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SIR WALTER SCOTT.
All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was And more stately thy couch by this desert lake velling,
lying, And starting around me the echoes replied. Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, On the right, Striden Edge round the Red Tarn With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, was bending,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
CEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS
FATHER. Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain
(The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church heather,
of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cour de Lion, who Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in on behulding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly
reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the decay,
means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.) Like the corpseofan outcast abandoned to weather,
TORCHES were blazing clear, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
In the church of Fontevraud.
And warriors slept beneath,
On the settled face of death.
On the settled face of death When the wind waved his garment, how oft
A strong and ruddy glare, didst thou start ? How many long days and long nights didst thou Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, number
Yet it fell still brightest there; Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? As if ench deeply furrowed trace
Of earthly years to show, And, 0, was it meet that - no requiem read
Alas! that sceptred mortal's race o'er him,
Had surely closed in woe! No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
The marble floor was swept And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before
By many a long dark stole, him
As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?
Sang mass for the parted soul ;
And solemn were the strains they poured When a prince to the fate of the Peasant has
Through the stillness of the night, yielded,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted
And the silent king in sight. hall, With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, There was heard a heavy clang,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : As of steel-girt men the tread, Through the courts, at deep midnight, the And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang torches are gleaming;
With a sounding thrill of dread ; In the proudly arched chapel the banners are And the holy chant was hushed awhile, beaming ;
As, by the torch's flame, Far adown the long aisle sacred music is stream. A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle ing,
With a mail-clad leader came. Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.
He came with haughty look, But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
An eagle glance and clear ; To lay down thy head like the meek mountain But his proud heart through its breastplate shook lamb,
When he stood beside the bier ! When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge He stood there still with a drooping brow, in stature,
And clasped hands o'er it raised ; And draws his last sob by the side of his for his father lay before him low, dam.
It was Cæur de Lion gazed !
“ Thou wert the noblest king
His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, On royal throne ere seen ;
his cheek's hue came and went ; And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and Of all, the stateliest mien ;
there, dismounting, bent ; And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand In war, the bravest heart,
he took, O, ever the renowned and loved
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit Thou wert, - and there thou art !
“Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!
And climbed thy parent knee !
That hand was cold, a frozen thing, - it
dropped from his like lead ! ! He looked up to the face above, - the face was
of the dead !
A plume waved o'er the noble brow, the brow | The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, - give was fixed and white;
answer, where are they? He met, at last, his father's eyes, but in them If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life was no sight!
through this cold clay ;
Up from the ground he sprang and gazed ; but
who could paint that gaze ? They hushed their very hearts that saw its hor
ror and amaze : They might have chained him, as before that stony
forin he stood ; For the power was stricken from his arm, and
from his lip the blood.
XII. “Into these glassy eyes put light; -- be still !
keep down thine ire ! Bid these white lips a blessing speak, — this earth
is not my sire : Give me back him for whom I strove, - for whom
my blood was shed. Thou canst not ? --- and a king !- his dust be
mountains on thy head !”
“Father !" at length, he murmured low, and wept like childhood then :
He loosed the steed, — his slack hand fell ; upon Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of
the silent face warlike men !
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his
from that sad place. young renown;
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in He flung his falchion from his side, and in the
martial strain : dust sat down.
His banner led the spears no more amidst the
hills of Spain. VIII. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his
darkly mournful brow, “No more, there is no more," he said, “to lift THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.
the sword for now; My king is false, -- my hope betrayed! My fa THERE was music on the midnight : ther, - ( the worth,
From a royal fane it rolled,
Sternly and slowly tolled.
It hushed the listener's breath ; “I thought to stand where banners waved, my
For the music spoke of triumph high, sire, beside thee, yet ; I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's
The lonely bell, of death. free soil had met!
There was hurrying through the midnight, Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then ; for
A sound of many feet ; thee my fields were won ;
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness
Along the shadowy street :
As it neared the minster gate,
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed seized the monarch's rein,
From a scene of royal state. Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ;
Full glowed the strong red radiance
In the centre of the nave, And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rear
Where the folds of a purple canopy ing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face, — the king be
Swept down in many a wave ; fore the dead :
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom,
For something lay midst their fretted gold “Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's Like a shadow of the tomb.
hand to kiss ? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell And within that rich pavilion, me what is this?
