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and that for ten long years he wooed the Lady of the land. I told her how he pined: and ah! the deep, the low, the pleading tone, with which I sang another's love, interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes and modest grace; and she forgave me that I gazed too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn, that crazed the bold and lovely Knight; and that he crossed the mountain-woods, nor rested day nor night; that sometimes from the savage den, and sometimes from the darksome shade, and sometimes starting up at once in green and sunny glade, there came and looked him in the face an Angel beautiful and bright, and that he knew it was a Fiend, this miserable knight !—and that, unknowing what he did, he leaped amid a murderous band, and saved from outrage worse than death, the Lady of the land!—and how she wept and clasped his knees, and how she tended him in vain, and ever strove to expiate the scorn that crazed his brain; and that she nursed him in a cave; and how his madness went away, when on the yellow forest-leaves, a dying man he lay; his dying words- -But when I reached that tenderest strain of all the ditty, my faltering voice and pausing harp disturbed her soul with pity.

Her

All impulses of soul and sense, had thrilled my guileless Genevieve: the music, and the doleful tale, the rich and balmy eve: and hopes, and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng; and gentle wishes long subdued-subdued and cherished long. She wept with pity and delight, she blushed with love and virgin shame; and, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. bosom heaved-she stept aside, -as conscious of my look she steptthen suddenly, with timorous eye, she fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms; she pressed me with a meek embrace; and bending back her head, looked up, and gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love 'twas partly fear and partly 'twas a bashful art, that I might rather feel than see the swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears; and she was calm, and told her love with virgin pride ;— and so I won my Genevieve, my bright and beauteous bride!

XCIV. THE SWORD-CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.-Motherwell. "Tis not the gray hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere; 'tis not the fleet hound's course tracking the deer; 'tis not the light hoofprint of black steed or gray, though sweltering it gallop a long summer's day, which mete forth the lordships I challenge as mine;-Ha! ha! 'tis the good brand I clutch in my strong hand, that can their broad marches and numbers define. LAND GIVER! I kiss thee.Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth, gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth? but the pale fools wax mute when I point with my sword, east, west, north, and south, shouting, 'There am I lord!' Wold and waste, town and tower, hill, valley, and stream, trembling, bow to my sway in the fierce battle-fray, when the star that rules Fate, is this falchion's red gleam. MIGHT GIVER! I kiss thee.- -I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower and hall, I've drank the sweet music that bright lips let fall, I've hunted in greenwood, and heard small birds sing; but away with this idle and cold jargoning!--the music I love is the shout of the brave, the yell of the dying, the scream of the flying, when this arm wields Death's sickle, and garners the grave. JOY GIVER! I kiss thee.Far isles

of the ocean thy lightning hath known, and wide o'er the main-land thy horrors have shone. Great sword of my father, stern joy of his hand! thou hast carved his name deep on the stranger's red strand, and won him the glory of undying song. Keen cleaver of gay crests, sharp piercer of broad breasts, grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the strong! FAME GIVER! I kiss thee. In a love more abiding than that the heart knows, for maiden more lovely than summer's first rose; my heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee; in dreamings of gladness, thou'rt dancing, with me, brave measures of madness in some battle-field,-where armour is ringing, and noble blood springing, and cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk and shield. DEATH GIVER! I kiss thee.. The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart, and light is the faith of fair woman's heart; changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind, be the passions that govern weak woman's mind. But thy metal's as true as its polish is bright: when ills wax in number, thy love will not slumber; but, starlike, burns fiercer, the darker the night. HEART GLADDENER! I kiss thee. My kindred have perished by war or by wave-now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave. When the path of our glory is shadowed in death, with me thou wilt slumber below the brown heath thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it decay-while harps shall be ringing, and Scalds shall be singing the deeds we have done in our old fearless day. SONG GIVER! I kiss thee.

XCV. THE BATTLE OF ALBUERA.-Byron.

HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote, nor saved your brethren, ere they sank beneath tyrants, and tyrants' slaves?-The fires of death, the bale fires, flash on high;-from rock to rock each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury siroc; red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock!-Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands! his blood-red tresses deepening in the sun; with death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, and eye that scorcheth all it glares upon: restless it rolls; now fixed, and now anon, flashing afar,-and, at his iron feet, Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; for, on this morn, three potent nations meet, to shed, before his shrine, the blood he deems most sweet.

