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18.—The first two Verses of Marmion; a Tale of Flodden Field.

DAY set on Norham's castled steep,
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone :
The battled towers, the Donjon Keep,
The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
In yellow lustre shone.

The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,
Seem'd forms of giant height:
Their armour, as it caught the rays,
Flashed back again the western blaze,
In lines of dazzling light.

St George's banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray

Less bright, and less, was flung;
The evening gale had scarce the power
To wave it on the Donjon tower,
So heavily it hung.

The scouts had parted on their search,
The castle gates were barr'd;.

Above the gloomy portal arch,
Timing his footsteps to a march,

The warder kept his guard;

Low humming, as he paced along,
Some ancient Border gathering-song.

19.-The Death of Marmion.

WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound,

Walter Scott.

And strove to staunch, the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, "Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung;

"Avoid thee, Fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !—
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

O think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."-
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry;-

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted" Victory!

66

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

Walter Scott.

20.-Song from the Lady of the Lake.

SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er',

Sleep the sleep' that knows not breaking';
Dream of battled fields no more',

Days of danger', nights of waking'.
In our isle's enchanted hall',

Hands unseen' thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music' fall,

Every sense in slumber' dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er',
Dream of fighting fields no more';
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking',
Morn of toil', nor night of waking'.

No rude' sound shall reach thine ear,

Armour's clang', or war'-steed champing,

Trump nor pibroch summon here',

Mustering clan', or squadron' tramping.

Yet the lark's' shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow',
And the bittern' sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow'.
Ruder' sounds shall none' be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here',
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing',
Shouting clans' or squadrons stamping'.

Huntsman, rest'! thy chase is done',
While our slumbrous spells assail' ye,
Dream not with the rising sun',
Bugles here shall sound reveillie'.
Sleep! the deer is in his den';

Sleep! thy hounds' are by thee lying;
Sleep' nor dream in yonder glen',
How thy gallant steed lay dying'.
Huntsman, rest'! thy chase is done',
Think not of the rising sun',
For at dawning to assail' ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillie'.

Walter Scott.

21.-On the Arrival of the British Army in Portugal to assist the Natives in expelling the French.

It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars,
Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite,
Legions on legions brightening all the shores.
Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars,
Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum,
Shrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,
And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of Ocean come!

A various host they came-whose ranks display
Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight,
The deep battalion locks its firm array,
And meditates his aim the marksman light;
Far glance the lines of sabres flashing bright,

Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead,
Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night,
Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by rapid steed,
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed.
A various host-from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown-

For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
And with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
Her's their bold port, and her's their martial frown,
And her's their scorn of death in freedom's cause,
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,
And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause,
And freeborn thoughts, which league the Soldier with
the Laws.

And O

loved warriors of the Minstrel's land!
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave!
The rugged form may mark the mountain band,
And harsher features, and a mien more grave;
But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so brave
As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid,
And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,
And level for the charge your arms are laid,
Where lives the desperate foe, that for such onset staid!
Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,
Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy,
His jest while each blithe comrade round him fiings,
And moves to death with military glee:

Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free,
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,
Rough Nature's children, humorous as she:
And HE, yon Chieftain-strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green Isle !—the Hero is thine own.

Walter Scott.

22.-From the Bride of Abydos.

KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture-the love of the turtle-
Now melt into sorrow-now madden to crime?-

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine?

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine,
Where the light wings of zephyr,oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul* in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine-

'Tis the clime of the East-'tis the land of the SunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done?+ Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. Byron.

23.-On Ancient Greece.

CLIME of the unforgotten brave !—
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave-
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave-
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave
Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !

These scenes their story not unknown-
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires,
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;

* The Rose.

+"Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
"With whom Revenge is Virtue."

Young's Revenge.

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