High on a glittering throne,
A woman's form sat silently,
Midst the glare of light alone. Her jewelleu robes fell strangely still,
The drapery on her breast Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill,
So stonelike was its rest !
But a peal of lordly music
Shook e'en the dust below,
Was set on her pallid brow !
And from the encircling band
With homage to her hand.
Why passed a faint, cold shuddering
Over each martial frame,
Noble and leader came ?
Did not a queenly grace,
Sit on the pale still face?
Death ! death! canst thou be lovely
Unto the eye of life? Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife ? – It was a strange and fearful sight,
The crown upon that head, The glorious robes, and the blaze of light,
All gathered round the Dead !
And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compressed,
Lest the strong heart should fail : King Pedro, with a jealous eye,
Watching the homage done, By the land's flower and chivalry,
To her, his martyred one.
But on the face he looked not,
Which once his star had been ;
Save of the breathless queen ;
Of her beauty still was there,
It was not for him to bear.
Alas! the crown, the sceptre,
The treasures of the earth,
Alike of wasted worth !
Unto the chamber deep!
Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with the dust to sleep !
There is music on the midnight,
A requiem sad and slow,
In dark procession go ;
And all the rich array,
With her, that queen of clay.
And tearlessly and firmly
King Pedro led the train ;
When they lowered the dust again. 'Tis hushed at last the tomb above,
Hymns die, and steps depart :
Mightier thou wast and art.
The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day; But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain, For the sons of Alknomook will never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! Why so slow ? do you wait till I shrink from the
pain ? No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation
away. Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain ; But the son of Alknomook can never complain.
I go to the land where my father is gone ;
pain; And thy son, 0 Alknomook ! has scorned to com
THE FEMALE CONVICT.
Sie shrank from all, and her silent mood
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK."
She still was young, and she had been fair ;
QUEEN. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color From the sallow cheek, save over it came
off, The burning flush of the spirit's shame.
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids They were sailing o'er the salt sea-foam,
Seck for thy noble father in the dust : Far from her country, far from her home;
Thou know'st 't is common, — all that live must And all she had left for her friends to keep
die, Was a name to hide and a memory to weep!
Passing through nature to eternity. And her future held forth but the felon's lot,
HAMLET. Ay, madam, it is common. To live forsaken, to die forgot !
If it be, She could not weep, and she could not pray, But she wasted and withered from day to day,
Why seems it so particular with thee?
Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is; I know not Till you might have counted each sunken vein, When her wrist was prest by the iron chain ;
'T is not alone my inky clonk, good mother, And sometimes I thought her large dark eye Had the glisten of red insanity.
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, She called me once to her sleeping-place,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, A strange, wild look was upon her face,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage, Her eye flashed over her cheek so white,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight,
That can denote me truly : these, indeed, seein, And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,
For they are actions that a man might play : The sound from mine ear hath never gone!
But I have that within, which passeth show ; “I had last night the loveliest dream :
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. My own land shone in the summer beam, I saw the fields of the golden grain, I heard the reaper's harvest strain ; There stood on the hills the green pine-tree,
SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. And the thrush and the lark sang merrily.
FROM "HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK." A long and a weary way I had come ;
HAMLET. To be, or not to be, – that is the But I stopped, methought, by mineown sweet home. I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there,
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, But he closed the book to welcome me.
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, He led me next where my mother lay,
And, by opposing, end them ? --- To die, – to And together we knelt by her grave to pray,
sleep; And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear,
No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end For it echoed one to my young days dear.
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled, That flesh is heir to, - 't is a consummation
to sleep ; And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead? Devoutly to be wished. To die, We have not spoken, but still I lave hung
To sleep! perchance to dream : — ay, there's the On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue.
rub; To me they are music, to me they recall
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, The things long hidden by Memory's pall !
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Take this long curl of yellow hair,
Must give us pause : there's the respect And give it my father, and tell him my prayer,
That makes calamity of so long life; My dying prayer, was for him."....
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Theoppressor's wrong, the proud man'scontumely, Next day
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of oflice, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
I ATITIA E. LANDON,