in vain would seek

To hide the bliss her eyes disclose;

The charm her sweet confusion shows Oft springs from some low broken word.

() praise! to her how sweetly flows Thine accent from the lov'd one heard ! The hero, when a people's voice

Proclaims their darling victor near, Feels he not then his soul rejoice,

Their shouts of love, of praise to hear ?

Yes ! fame to generous minds is dearIt pierces to their inmost core;

He weeps who never shed a tearHe trembles who ne'er shook before. The poet too-ah! well I deem,

Small is the need the tale to tell ; Who knows not that his thought, his dream,

On thee at noon, at midnight dwell ?

Who knows not that thy magic spell Can charm his every care away?

In memory cheer his gloomy cell, In hope can lend a deathless day? 'Tis sweet to watch affection's eye;

To mark the tear with love replete; To feel the softly-breathing sigh,

When friendship’s lips the tones repeat •

But oh! a thousand times more sweet
The praise of those we love to hear !

Like balmy showers in summer heat,
It falls upon the greedy ear.
The lover lulls his rankling wound,

By dwelling on his fair one's name;
The mother listens for the sound

Of her young warrior's growing fame.

Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame, Of her soul's wedded partner riven,

Who cherishes the hallow'd flame, Parted on earth to meet in heaven. That voice can quiet passion's mood :

Can humble merit raise on high; And from wise, and from the good,

It breathes of immortality !

There is a lip, there is an eye, Where most I love to see it shine;

To hear it speak, to feel it sighMy mother, need I say 'tis thine!

Miss MITFORD.

XVII.-CHARACTER OF A GOOD CLERGYMAN.

He bore his great commission in his look ;
But sweetly temper'd awe, and soften'd all he spoke.
He preach'd the joys of heaven, and pains of hell,
And warn’d the sinner with becoming zeal :
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell.
He taught the gospel rather than the law,
And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; while love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat:
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepard;
But, when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder, (Heaven's artillery),
As harbingers before the Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.

The proud he tam'd, the penitent he cheer'd;
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought
(A living sermon of the truths he taught ;)
For this by rules severe his life he squared,
That all might see the doctrine which they heard.
For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest,
(The gold of heaven, who bear the god impress'd ;)
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.

PRYDEN

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