By Jove! it is a splendid sight to see for one who hath no friend nor brother there their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, and gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chace, but few the triumph share; the Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away-and Havoc, scarce for joy, can number their array!--Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; the shouts are--" France' Spain"

"Albion"- Victory!" The foe, the victim, and the fond ally, that fights for all, but ever fights in vain, are met--as if at home they could not die-to feed the crow on Talavera's plain, and fertilize the field, that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honoured fools! Yes--Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, the broken tools,-that tyrants cast away by myriads,

when they dare to pave their way with human hearts--to what?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? or call, with truth, one span of earth their own-save that, wherein, at last, they crumble bone by bone?

XCVI.-THE POLISH CHILDREN.-Miss Pardoe. FORTH went they from their fatherland, a fallen and fettered race, to find, upon a distant strand, their dark abiding place. Forth went they-not as freemen go with firm and fearless eye; but with the bowed mien of woe, as men go forth to die. The aged in their silver hair, the young in manhood's might, the mother with her infant care, the child in wild affright;-Forth went they all-a pallid band! -with many an anguished start: the chains lay heavy on their hand, but heavier on their heart! No sounds disturbed the desert air, but those of bitter woe; save when, at times, re-echoed there, the curses of the foe-When hark! another cry pealed out a cry of idiot glee; answered, and heightened, by the shout of the fierce soldiery! 'Twas childhood's voice! but, ah!-how wild, how demon like its swell! the mother shrieked, to hear her child give forth that soul-fraught yell! And fathers wrung their fettered hands beneath their maddening woe, while shouted out their infant bands shrill chorus to the foe! And curses deep and low were said, whose murmurs reached to Heaven; thick sighs were heaved-hot tears were shed, and woman-hearts were riven; as, heedless of their present woes, the children onward trod, and sang--and their young voices rose a vengeance-cry to God!

XCVII.-LUCY.-Wordsworth.

THREE years she grew, in sun and shower: then Nature said, "A lovelier flower on earth was never sown; this Child I to myself will take; she shall be mine, and I will make a Lady of my own. Myself will to my darling be both law and impulse: and with me the girl, in rock and plain, in earth and heaven, in glade and bower, shall feel an overseeing power to kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the Fawn, that wild with glee across the lawn or up the mountain springs; and hers shall be the breathing balm, and hers the silence and the calm of mute insensate things. The floating Clouds their state shall lend to her; fór her the willows bend; nor shall she fail to see, even in the motions of the Storm, grace that shall mould the Maiden's form by silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear to her; and she shall lean her ear in many a secret place where rivulets dance their wayward round; and Beauty, born of murmuring sound, shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight shall rear her form to stately height, her virgin bosom swell; such thoughts to Lucy I will give, while she and I together live here in this happy dell.' Thus Nature spake--the work was done-How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me this heath, this calm and quiet scene the memory of what has been, and never more will be!

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She dwelt among untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove; a maid whom there were none to praise, and very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know when Lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave and oh, the difference to me!

XCVIII-SAUL.-Byron.

THOU whose spell can raise the dead, bid the Prophet's form appear. -"Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom seer!" Earth yawned; he stood, the centre of a cloud; light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; his hand was withered, and his veins were dry; his foot, in bony whiteness glittered there, shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare. From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame, like caverned winds the hollow accents came.-Saul saw, and fell to earth.-as falls the oak at once, when blasted by the thunder-stroke!

"Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead? Is it thou, O king? Behold, bloodless are these limbs. and cold: such are mine; and such shall be thine to-morrow, when with me: ere the coming day be done, such shalt thou be, such thy son! Fare thee well, but for a day!-then we mix our mouldering clay; then thy race lie pale and low, pierced by shafts of many a bow; and the falchion by thy side to thy heart thy hand shall guide: crownless, breathless, headless, fall son and sire,-the house of Saul!”

XCIX. THE NORMAN BARON.-Longfellow.

In his chamber, weak and dying was the Norman baron lying; loud, without, the tempest thundered, and the castle-turret shook. In this fight was Death the gainer,-spite of vassal and retainer, and the lands his sires had plundered, written in the Doomsday Book. By his bed a Monk was seated, who in humble voice repeated many a prayer and Pater-noster, from the missal on his knee; and, amid the tempest pealing, sounds of bells came faintly stealing--bells, that from the neighbouring kloster rang for the Nativity. In the hall, the serf and vassal held that night their Christmas wassail; many a carol, old and saintly, sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen sang to slaves the songs of freemen, that the storm was heard but faintly knocking at the castle-gates. Till at length the lays they chanted reached the chamber terrorhaunted, where the Monk, with accents holy, whispered at the Baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, as he paused awhile and listened; and the dying Baron slowly turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly Stranger born and cradled in a manger! king, like David, priest like Aaron-Christ is born to set us free!" And the lightning showed the sainted figures on the casement painted; and exclaimed the shuddering Baron, "Miserere. Domine !"

In that hour of deep contrition, he beheld, with clearer vision, through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise. All the pomp of earth had vanished, falsehood and deceit were banished, reason spake more loud than passion, and the truth wore no disguise. Every vassal of his banner, every serf born to his manor, all those wronged and wretched creatures, by his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal he recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, and the Monk replied, "Amen."--Many centuries have been numbered since in death the Baron slumbered by the convent's sculptured portal, mingling with the common dust. But the good deed, through the ages living in historic pages, brighter grows and gleams immortal, unconsumed by moth or rust.

C.-VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.-Byron.

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THE king was on his throne, the Satraps thronged the hall; a thousand bright lamps shone o'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, in Judah deemed divine-Jehovah's vessels hold the godless Heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, the fingers of a hand came forth against the wall, and wrote as if on sand: the fingers of a man; a solitary hand along the letters ran, and traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, and bade no more rejoice; all bloodless waxed his look, and tremulous his voice. Let the men of lore appear, the wisest of the earth; and expound the words of fear, which mar our royal mirth." Chaldæa's seers are good, but here they have no skill; and the unknown letters stood untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age are wise and deep in lore; but now they were not sage, they saw-but knew no more A Captive in the land, a stranger and a youth, he heard the king's command, he saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, the prophecy in view; he read it on that night,-the morrow proved it true. "Belshazzar's grave is made--his kingdom passed away--he, in the balance weighed, is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state--his canopy, the stone; the Mede is at his gate--the Persian on his throne!"

CI. THE MEN OF OLD.-R. M. Münes.

I KNOW not that the men of old were better men than now, of heart more kind, of hand more bold, of more ingenuous brow: I heed not those who pine for force a ghost of Time to raise, as if they thus could check the course of these appointed days. Still it is true, and ever true, that I delight to close this book of life self-wise and new, and let my thoughts repose on all that humble happiness the world has since foregone,-the daylight of contentedness that on those faces shone! With rights, though not too closely scanned-enjoyed, as far as known, with will by no reverse unmanned,-with pulse of even tone; they from to-day and from to-night expected nothing more than yesterday and yesternight had proffered them before. To them was life a simple art of duties to be done; a game where each man took his part; a race that all must run; a battle whose great scheme and scope they little cared to know-content, as men at arms, to cope each with his fronting foe. Man now his virtue's diadem puts on and proudly wears; great thoughts, great feelings came to them like instincts, unawares: blending their souls' sublimest needs with tasks of every day, they went about their gravest deeds as noble boys at play.

And what if Nature's fearful wound they did not probe and bare, for that their spirits never swooned to watch the misery there, for that their love but flowed more fast, their charities more free? not conscious what mere drops they cast into the evil sea. A man's best things are nearest him, lie close about his feet; it is the distant and the dim that we are sick to greet: for flowers that grow our hands beneath we struggle and aspire; our hearts must die, except they breathe the air of fresh desire. Yet, Brothers, who up reason's hill advance with hopeful cheer,-O! loiter not, those heights are chill, as chill as they are clear; and still restrain your haughty gaze the loftier that ye go, remembering distance leaves a haze on all that lies below.

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